by Sarah Ash
All Jagu's conflicted feelings had woven themselves into the kiss: frustrated longing and helpless desire. He had expected her to push him away. But she had only pulled him closer. It surprised him how swiftly, how easily, his body responded to hers—and how urgent his need had become to take matters further. While he still had the power to control himself, he gently released her, his hands on her shoulders. She gazed questioningly up at him and he realized that she had never looked at him in such an intimate, vulnerable way before.
“I should take you back to your lodgings,” he said.
“Yes, you should.” But when she made no move, he began to stroke her hair.
“When you disappeared, I was afraid that I'd lost you for good,” he said softly. “Why is it that you don't realize till something's gone how important it is to you?”
“More important to you than your vow to the Commanderie?”
“Since I lost you I've felt”— he struggled to find the right word— “incomplete. Like a part of myself was missing. But when I heard you were on Andrei Orlov's ship, I somehow assumed that you… and he…”
“That we were lovers?” A little blush had appeared on her cheeks. “It could so easily have happened. But I ran away. I had my reasons.”
She was still so difficult to read, kissing him with such passion one moment, then tormenting him with these elusive hints and allusions. He wasn't entirely inexperienced in matters of the heart; as a music student, he'd had a couple of brief romances with young singers, but no one had ever affected him as deeply as she had.
“I wasn't there when you needed me in Smarna.” To think back to those troubled, uncertain days still hurt. “I'm so sorry. When I reached the villa they told me that you'd been arrested. I went straight to the harbor but the Aquilon had already sailed. I followed on the next ship to Francia, only to find that you'd already given the Inquisitors the slip.” His arms tightened around her. “I don't ever want to let you go ever again.”
I don't ever want to let you go ever again. Those words, spoken with such intensity, at once thrilled and terrified Celestine. It felt as if every part of her that he touched was on fire. Tumbling backward onto the bed together seemed the most natural, inevitable outcome. It was such a delicious, dizzying sensation to know that he wanted her so badly… and to realize that she wanted him too.
Her body moved beneath his, arching upward to meet him. They had been making music together for so long that they had developed an instinctive, wordless understanding. Jagu could match the keyboard part to her vocal line as naturally as if they were one. One heart, one intelligence shaping the music together. And it seemed that their bodies moved to that same instinctive rhythm, giving and taking pleasure in equal measure until, sated and drowsy, they fell asleep in each other's arms.
The cold, pure light of a Mirom dawn filtered in through the wooden shutters. Celestine half opened her eyes, aware that she was warm and blissfully comfortable beneath the goose-feather quilt. She snuggled closer to the source of the warmth… and felt herself pressing up against someone else in the bed. Someone naked. As naked as she.
She lay still, fully awake now, not daring to move for fear she might disturb him. He was lying on his side, his back to her, the quilt gently rising and falling with his slow, regular breathing. His hair, untied, spilled over the linen pillowcase, black as scattered crows’ feathers against fresh-fallen snow. She wanted so much to touch it, to rake her fingers through it as she had the night before in the fire of their passion, yet still she didn't dare move. But a slow flush of heat ran through her body as she remembered what else they had done in the darkness.
Will you blame me for making you break your vow, Jagu?
The brightening daylight revealed their clothes, flung across the floorboards in the abandon and desperation of their hunger for each other.
He gave a slow sigh and turned over in the bed toward her. As his arms enfolded her and she felt herself pulled back into his embrace, she swiveled around and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “Good morning, Jagu,” she whispered. His eyes opened. They stared at each other.
“Um, did… did we?”
She burst into delighted laughter. “Don't tell me you've forgotten already!”
“Remind me,” he said, “so that I won't forget again.”
Later—very much later that morning—they rose and dressed. Jagu went out to buy some rolls for their breakfast and when he returned, he found Celestine studying his Vesper Prayer.
“Please, Jagu,” she said. “Let me sing it for you.”
“What, right now?”
“What's the point in writing music if it's never going to be performed? Come on,” she said tugging at his sleeve. “We can use one of the practice rooms at the Imperial Theater!”
Once Celestine had decided to do something, there was no dissuading her. Her enthusiasm won him over. He could do nothing but smile, aware that until now he had never known what happiness was.
He had made his choice last night, and he had no regrets. He had broken his vow in making love to Celestine. He was still living on the Commanderie's money but all that would change; he would go out and find work as an accompanist.
No sooner had they entered the theater by the stage door than they were stopped by Grebin.
“Who's this, Maela?”
“My new repetiteur,” she said, giving him her sweetest smile. “We're going to rehearse.”
Grebin peered suspiciously at Jagu in the gloom. “But aren't you a florist?”
Taking Celestine by the hand, Jagu hurried her away along the dark passageway. “I'm… versatile,” he called back over his shoulder.
“A florist?” she asked, mystified.
“I had to dream up a way of getting backstage to find you.”
“But a florist, Jagu—” Celestine couldn't hold back her laughter any longer.
“There has to be a keyboard round here somewhere.”
Her ribs hurt from laughing. “Third door on the right,” she gasped, wiping her eyes.
He opened the door to the smallest rehearsal room and pulled her inside. She linked her hands around the nape of his neck, pulled his face down close to hers and kissed him.
“Someone might come in.” Gently, he unwound her arms from around his neck.
As Celestine worked through her daily ritual of vocal exercises, slowly warming her voice to life, each arpeggio climbing a pitch higher, Jagu felt a sense of deep contentment seep through him. He hadn't realized until now how important a part of his life this had been.
“Why are you smiling?” she said, suddenly breaking off. “Did I make a mistake?”
“Far from it,” he said. “I was just thinking how much I've missed this. You and I, working together.”
“You may not still be smiling when you hear me sing your music. Of course, I shall blame you, the composer, if I make a mistake. I'll insist that it's impossible to sing and force you to change it!” She flashed him an impudent little smile.
“The opening is wordless. I wanted the voice to shine, like the voice of Azilis wreathing up to the stars through the desert night in Ondhessar.”
Her face became grave and she nodded slowly. She drew in a breath and began to sing, her pure voice taking the notes he had written for her and transforming them with the unearthly beauty of her tone.
Hearing her bring the opening melisma of his Vesper Prayer to radiant life made the hairs rise on the back of Jagu's neck. He stopped playing.
“Did I make a mistake?”
He shook his head, too moved to reply straightaway. He had imagined this moment so many times. Eventually he said simply, “It was perfect.”
Nevertheless, he was glad that he had remembered to bring a pencil with him. He kept halting to make little marks on the score to remind himself where he needed to make corrections.
“You're such a perfectionist, Jagu,” she said, planting a kiss on the top of his head.
Someone tapped on the door. “Demoiselle
Cassard! Grebin wants all soloists onstage.”
“They need you,” he said, picking up the sheets.
“Meet me after the performance tonight. Not here… Gauzia might see you. Here's my address; it's not far.” She scribbled her address on the top of the score and blew him a kiss. “Till tonight.”
Celestine awoke all of a sudden, conscious that there was someone in the room. It was the empty, grey hour before dawn, the time at which the dying often fade away with the end of the night.
She lay utterly still, not daring to move. Had a burglar broken in? Beside her, Jagu lay in a deep sleep, one arm flung protectively across her body, utterly unaware. The Faie had withdrawn to the book. Could she summon her silently, by thought alone, without drawing the intruder's attention?
The shadow moved closer to the bed. Yet even in the uncertain light, she knew him, and her heart felt as if it had turned to ice.
“Celestine?” said Henri in puzzled tones. “Jagu?”
Celestine sat up, clutching the sheet tight about her to cover her nakedness. Beside her she heard Jagu stir at last and push himself up on one elbow.
“When am I going to wake from this nightmare?” murmured the revenant distractedly.
Her hand crept out from beneath the sheet, not stopping until her fingers pinched Jagu's arm, feeling the reassuring warmth of living flesh and blood.
“M—Maistre de Joyeuse?” Jagu sounded as dazed as she, reverting to using Henri's full title as he had done in his student days.
” Why can no one hear me?” There was such a burden of desolation in his words that Celestine could not bear to listen.
“I can hear you.” The voice of the Faie issued from the book that lay on the bedside table.
“Faie?” Celestine said softly.
“Go back,” said the Faie in a tone both compassionate and commanding.
“Don't send me back. Not there.” The revenant's pale features twisted, warping into a look of such terror that Celestine could not bear to look and buried her face in her hands. And then she heard a voice, so pure and unearthly that it could have been the sound of a star singing. Daring to peer out between her fingers, she saw that the Faie had transformed into a creature of dazzling brightness. Her face was transfigured, her eyes closed, her arms extended as the song poured from her open mouth. A sliver of light appeared beyond the tips of her fingers, growing brighter until it opened like a doorway and radiance spilled out.
The revenant's tortured features slowly relaxed, to be replaced by a look of calm detachment. It turned and its shadowy form seemed to melt into the brightness.
The Faie's voice faded away and with it, the light that had filled the attic room.
“Is he gone?” Celestine whispered. The Faie let out the faintest of sighs. Her form was fading too as she melted back into the book. “Faie! What's wrong?”
” I just… need to rest a little…”
Jagu was rubbing his eyes. “Tell me that was a dream,” he said shakily.
“It wasn't a dream.”
“But that singing… and that dazzling light…”
How to begin to explain it all to Jagu?
“The dead don't return,” he said as he lay back, almost as if he were trying to reassure himself. “Not unless their souls have been stolen…”
But long after his breathing had lapsed back into the steady, regular rhythm of sleep, Celestine lay awake, trying to make sense of what she had seen.
Gauzia closed her dressing-room door. The room was filled with fresh flowers and their sultry scent was overpowering. A bouquet of rose-pink camellias lay on the dressing table; curious, she picked up the attached card to read who had sent it. Behind her, she heard the sound of someone slowly applauding.
She spun around to see a man sitting behind the door. He was smiling at her. “What a superb performance you gave tonight, Diva!”
“What the hell are you doing in my dressing room? Get out, before I call the manager!”
“There's no need for alarm, my dear demoiselle, I mean you no harm.” The lazy smile only infuriated her more.
“Get out!” She seized the nearest object to hand—a hairbrush— and began to advance on him, brandishing it.
“I'm here on official business,” he said, not making the slightest move to leave. “From Maistre Donatien of the Commanderie. I'm looking for two old friends of yours. I wondered if you might have seen them.”
She lowered the hairbrush. “Old friends?” she said suspiciously. Her admirers sometimes invented extraordinary excuses to try to get close to her.
“Celestine de Joyeuse—and her accompanist, Jagu de Rustéphan.”
“Celestine—a friend?” she echoed. Even the sound of her onetime fellow student's name rankled. “What's your name, Guerrier?”
“Guyomard's the name. Lieutenant Kilian Guyomard.” Again that lazy, knowing smile.
“Can I trust you, I wonder, Lieutenant? The very fact that you've traveled all this way to Mirom must mean that you have a strong suspicion she's to be found here.” Maela Cassard. “Of course I can't be entirely sure,” she said, sniffing at a fragrant bouquet of hothouse lilies left on her dressing table, “but I've had my suspicions about her since the start. It's a very clever disguise. Her hair, her complexion, even the color of her eyes. But the voice. It's impossible to disguise that unique timbre. What would make her go to such lengths to reinvent herself, Lieutenant? Is she in any kind of… trouble?”
“So she's here in disguise?”
He had only answered her question with another question.
“I never said I was sure.” If he could be evasive, so could she.
“Maistre Donatien is very close to Prince Ilsevir. I'm sure he could put in a good word about you if you were to assist me—and the Commanderie—with our inquiries.”
“Oh, really?” So he was trying to bribe her with promises of royal patronage. “That sounds rather attractive to me.” She broke off one of the lilies and went up to him, tucking it into his top buttonhole. As she did so, she whispered a name in his ear.
“Maela Cassard.”
CHAPTER 20
Celestine had been drowsing, her head pillowed against Jagu's bare chest, feeling so warm and comfortable that she had no desire to move. And then she heard the sound of brisk footsteps hurrying up the stairs toward her room.
“Someone's coming!”
“Your landlady?”
Celestine shook her head. “Not at that speed!”
A fist rapped loudly on the door.
“Demoiselle! Open up!” called out a man's voice in Francian.
They both spilled out of bed, fumbling for their clothes. Jagu was fastening his breeches; grabbing his shirt, he signed to her to keep quiet. The door handle rattled; the man outside was evidently determined to get in and it was only a matter of seconds before he would break the lock. Celestine tugged her shift over her head and cast around in a panic for the saffron dress she had been wearing the day before. Please don't let it be the Inquisition.
“I'll protect you,” whispered the Faie.
“I know you're in there, Demoiselle. Haven't you got a few words of welcome for your old friend, Kilian?”
Celestine, trying to pull on her stockings, stared at Jagu. “Kilian? Did you tell him, Jagu?”
Jagu looked at her blankly. “I didn't even know he was in Mirom.”
“Well, well…” Kilian stood in the doorway. “Celestine and Jagu, here in Mirom together. How long has this cozy little arrangement been going on?”
“It's not what you think, Kilian!” said Jagu defensively.
“Oh, come now, it's exactly what I think.” Kilian's gaze rested on the bed and the tumbled sheets. A malicious smile had appeared on his lips, but the look in his eyes was cold and unforgiving.
“Who sent you? Why are you here?” demanded Jagu, knowing to his shame that his cheeks were flaming. There was no point in denying what had happened.
“Maistre Donatien sent me. You'v
e been gone rather too long, Jagu. He was becoming… suspicious.”
“Has the Maistre forgotten how far north Mirom lies? My ship was icebound for weeks.”
Kilian shrugged.
“So he sent you to arrest us.”
“Arrest? To escort you back to Francia.”
“Escort? Does he take me for a fool, Kilian?”
“Maistre Donatien is prepared to ask Prince Ilsevir to grant you a royal pardon on the occasion of his coronation. A gesture of clemency, if you like.”
“On what conditions?” Celestine had taken no part in the conversation till that moment.
“I won't intrude on you two lovebirds any longer. The ship leaves for Francia in two days’ time. I've booked passage for the two of you. If you decide to accept the Maistre's offer, meet me at the Northern Docks at dawn; the ship's called the Héloise.”
“Will Kilian report us?” Celestine set down a bowl of tea in front of Jagu.
“I don't think he expected to find us together.”
She noticed a faint blush color Jagu's cheeks as he said it. She wanted to hug him.
“But he didn't even try to arrest me.” She passed him the pot of damson jam. “And he was armed. Why didn't he?”
Jagu put a spoonful of jam in his tea, stirring with an abstracted look in his eyes. “I don't know. This talk of a royal pardon. It sounds … feasible.”
“But can we trust him?” She sipped her tea, watching him through the rising steam from her bowl. That characteristic little frown she knew so well had appeared, furrowing his dark brows; never before had she found it so irresistible. She wanted to lean across and kiss his forehead.
He was staring into his tea. “We can't take the risk.” He looked up. “I fear he's become Donatien's man. He'll be back, Celestine, with reinforcements.”
“But he can't officially arrest me, can he? Not while we're in Muscobar. He'd need a warrant.”
“No, but he could have you abducted.”
Celestine had no answer. Jagu was right. Wasn't that exactly what they had done to Kaspar Linnaius in Tielen?
