In the Annexe Hospital, white was the color of healing. To Olga, who compared it to the riotous shades that adorned Petrograd’s palaces and chapels, white had always felt unremarkable—a blank canvas on which to paint something more exciting—but in a hospital ward white signified hope. It was what she looked for on bandages as she dressed officers’ wounds: the slow, tidal ebb of bodily fluids on the underside of gauze; the crisp, hard shell of a plaster cast as bone knitted back into bone. It was the comforting sign of cleanliness, starched bedsheets and bandages rolled neatly in the linen cupboard; the tail-end flash of nightshirts in the common room as officers regained the ability to lift themselves out of bed in pursuit of diversion.
At a hospital, white was the color of healing, but gray was the color of death. In the darkened room that served as the Annexe’s morgue, Olga lit thin tallow candles, hoping to dispel the ashen pallor from Field Marshal Orentov’s lined face. The bloom had long since faded from his cheeks, and the candles only briefly conferred upon him some facsimile of life: light flickered in the rises and valleys of his hollowed visage but did nothing to erase the bluish gray of his thin lips.
She stared down at the body, willing herself to feel something—anything—other than guilt. Though Orentov had died just hours before, he’d faded from the living long ago: in the months since his arrival at the hospital his body had healed but his mind had not, and as the other officers played table tennis and stretched their limbs, Orentov had grown ever more silent, the whites of his eyes graying as he stared at some unseen nightmare.
Dr. Gedroits had shaken her head at the sight of him. Traumatic neurosis, she’d muttered, pity etched in her features: time, only time, might heal the field marshal of his invisible wounds. Without the promise of a medical procedure to ease his suffering, Olga had tried to draw the field marshal out of his shell. She sat with him and read aloud, hoping that the sound of her voice might spark some latent joy in him, but her efforts were to little effect, and with so many other patients requiring her care, her time spent with him began to shorten: in these last few weeks, all she’d managed to offer him was a kind word as she sat a steaming cup of tea on his bedside table; a smile as she picked up the cold dregs later in the afternoon.
She pulled a small crucifix from her apron and pressed it between Orentov’s stiffened fingers, hoping he’d found the peace that had eluded him for so long.
She returned to the ward, avoiding the sight of Orentov’s stripped mattress by the door: the sight was too pitiable, too tragic, when she needed to reserve her sympathies for the living. Instead, she lifted her face to the beam of summer sunlight that streamed through the picture window, allowing the gentle hum of the ward to wash away the lingering stillness of the morgue. Someone had opened a window and the room felt brighter for the breeze: beyond the green wall of shrubbery, she could hear the errant drift of conversation. Inside, a fly buzzed lazily above the heads of the dozing officers, bumping against the glass as it searched for a way back out to the garden.
She took her time on her rounds, making more of an effort to talk to each officer under her care as she turned those who’d begun to form bedsores and made note of those whose bandages were in need of changing. As she worked, she kept the corner of her eye trained on the bed beneath the window where Mitya lay, his injured hand rising and falling atop the coverlet as he dozed.
When she’d seen to all the other patients, she set a tea tray down on Mitya’s bedside table.
“Good morning,” she said, pouring tea and a splash of milk neatly into a clean cup.
“For whom?” He shifted upright, the blanket sliding off of the heavy plaster cast that encased his left leg almost to the hip. “What time is it?”
“Nearly eleven,” she replied. “I’ve only got a few minutes, I’m lunching with the Yusupovs in Petrograd once I’m done here.”
“How exciting.” He stared across the ward as he sipped his tea one-handed, sunlight glinting across his stubbled chin. Though the bruises he’d arrived with four weeks ago had long since healed, Mitya’s stay at the Annexe was destined to be a long one. He’d gotten caught beneath the hooves of an advancing German cavalry charge in Poland, and the encounter had left him with multiple fractures to his leg and a crushed right hand.
She pulled up a stool, and glanced at the book on his bedside table, the gilt name of the author unfamiliar to her: Nikoloz Baratashvili. “Has Dr. Gedroits been in to see you?”
He exhaled heavily, casting ripples across the steaming surface of his tea. “What’s there for her to see? It’s all much the same as yesterday.”
“May I?”
She took his injured hand and carefully guided it into the sunlight. Dr. Gedroits had performed multiple operations in an attempt to set the bones straight: immobilized on a wooden splint, his fingers bandaged over healing stitches, his hand resembled an insect pinned to a board.
He flinched, the ends of his fingers twitching involuntarily.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, lightening her touch. “Everything seems to be progressing nicely. How’s the pain?”
“Bearable.”
She met his gaze, hoping to coax a smile from his sallow cheeks. “Is it really? Or are you being gallant?”
He handed her the empty teacup and picked up his book. “It’s bearable,” he repeated dully, turning his attention to the worn pages.
Olga looked down, the painted china frivolous amidst its clinical surroundings.
“I wish you’d let me take you outside,” she said, looking up at the spotless blue beyond the windows. “It’s such a beautiful day, and winter will be here before we know it. Fresh air, sunshine...”
Some small muscle tightened in Mitya’s face. “I’m fine here.”
“It would be no trouble at all. I can find you a wheelchair, you won’t even have to—”
“No. Thank you, but no.”
He closed his eyes, settling back against the pillows, and though Olga knew she’d been implicitly dismissed she didn’t want to leave. In their short months apart he’d grown so distant, so unlike the thoughtful man she’d known before.
“Healing takes time, you know,” she said quietly.
Mitya looked up. “And what happens if I don’t heal? How am I meant to be of any use to my regiment?” He stared at the ceiling, resting his ruined hand atop the pages. “It’s been a month and I can barely move my fingers.”
Olga leaned closer, not wanting to share his frustration with the rest of the ward. “At least you have fingers,” she whispered, her concern hardening at his self-pity. “Do you know how many men I’ve seen who’ve lost their arms? Their legs? How can you sit there feeling sorry for yourself when you’ve still got hope?”
“Just aim a pistol, you told me once.” He turned to face her, and in his eyes she saw the same bottomless despair that had plagued Field Marshal Orentov—that same gray, creeping into the whites of his eyes. “What use will I be if I can’t even do that?”
Felix Yusupov’s palace sparkled in the noon sunlight, its marigold façade set back from the steep granite embankment of the Moika River. Inside, Felix and Irina’s apartments were sumptuously decorated, the monochromatic design of each room putting Olga in mind of the spectacular jewels that sat in the Yusupov family vault: citrine in the ballroom and amethyst in the dining room; emerald in the library and sapphire in the sitting room. She marveled at the riot of luxury that so perfectly suited Felix’s peacock sensibilities. In contrast to the sensible furnishings Mamma had used to create the homey surroundings of Alexander Palace, Felix’s excess felt almost obscene.
Side by side in their sitting room, Felix and Irina Yusupov, too, sparkled. They resembled a couple from one of Aunt Olga’s fashion magazines, their world-weary expressions making them look as though their young marriage had already exhausted any novelty it might briefly have held. Olga’s beautiful cousin had married Felix knowing his reputation; now, with a newborn baby in an upstairs bedroom and a heavy silver hookah placed next to the samovar on the coffee table, she wondered whether Irina had truly grown as blasé as her husband or was simply putting on a show.
Wearing a pheasant brown lounge suit beneath an ornate paisley house robe, Felix ought to have looked handsome; to Olga, however, the sight of an able-bodied man in civilian dress was enough to put her off her lunch. She thought of Mitya and bristled: why should he offer his life for Russia when the country’s wealthiest man was sitting at home with a hookah pipe between his lips?
“Are you all right, Olga?” Dmitri Pavlovich asked as he reached for a toast point.
Olga glanced up. “Hm? I’m sorry, I was dreaming. What were you saying?”
“I was saying,” Dmitri replied, “that I’m astounded Felix and Irina even got home. What did you have to tell Kaiser Wilhelm to let you leave Berlin?”
Irina rested a jewel-laden hand on Felix’s arm. “Felix’s father arranged it with the German authorities,” she explained. “So kind of him. We were permitted to travel through Denmark and Finland... It rather extended our honeymoon, didn’t it, Felix?”
“How lovely.” Dmitri finished piling caviar atop the toast point and crammed it into his mouth, his eyes flashing. Unlike Felix, Dmitri was dressed in his uniform: he’d recently returned to Petrograd from an extended tour of the front lines with Papa. “But then, you were never one to turn down a holiday, were you, my friend?”
Felix arched an elegant eyebrow as he loosened his tie, unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt. The effect, paired with the incongruous robe, conferred upon him the rumpled elegance of a bohemian. “If this is about the fact that I haven’t enlisted, you know full well that I’ve obtained an exception on compassionate grounds,” he said, looking more amused than irritated at Dmitri’s dig. “My mother never recovered from losing my brother—to subject her to the death of another son and heir would be unfeeling. Besides, Irina and I have little Bébé to think about, now.”
“Of course.” Dmitri lifted his champagne coupe, pausing just long enough that the toast could almost be construed as mocking. “My congratulations. Fatherhood suits you.”
“Motherhood suits Irina more,” Felix replied, sweeping an admiring gaze over his wife. “I wager I’m the luckiest man in Petrograd... Unless you’ve finally decided to make an honest man of our dear Dmitri, Olga. Put him out of his misery, won’t you?”
Olga’s smile thinned: such a comment was either hopelessly tactless or cruelly pointed, given Dmitri’s lingering affection for Irina. He’d thrown himself into his military career after the wedding, even receiving the Order of St. George for gallantry, and though Olga suspected his focus was the result of heartbreak, she approved of Dmitri’s renewed commitment to his cavalry regiment.
She reached for Dmitri’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, hoping that her feigned interest might prompt in Irina a pang of regret for choosing the man who’d opted to sit out the war. “If we have news, of course you’ll be the first to know,” she said smoothly.
“Tell me, Olga,” Irina said as Dmitri reached for another piece of toast, “your mother’s healer. Grigori Rasputin. Is it true he has the gift of prophecy?”
Felix wrapped an arm around Irina, stretching his legs out long next to the caviar tray. “You’re married to a prophet, my dearest. Or had you forgotten?” He lifted the pipe to his lips, leaving the room in manufactured suspense as he sent smoke billowing through the air. “I once dreamt the train my parents were to take to Moscow the next morning would be derailed, and it was. It was a terrible mess for the authorities, I’m told; Mother wouldn’t go near anything with a steam engine for weeks.”
“A true prophet could have ended this war,” Dmitri commented. He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette—to her surprise, Olga caught the whiff of whiskey on his breath, despite the fact that they’d been drinking nothing but champagne since their arrival. “Shame you weren’t able to use your powers of foresight to warn Grand Duke Nikolay about the Polish retreat. You could have saved a lot of lives.”
Felix shifted upright, dislodging Irina from his embrace; he lifted his coupe, and a servant came forward with an open bottle of Novyi Svet. Olga declined the offer of more, surreptitiously glancing at her wristwatch. It had been a mistake to come.
“Prophecies, healings...” Irina smiled, her attempt to calm the waters of the conversation nearly pathetic in its blatancy. “I keep hearing such incredible stories about Grigori Rasputin. Are they all true?”
“Not all of them, I’m sure,” Olga replied.
“Some are all too easy to believe,” Felix muttered darkly.
“I beg your pardon?”
Felix smiled: beneath his loosened shirt, Olga caught the flash of a diamond necklace. “Cousin Olga, is it true what they’re saying about Nikolay Nikolaevich? Has he resigned as commander in chief?”
“Of course not,” Olga replied. “Where did you hear such a thing?”
He shrugged. “I heard that Rasputin doesn’t approve of his military strategy. Is it true he’s trying to convince the tsar to take over command?”
“You’re remarkably well informed for a civilian, Felix,” Dmitri interjected acidly; between them it felt as if Olga was playing a game of doubles’ tennis, the conversation lobbing back and forth too quickly to follow. Why did it matter if Father Grigori cared about military strategy? He might not have friends in government, but even his harshest critics had to see that the guidance he gave to Mamma and Papa was well meant. “I’d assumed you were too busy keeping Petrograd’s social clubs in business to know about what’s happening at Stavka.”
“Not that I’ve anything to prove to you, but I’m very committed to ensuring Russia’s success in this war,” Felix retorted. “I’ve given over several of my houses to the Red Cross; in fact, we’re in the process of converting an entire wing of this very palace into a hospital.” He met Dmitri’s glare with a smirk as he leaned back against the sofa cushion, as if daring his friend to criticize him further. “I hand-selected each and every doctor and nurse that will be working here myself. I prefer to allay pain rather than inflict it.”
“And it won’t be a hospital for officers,” Irina added, resting a proprietary hand on Felix’s knee. “Felix insisted that we open our hospital to regular enlisted men. I think it’s rather exciting. He cares so much for charity.”
Felix shrugged. “Of course, we removed all the valuables, but just think of the cultural education they’ll receive, convalescing in a home as grand as this. I don’t doubt some will leave much more enlightened than they came. Dear Irina might give some lectures if she has the time.”
“Lectures.” Dmitri’s eyebrows shot up as he knocked the end of his cigarette against an ashtray, watching the ember fall and fade. “How magnanimous. Felix Yusupov, educating the peasants. I’ve given up my palace, too, by the way, to the British Red Cross.”
Felix’s self-satisfied grin broadened as he watched Dmitri: with his elbow perched on the top of the sofa he played with the end of the hookah pipe, tightening and loosening his grip on the silver mouthpiece.
Irina tried again. “The war effort takes all sorts,” she said. “We want to do what we can with what we have. We’re donating to charity; we’re equipping hospitals. With the sort of resources we have at our disposal, it would be irresponsible not to contribute.”
“And after the hell of the front line, who would begrudge them a glimpse of heaven?” Felix swept a paisley arm around the room, his gaze still fixed on Dmitri. “This palace will be the most beautiful sight many of them have ever seen, an architectural beauty rivalled only by nature. Imagine, they’ll be telling their children back on their farms about the time they stayed in Moika Palace.” He fitted the hookah pipe to his lips, looking thoughtful. “I want that for them, truly, I do. They’re Russia’s heroes, every last one of them.”
Olga watched Felix’s dancing fingers, and her mind flashed once again to Mitya. “I quite agree,” she said tersely. “But not all men are cut out to be heroes. Dmitri, I’m quite ready to go, I think—”
“Have you even seen the front line?” Dmitri cut in, and Olga could feel the heat of his anger rising, brittle and curt, aimed at Felix. “Not the soldiers. The line itself. It runs through farmers’ fields and forests, over swamps and rivers—truth be told, it moves so quickly these days, you’re never entirely sure where you’re fighting. But it often cuts through towns. Villages. Places where people can’t get away...they’re running before the bullets, pulling their children along as we try to defend them. We can’t, as often as not; and those who do manage to escape the carnage often succumb to starvation. And that’s to say nothing of the infantrymen that charge the enemy. Barbed wire and broken glass; pain and anguish.”
Felix lowered the pipe, the smile dissolving from his lips.
“You can pat yourself on the back all you like about your charity, Felix, but until you’ve looked the devil in the face, there’s nothing you can tell me about heroism.”
To Olga’s satisfaction, Felix finally had the decency to look chastened.
She returned to the hospital after lunch, and though she wasn’t due until after dinner she walked into the wards, officers looking up in surprise at the sight of her dressed for her luncheon rather than in her nursing uniform. She passed Field Marshal Orentov’s cot, unsurprised to find a new officer asleep beneath the sheets.
Mitya set down his book when Olga stopped at his footboard.
“Chess,” she said without preamble. “Do you know it?”
“Not well.”
“Well, I do. And you will.” She smiled, her hands clasped over her handbag. “Exercise for the fingers; activity for the brain. You might not feel ready for fresh air, but chess isn’t beyond you.” She started for the door before he could respond, calling over her shoulder. “We’ll play for an hour every afternoon. I’ll bring a board.”