The Witches of St. Petersburg

Acknowledgements

Although this is a work of fiction, the majority of the story is true and I am deeply indebted to my dear friend, the journalist and ridiculously brave war correspondent, Nikolai Antonov, who first told me about the ‘Black Princesses’ all those years ago, in 1992, as we sat around his kitchen table in Moscow, drinking strong vodka and eating stronger pickles. His eyes shone as he wove a magical tale about these two beautiful young princesses, who arrived from Montenegro, married into the Russian Royal Family, introduced Rasputin to the Tsarina and brought down an empire. ‘Power, magic, sex!’ he laughed. We charged our glasses and I promised him I’d write it as soon as I got home.

I didn’t of course, I ended up writing other things, but Nikolai would not give up. He’d call me often from Moscow, sharing little bits of information he’d discovered. They were hard women to track down. Being neither the victors, nor male, they were usually consigned to the footnotes of history. But I do remember one telephone call from Nik, some ten years later and just days, in fact, before he died: he’d just found out the most fantastic fact and he had to tell me right away.

‘The reason they were called the Black Princesses,’ he said and paused for dramatic effect, static cracking down the line, ‘was not because they had black hair, or because they liked black magic, but because they had black eyes! Black eyes,’ he repeated.

And I have been haunted by their black eyes ever since. Theirs was a story that would not give up or go away. It gnawed away at my subconscious, a monkey on my back for over twenty years, with their black eyes, their visions, their powers and what drove them. And the more I read, the more convinced I became of their crucial involvement in this extraordinary part of Russian history. The story of the succession, the tragedy of little Alexei; they were there. They supplied the gurus, the drugs, the spells, the incantations; they were there in the bedchamber, they were there at the parties and the balls. Confidantes, friends, allies and supporters of a Tsarina who must have carried guilt around with her like some toxic burden, every day. Mother and murderer of her own son? There’s nothing to ease that sort of pain. Not even Rasputin.

In the end, Nik was correct. It took me over twenty years but I did write it. And during this protracted process the list of people who helped me along the way is lengthy…

Firstly, I would like to thank the London College of Psychic Studies for their joyful, fascinating, inclusive and inquisitive approach to life. Nowhere else can a complete novice learn to scry, read palms, study mediumship and meet themselves in a past life. I am extremely grateful to my teachers for their kindness, knowledge and patience, most especially Robin Lown, who has put up with me in his palmistry class for the last four years.

I would also like to thank the amazing Katya Galitzine. Her knowledge of all things Russian is unsurpassed, her friendship is boundless and she is the only person I know who would happily break into Znamenka with me. Marching up that daunting tree-lined drive, just as the sun was setting, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I have bored her with my questions, raided her bookshelves and sat for hours in the stunning Prince George Galitzine Memorial Library in St Petersburg, where I researched a lot of this book, taking notes from its volumes of incredible and rare books. Thank you.

There have been many other generous and kind friends who have helped and supported me along the way. The wonderful Daisy Waugh, who kept me going, plied me with wine, pizza, life-affirming good advice and supportive tarot! The incredible Jessica Adams, writer, astrologer and very good friend whose wise words and knowledge of the world of magic, mystery, spirit and the ability to manifest cabs at 2 a.m. is invaluable.

There are many others who listened to me endlessly discuss Militza and Stana and what they did, and what they might have thought, worn, ate, chatted about. For your patience, allowing for my repetitious anecdotes and one-track mindedness, I thank you: Candace Bushnell, Claudia Winkleman, Sarah Vine, Anne Sijmonsbergen, Sean Langan, Ciara Parkes, James Purefoy, Sebastian Scott, Peter Mikic, Susannah Michaelis, Jennifer Nadel, Rebecca Frayn, Joanne Cash, Eleanor Tattersfield, Bella Pollen, Katie Walker and, very especially, Tina Cutler and the fantastic Jane Gottschalk. Your wit, wine and wisdom were gratefully received.

My sister, Leonie, the saint, who read, reread and re-reread the many versions of the manuscript until 3 a.m., thank you. My stepfather Colin Campbell – you edit like a dream. My lovely mother, Scarlett, who is an absolute rock. My wonderful, handsome, husband, Kenton – for listening to yet another anecdote or idea like you’ve never been asked the same question before.

Special mention goes to my agent, Eugenie Furniss, who walked with me every step of the way with this – nearly ten years in the writing and she read and re-tweaked and reread and edited and advised – thank you! You are a very good friend.

To my incredible editor, Rosie de Courcy, who made it better and understood what I was trying to say. To all at Head of Zeus – thank you. And to Michael McCoy at Independent – let’s do this!

Also to Joth Shakerley who was there that night at the kitchen table in Moscow and who has been there always. I love you. Your positivity, support and deft swipe with a salted fish move mountains. You are the best of friends.

And lastly my children, Allegra and Rafe (whose knowledge of Rasputin is now encyclopaedic): thank you for letting me sit, think and be. Thank you for your love and understanding. I love you both very much – and I promise I am now out of the office!