The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  Val made it a point never to lie. Once trust was broken, it was broken forever, an undesirable result for a diplomat. “In the privacy of one's home with close friends, yes.” The parlor generally does not contain a curtain behind which a harem of beautiful concubines listen. He added, “Certainly not in a grand palace.”

  “So be it,” replied the Sultan as his lips formed a smile of satisfaction. “Then she shall sing after dinner in the parlor of the palace.” He nodded with a finality which indicated the discussion was closed, clapping his hands as he smiled happily. “And we are all of us friends, are we not?”

  I wonder if the palace eunuchs would truthfully describe their feelings for you as those of friendship?

  Ah, well. Feelings are often difficult to put into words.

  Lord Ravensdale bit his lip as servants answered the Sultan's summons.

  If he had not been so incensed, he would have appreciated Abdul Hamid II’s political prowess.

  * * *

  “I am not personally afraid of the Sultan's wrath, but I am professionally committed to preserving the peace. Even more important to me is the safety of my family.” As Captain Lord Ravensdale recounted the story to his family, his eyes moved to his wife’s growing belly, still small but noticeable to him who knew her so well. Alita was delicate of frame and had lost two babies since Nicolette was born, but she assured him she was well and this child would live. “In order to protect you, Lady Ravensdale, I must avoid a perceived disrespect. Even your sight cannot help us with this.”

  “I fear not,” Alita said. “That bird has flown.”

  Valerius turned on his heel to face his daughter. “Recall this is the man who is alleged to be behind the massacres of Armenians and Assyrians. He utilizes the secret police to enforce his will.”

  “Why are the police a secret?” Nicolette asked.

  “Your father is saying the Sultan is a man who murders those who disagree with him,” Lady Ravensdale explained. “He is a dangerous man.”

  I wish Alita might have warned us not to come to Constantinople. I don’t know why she did not.

  Val sighed heavily. Even a mystic could not stay ahead of Nicolette. Attempting to anticipate Nicolette’s next move was like trying to stay ahead of a typhoon.

  “Pay attention, Nicolette.” Val forced his daughter to look into his eyes. “You have put us all in danger by singing in a locale where you could be heard. Was this done on purpose?” Val demanded, furious.

  “Oh, no, Papa,” Nicolette pleaded, shaking her head, her eyes wide. She appeared to understand he had never been so angry.

  Good. It was important she did. “What is your explanation for this debacle you alone have created? Remarkably even before I have accepted my diplomatic post?”

  “I spoke to no one just as you told me. And the morning was so beautiful. You should have seen the morning sun through the silk shades as it caressed the gold and snow-white marble. The sea before us was the most serene color of azure, and the mountains behind us were green. I could hear—well, it sounded like a waterfall, in the distance. Happiness welled up inside of me. How could I have not sung? And I thought I was alone.”

  “And how is it you were not with your mother?” Val loved his wild child with all his heart, but he would not raise a hellion who cared nothing for anyone but herself.

  So help me God. He began to wonder if God was any match for Lady Nicolette.

  Nicolette stared at him with the expression only children who have grave doubts about the intelligence of their parents can aptly produce.

  * * *

  “I have always awakened before you and Mama,” Nicolette replied slowly, that her old father might comprehend. “I was purposely singing in one of the more deserted hallways so as not to disturb anyone. I glanced into a room and I saw baths and silks and beautiful women all sitting around a pool of water with a waterfall.”

  “Ah. The Seraglio. I might have known. Damn it to hell, Nicolette, only you could accidentally stumble upon the—”

  “Val, please!” Lady Ravensdale admonished, putting her index finger to her mouth.

  “What’s a Seraglio?” Nicolette gulped.

  It is so unfair, all I was doing was singing, and I am being blamed—and for what, I don’t know. How was I to know people were listening? I was too busy enjoying myself to worry about every little thing people like to worry about.

  “You have put us all in harm’s way, Nicolette, and I sense no remorse whatsoever.”

  “I am certainly sorry to have distressed you, Papa. I never meant to hurt anyone.”

  “You are nonetheless delighted you will be singing.” Her father seemed to be growing more agitated by the minute. The more she explained, the more he escalated out of control. It really was sad to see adults so lacking in decorum.

  “Do you expect me to be sad I shall sing before a real audience, Papa?” She stared at him aghast. Had he lost his mind?

  The only interesting person she had met in years was that bearded man on the train. Mama had not liked the bearded man in the least and had quickly absconded her away from that conversation as well. His name was Ras…Rasput…Rasputin. Her parents never liked her to talk to anyone who was interesting. That was pretty well the sum of things.

  Nicolette sighed. Up until now her life had been a complete waste. It amounted to nothing. She might as well not be alive. She wasn't alive. Only study, study, study. So boring. And no one to listen to her sing. She was never so happy in her life when she learned her father had been named British Ambassador to France.

  And they were going to Paris!

  “Darling, you would not be critical of a fish for liking the water. Nicolette is not at fault,” Lady Ravensdale intervened. “Nor should you be displeased she anticipates the performance.”

  “And why not? Why shouldn’t I be displeased that my twelve-year-old daughter wishes to flaunt herself before strangers?”

  “Thank goodness she does, most young girls would lose their voice in this situation.”

  “Would that it were so. The day Nicolette loses her voice is the day trumpets sound, the heavens are on fire, and Jesus descends upon a cloud.”

  “Never say you wish Nicolette to lose her voice, my love. It is her gift. And it would not bode well for our reception by the Sultan.”

  “I suppose not,” he agreed reluctantly. "But there is a difference between conceit and confidence, and Nicolette needs to acquaint herself with the difference."

  Papa was always muttering some such puritanical thing or another.

  Lord Ravensdale's expression turned dangerous, as if reading her thoughts. Perhaps both her parents were empaths. She wished she were. "I am serious, Nicolette. One wrong remark could be misinterpreted and endanger not only your family but your country. This is not a pleasure cruise, this is very serious business. These are a proud and nationalistic people who distrust outsiders. They are a warrior race, a strong people who value bravery above all else. Do you understand me?"

  “Yes, father,” Nicolette gulped.

  “It does not serve to frighten her at this point,” Lady Ravensdale advised.

  Nicolette knew her father genuinely perceived them to be in a potentially inflammatory situation, and she also knew he was a man of sense where everyone but herself was concerned. Still, the palace was so beautiful it was difficult to believe there was any true danger. "Papa," she whispered, "Is it the harem girls you are afraid of?"

  Lord Ravensdale's expression turned gravely disapproving and he sighed heavily. Nicolette waited for her father to reply with the diplomatic skill of his profession, but no words came forth.

  Finally he spoke. "Nicolette, we will not see them, and we will not speak of them from this point forward. Do I make myself clear? They are not like us here," Lord Ravensdale stated sharply.

  Thank goodness. I wish I were not like us. It was a constant source of irritation to Nicolette that her father tended to enforce silence during the most interesting part of a conversati
on.

  Lady Ravensdale hugged her daughter. “We are depending on you to restore our favor, Nicolette.”

  How will I find what I didn’t know was lost?

  5

  Death or Frosting

  The Great Palace, Constantinople, 1895

  “But…what if the sultan does not like my singing?” Nicolette asked in a whisper, suddenly feeling the enormity of her situation.

  Lady Ravensdale giggled in the midst of all this tension, taking Nicolette by surprise.

  “What is it, Mama?”

  “Even if the Sultan loathes the performance, he will not kill us,” Lady Ravensdale stated definitively.

  “That is a great comfort, my love. Perhaps he will only torture us or change our gender,” Val suggested.

  “He will do no such thing.” Alita frowned at her husband. “His curiosity will be satisfied, and without question he will appreciate the gesture, which he knows has cost your father.”

  “Loathes, Ma-ma? Do you really think . . . ?”

  “Don't be ridiculous, darling.” She hugged her daughter. “I merely wish to point out that only good can come of your performance: the very worst thing that can happen will yet be to our advantage. And, if the Grand Seignor enjoys your concert, as he no doubt will, it is frosting on the cake. So you have positively nothing to worry about, Nicolette. You are free to do your best and to enjoy yourself.”

  “By all means, enjoy yourself, Nicolette, because I shall personally put you in chains after this. I begin to perceive that we exist for your pleasure and are all merely your playthings.”

  Knowing her mother believed in her, Nicolette determined that she would certainly put on her best performance. Whatever foul mood her father was in, she would not lose one second of happiness on his account. Especially when she was here in her very first palace with a harem, no less. Yes, as stupid as her father thought her, she knew what all those beautiful maidens were. What else could they be?

  It was like something out of a glorious fairytale! She tightened her lips determinedly. She refused to let anyone—not even the dearest person in the world—steal her joy from her.

  “Ah, yes. The Red Sultan, he is called,” Lord Ravensdale considered gravely. “The Great Assassin. I would have wished my family to escape his notice.” Lord Ravensdale shook his head, his upset obvious.

  “Darling, please do not frighten her. It does not serve.”

  Her esteemed father laughed unexpectedly, a sort of gleeful, deranged laugh. “If the Red Assassin does not frighten her, what hope do I have?”

  Lord Ravensdale suddenly grew thoughtful as if reconsidering his words. His expression was even graver than usual, which was saying something. “Nicolette, possibly I have done you an injustice.”

  That certainly went without saying.

  “You may very well be innocent in this, unusual as that is. And speaking of innocence, did you see anything other than what you described? Was there anything that disturbed you?”

  “Why, yes, Papa, there was.” Nicolette stared at him in surprise. How could he have known?

  “What did you see Nicolette?” Her father's voice was shaky, though she could tell he was attempting to control his tone. Both of her parents beheld her with alarm.

  “There was a boy,” she answered with hesitation.

  “Go on,” Lord Ravensdale closed his eyes momentarily. “What disturbed you precisely, Nicolette?”

  “He was ill. I saw him through a cracked door. I wasn't snooping, really I wasn't, Papa. I was following these embroidered rugs on the marble floors—trying to decipher the story woven into them—when I heard moaning, as if someone were in great pain. I came to the opening in the door.”

  “It appears you were everywhere in this colossal palace.” Captain Lord Ravensdale’s voice was shaky but his military command unmistakable. “Tell me about the boy.”

  “There was something terribly sad about him. He looked so alone, as if he had no one in the world. He tossed and turned fitfully.”

  “He is very sick. Of course he would look sad.” Lady Ravensdale nodded. Nicolette had seen that look before when her mother accessed the feelings of another.

  “No, Mama, it was more than that.” She shook her head resolutely. “There was a room full of people waiting on him, and I never saw anyone look so alone.”

  “This was all? A sick boy?" Lord Ravensdale demanded, releasing his breath.

  Nicolette nodded. It sounded like a trifling matter when she said it out loud. But looking into the room from the cracked door she saw that beautiful boy so close to manhood with the tender, pained expression, he captured her heart.

  It makes no sense. I don’t know him.

  The young man was an important dignitary; he wouldn't be in the palace otherwise. She rarely came into contact with anyone who wasn't important, if the truth be told.

  But there was something far more momentous about the sick boy than his rank or social standing.

  “Who is he, Ma-ma?”

  Lady Ravensdale was silent for a moment. “He is of royal blood.” Suddenly a sadness overtook her expression. “You are right, Nicolette. He is quite ill.”

  “Can we help him, Ma-ma?” she asked anxiously.

  Lady Ravensdale appeared deep in thought before a slow smile came to her lips. “You can, Nicolette. We cannot.”

  “How, Mama?”

  “There will come a time when you are afraid to give everything for fear of what others may think. If you focus on the approval of others, you can never reach your potential.”

  “But what does that have to do with the sick boy? How can I help him?”

  “By giving everything of yourself, not merely what is expected.” Lady Ravensdale took her hands.

  “I don’t understand Ma-ma.”

  “You will know when the time comes, my sweet.”

  6

  The Bonds of Nature

  “Destroyed be forever

  All the bonds of nature”

  - THE MAGIC FLUTE by Amadeus Wolfgang Mozart

  Anselmo, 1884

  Prince Alejandro de Bonifácio dug his toe into his shoe as he considered his new home, El Anselmo, from the front porch. It was a magnificent Mediterranean-style villa forty miles from Madrid. The grounds were like something out of a picture book: with horse stables, a forest with climbing trees and a river, a swimming lake stocked with fish, and a sky brimming with stars which seemed to go on forever.

  I would rather live in a shack if it meant being reunited with my family.

  The child’s heart was aching and his head throbbing in endlessly running his father's reasoning round in his head.

  He was no closer to understanding.

  Alejandro knew he was somehow at the center of all these plans and yet invisible.

  How can I be invisible while everything revolves around me?

  His classes were shared with a small group of boys: the son of an archdeacon, a vineyard owner's son, a banker's first born, the heir to a textile mill, a labor leader's son, and an older royal cousin who seemed to resent his relative and the heir to the throne.

  Alejandro had been determined to make friends—and he had—but they could not replace his Mummy and Poppy and his brothers and sisters. All of whom rarely telephoned or wrote: it was like they were gone forever.

  Staring at the sky, he searched for some answer in the twinkling of the stars. The boy was convinced they were speaking to him but he just couldn't hear them.

  Just as I speak and no one hears me.

  So strange. Like he was not here at the same time everyone was pushing him every direction, wanting something from him.

  How could he be so important to everyone and not matter to anyone?

  Alejandro bit his lip. He thought of his brothers and sisters who were allowed to live with his Mummy and Poppy and each other.

  I would give anything in the world not to be the heir to the throne.

  But curse España I will not. He loved Spain, he love
d his family, and the two were now inseparable in his mind.

  His first duty was as an altar boy at 6:00 a.m. mass, followed by saying his allegiance with the raising of the Spanish flag. His education began in earnest after breakfast. He had a naval tutor who taught exploration, expansion, all the great war theories, and how to command at sea. He had art lessons from the famed Carbonero. Then English, Italian, French, and, of course, the dreaded mathematics.

  The only recesses were the endless visitors, none of them his poppy or his mummy, and all attempting to ingratiate themselves with gifts.

  Prince Alejandro’s favorite gift was an Andalusian stallion: he could ride and ride and pretend he was someone else. Other than that, he would have rather done without the gifts which carried with them high expectations of conduct—and endless insincere notes of thanks which must be written. He dreaded receiving yet another box of fancy chocolates—even the other boys grew tired of his candy.

  There were, of course, sports requirements which provided some relief from the regime, though relief was not the intent. In everything the young boys did, Alejandro knew, their goal must be perfection.

  “Your highness? Is that you?” Senor Esteban Xalvador, the fencing master and literature professor at El Anselmo, approached the unlit corner of the porch, Alejandro’s secret hiding place. The boy’s disappointment at being discovered paled before his pleasure at seeing his favorite teacher.

  Senor Xalvador was different. He was the best athlete among the teachers. And yet he dressed like…well, like no one else. It wasn't that Senor Xalvador was sloppy, no, he was always immaculately dressed and his suit was always pressed, so that wasn't it.

  Alejandro wrinkled his brow. Maybe his teacher looked like a stage actor? He had short hair and a pointed beard. To be sure, the senor wore a dark black frock coat which reached the knees of his long muscular legs, a narrow bow tie in black, and always a flamboyantly decorative double-breasted waistcoat. A pocket watch chain trailed from Senor Xalvador's vest to his pocket.