Narrow cots stretched the length of the ballroom at Moika Palace, the iron head-and footboards barely wide enough to accommodate the breadth of a broad-shouldered man, but sufficient for the purpose of convalescence. In a nearby bed, a patient rolled onto his back and Olga followed his gaze up to the ballroom’s spectacular barreled ceiling, with its plaster moldings as ornate as a Turkish rug, and she recalled Felix Yusupov’s words when he vowed to turn part of his Petrograd mansion into a hospital: After the hell of the front line, who would begrudge them a glimpse of heaven?
She was impressed that Felix had followed through on his promise; further impressed still that he was here, walking her and Mamma through the ward and displaying an impressive knowledge of the hospital’s workings in the process. With his head doctor beside him to correct any factual errors in his tour, Felix, dressed in tweeds and carrying an entirely superfluous walking stick topped by an immense sapphire, had already told them about how he had handpicked his own staff, pointing out the dressing room and the small operating theatre installed in the vestibule.
“Of course, it’s for families like ours to do what we can for the brave men of our nation,” he said as he swept his hand over the sight of the beds. “Those of us with means must show our gratitude for the sacrifices they’ve made.”
Olga smirked; beside her, Dmitri Pavlovich leaned close. “Always the center of attention, our Felix,” he muttered. “Even when he’s meant to be discussing the contributions of others.”
“I don’t think he can help it,” Olga replied, “but I’m glad he’s doing something, at least, for the war effort.” Felix’s refusal to enlist still grated at her, but the opening of his hospital eased some of her objections. If Felix intended to live out his war years as a dilettante, at least he’d proven himself to be useful.
She slowed, allowing herself to gain a few beds’ worth of space between her and Felix before calling over a nearby Sister of Mercy.
She nodded at a patient in a nearby cot. “Shouldn’t that man’s dressing be changed?”
The sister flushed. “Begging your pardon, Grand Duchess, but it’s a matter of supply. We’re waiting on a shipment of bandages from Moscow, and even if we had everything we needed...” She curtsied once more. “We just don’t have the resources to change bandages on a daily basis.”
“No?” Olga looked round the hospital. “How so?”
“We’re understaffed, but that’s the way of things, isn’t it, Grand Duchess? They keep calling us Sisters up to the front lines, and those of us left behind manage as best we can. And that’s not to mention medicines: chloroform, morphine...”
“We seem to manage well enough at my hospital,” Olga said, thinking of the well-stocked supply closet at the Annexe, but Dmitri cut off her line of inquiry with a smile.
“Thank you, Sister, we mustn’t take up any more of your time.” He waited until the nurse had trotted off down the line of cots before addressing Olga in an undertone. “These are enlisted men, Olga. They’re not officers. If medicines are running short, who do you expect will receive them?”
Olga paused. “But that’s horrible.”
“War’s horrible,” Dmitri whispered, as they drew closer to the rest of their party. “These men are cannon fodder, Olga. The fact they’ve survived long enough to be brought back from the front lines is more than any of them expected in the first place.”
They approached Mamma and Felix, Olga’s mind reeling. Cannon fodder... How could she smile at these men knowing that they were last in line for care? She’d always assumed that the other hospitals in Petrograd—hospitals opened by other nobles with ballrooms to spare—received the same share of supplies as the Annexe.
She turned her attention back to the tour. Up ahead, Mamma was kneeling by the bedside of a dark-haired patient, his leg bound from ankle to thigh in a plaster cast. Aside from wealth, what differentiated him from Mitya? Education? Luck? He stared down at his lap, clearly terrified to look the Empress of Russia in the eye.
Mamma smiled and pressed a small cross into the man’s hand. “The Lord watches over you, as He watches over us all,” she said, and the man nodded rigidly, as a rabbit might in the presence of a fox.
Olga registered his uneasiness, but Mamma didn’t seem to notice. “I’ll pray for you,” she said, as she took Felix’s arm and walked away. Olga and Dmitri followed; Olga threw a final backward glance at the soldier, who’d dropped the cross into his lap, holding his hands aloft as if they’d been burned.
The tour finished shortly afterward, Felix escorting them down the opulent marble staircase. He leaned on his cane, smiling. “You’ll stay for tea, won’t you?”
“I’m afraid I’ve such a headache just now,” Mamma replied, patting Felix on the cheek, “but you’re such a dear for offering. Besides, I’ve a pressing meeting back at the palace to prepare for. Olga, darling...?”
Olga followed Mamma outside, wishing she could stay behind to discuss the shortages with Felix in private. Felix was wealthier than Croesus; surely, he could stretch the budget he’d allocated to the hospital a bit further?
“A meeting,” Dmitri murmured, as they walked out to the street; beyond the narrow lane, the Moika River churned, the water brown beneath the swirling eddies of the ferryboats. “Can I ask who she’s meeting with, or will I be disappointed by the answer?”
Olga sighed as Mamma stepped into the car, fussing with her skirts as she sat. “I know you don’t like him,” she said, and Dmitri rolled his eyes, staring up at the yellow façade of Felix’s home. “But Mamma’s got so many cares on her mind at the moment...if he gives her the support she needs to take on Papa’s duties while he’s at the front, is that so bad?”
Dmitri reached past Olga for the door handle but hesitated before turning it open. “Tell her not to bring anything from Rasputin again,” he said quietly. “You saw how it unsettled that poor soldier. It unsettles them all, to have anything to do with the mystic.”
Mamma slumped as the motorcar pulled away from Felix’s palace. “Forgive me for not wanting to stay for tea,” she said, pulling a bottle of veronal from the folds of her overcoat. “I couldn’t stand the thought of sitting there a moment longer...not when there’s work to do.”
“There’s work to do but not enough supplies to get it done,” Olga replied as Mamma shook out a pinch of crystals to place beneath her tongue. “Did you see the state of their bandages? One of the sisters told me they’re low on chloroform.”
“Yes, the doctor mentioned it as well,” Mamma said. She tilted her head back against the leather seat. “I just don’t know what to do about it all. It feels as though the ministers are doing everything they can to slow down our efforts, at the very moment we need to speed things up.” She sighed. “Still, at least they’re bringing their troubles to me rather than the Duma. It’s important they know that I am the authority in your father’s absence. I’m the only one who seems to be able to get anything done around here.”
Their motorcar stopped before turning onto Obvodiny Channel Embankment to let a horse and buggy pass; on the corner, Olga watched a line of people outside a bakery, their shopping bags slack. “It’s not just the medical shortages, though, is it? Grain, bread... We’re running short of everything, it seems.”
“We wouldn’t be if the supply lines could be sorted out,” Mamma replied as the car lurched across the bridge. “But that’s a whole other matter.”
“Can’t the military be called in to help?” Olga asked. She thought of Papa on his last visit home, his face drawn as he stared down at ministers’ memorandums in his office. “Surely they could step in, take over the railways for the duration of the war?”
“And have your father give up more of his power to army bureaucrats?” Mamma shook her head, her gaze fixed on the passing buildings. “No. He can’t afford to lose any more authority than what he’s already given away. Father Grigori has foreseen that the shortages will resolve themselves. Loaves and fishes... Water to wine. The Lord will provide.”
Olga sat back, threading her fingers together as she stared out the opposite window; outside, couples walked along the narrow streets, staring at the imperial motorcar. Did Mamma really trust in Father Grigori’s prophecies to such an extent? Surely there was more to governance than sitting on one’s hands, waiting for a miracle—but then, they’d all seen Father Grigori perform miracles before.
When they returned to the tree-lined enclave of Alexander Palace, Anna Vyrubova was waiting at the palace door, Father Grigori beside her. Olga offered Mamma her arm as they walked up and through the checkerboard courtyard, Father Grigori’s green eyes fixed on Mamma.
Anna stepped forward, holding out a letter. “From your sister, Your Imperial Majesty.”
Olga looked up. Mamma’s sister—Olga’s aunt Ella—was a nun: following her husband, Grand Duke Sergei’s, assassination, she had all but retreated from the material world, selling off her spectacular jewelry to fund a religious order in Moscow.
She eyed the letter, with its spidery black lettering. What could Aunt Ella possibly be writing to Mamma about?
Mamma sighed. “Another lecture, no doubt,” she said wearily. “Take it up to my boudoir, Anna... I don’t have the strength to tackle her now.”
“You have more strength than you know, Little Mother,” Father Grigori said, taking Olga’s place at Mamma’s side. His sleeve brushed Olga’s arm and she pulled back, almost involuntarily, at his touch. “Strength enough to counter your enemies; strength enough to counter the devils that plague you.”
He paused to smile down at Olga. He’d always been kind to her—and wonderful with Alexei—but the slow drip of rumors that followed him from room to room had become a steady stream. Dmitri, Aunt Olga, Dr. Gedroits, even the soldier at Moika Palace...everyone seemed to have their reservations about Father Grigori, loath though they were to tell her outright.
Mamma expected Aunt Ella’s letter to include a lecture. Had word of Father Grigori reached the cloistered walls of her nunnery?
“I might have strength, Father, but strength means nothing without loyalty.” Mamma stared at the envelope in Anna’s hand and sighed. “Loyalty is all that matters... Loyalty to the tsar, loyalty to me. It’s all I ask for from my family, and it’s what I never seem to get.”
Father Grigori helped Mamma up the marble steps and into the darkness of the hall beyond, her hunched silhouette supported by Father Grigori’s tall figure.