In the weak, watery sun the air seemed almost warm. As I clambered into the big holly-decorated wagon with the rest of the family and guests, Theresa, Miriam, and Katrin exchanged what I think they thought were subtle nudges and glances.
The wagon jolted, and the huge, shaggy horses began clopping forward. The unspoken consensus seemed to be that Theresa had to speak. To keep from embarrassing them I pretended to be looking up at the carved owls on the corbels of the next building up the street until Theresa said, “Mademoiselle.” She shifted to French, and whispered, “You will save the Statthalter, will you not?”
I gawked at the girls—three serious faces waiting for my answer.
Miriam leaned forward, hands clasped. “We will help. Tell us what to do.”
“Girls, there’s . . .” I was going to say, There’s nothing I can do. But I was, in fact, trying to do something. I just didn’t know how successful it was going to be.
“You saved Baron de Vauban from the fire,” Miriam whispered fiercely. “And his cats. We know it. We had it straight from the butcher, whose sister is married to the father of Anijka—”
“Shhh!” Theresa patted the air, as a couple of the adults glanced our way. “Not so loud!”
Wedged next to me, Katrin scowled. “We know that for truth. And not the rumor that came after.”
I leaned toward them. “Rumors about me trying to kill him?”
Three nods.
“And I suppose there are rumors about the Statthalter and I forming a conspiracy?” I stopped.
They did not look surprised, or bewildered, but knowing.
Theresa put her mittened finger to her lips. “We do not believe such.”
“There’s one way you could help. A lot,” I murmured. “Find out who is passing those rumors. Don’t do anything dangerous—just listen and pay attention.”
Theresa grinned, Katrin’s small mouth crimped with ill-concealed pride, and Miriam whispered, “Madeuffween, madeuffween.” I was surprised she still remembered from summer my accidental exclamation in English, You are made of win.
“We will,” Theresa promised.
We got to the temple not long after. Two steps inside, and I rocked back on my heels, my eyes trying to take in the intricate, gloriously colored art that covered every bit of wall and ceiling space.
The family filed into a couple of pews. Already the place was nearly packed, and the concert wasn’t supposed to begin until noon. But there was a gallery, I saw, and people were filing in there, too, under elaborate paintings of lions blowing horns, twined flowers of all kinds, including the deep blue of the amaranth. There was an onion-domed, walled city done in stylized perspective, with doves flocking skyward toward stars and clouds encircled by more interwoven decorations.
Miriam had disappeared. Theresa said, “She is singing today.”
“Do you know what this art represents?” I asked.
Katrin said, “The Tower of Babel. The Babylonian Captivity. Zion. Jerusalem of olden times.”
“Music.” Theresa pointed to representations of cymbals, horns, lyres, and other instruments worked in. But easily the most beautiful was that depiction of a Jerusalem that probably never was nearly so grand, making me wonder what Jerusalem would be like in the Nasdrafus, and would Jews, Muslims, and Christians get along there? Or was some other kind of religious expression ruling there? I’d have to ask Beka—and there she was, sitting near the front with her entire family.
The von Mecklundburgs were sitting across the aisle from them—all, that is, except Tony.
And Honoré.
A rustle and a clearing of throats from up above, in the gallery behind us, indicated the music was about to begin. There was a tap on my shoulder, and a “Squeeze up.”
Nat plopped next to me just as a single male voice began a wordless melody, poignantly minor key. One by one, other voices joined, young and old, male and female, rising to a crescendo of emotional power, and then fading as the voices dropped out. Never a word spoken, yet the effect was as strong as if Wordsworth or Hopkins had been set to music.
“That’s the Fifth Day nigun,” Nat whispered. “Also, for Ruli.”
“I need to talk to you about that,” I whispered back.
“Not here.”
The program began. Nat nudged me once to say, “My Stavros,” when a tall guy, built like a fullback, rose to sing a solo. He had a Heldentenor voice, powerful enough to launch rockets, well up to the demands of “Mes amis, écoutez l’histoire,” a terrific opera aria that ends on a soaring note that nearly blew the roof off.
The climax was introduced as a new composition. It was that poignant song with the tritones and diminished fifths, played by that boy I’d first heard in summer, and again at Zorfal on Christmas Day: Misha. As the entire choir, children and adults responded antiphonally, the clarinet wound around the voices like liquid gold.
“I want that on iTunes,” I breathed after the thunderous applause began to die away. “What is it about, besides Xanpia?”
“Xanpia’s Wreath.” Nat chuckled. “Some say Xanpia’s Halo. History is mixed on it, my sweetie told me. Some think it was only a love song, then it was gussied up with religious context, as often happened to popular songs during the Middle Ages. But when the country got whacked last century, it got politicized—called the Song of Freedom, they changed the verse to ‘open the door to freedom’ instead of ‘open the door to my heart’ and so it was forbidden. Anyway, this is a new arrangement, and some people are trying to get that kid to a recording studio,” Nat said. “I hope those guys got it on tape.”
She pointed with her chin to the other side of the gallery, where Gilles’s film crew were busy with their lights, cameras, and other equipment. I looked away, not wanting to spoil the after-music exhilaration by remembering how annoying Gilles had been the day before.
As people got up and began retrieving coats and pulling on wraps, I said, “Coming to the gala tonight?”
Nat grinned. “Got a gig. But you should go. Rock out.” Her smile faded. “Better, get Alec to rock out. I saw him last night on a bit of city business, and he looked like death warmed over.”
“If I dance with him, then all those conspiracy jerks will be yapping.”
“Do it anyway.” She bopped me on the shoulder. “They’re gonna yap whatever you do. Gotta run. Chill!”
“Wait! There’s something—”
She glanced back, half obscured by the people crowding out. She mouthed something in which I made out the word Beka, and then she vanished.
I’d taken two steps before I was nearly mowed down by Beka, who barreled up to me like a guided missile—a short one. “Come,” she said over her shoulder.
She drew me through a side door, where it was quiet. A lamp burned on a small table, and farther along the hall I heard laughing voices, and someone sang a snatch of song: the choir members were getting ready to leave.
Beka looked both ways, then whispered in English, “You know where Gilles and his fools were yesterday?”
“Yes, they were at the inn, harassing me.”
She made an impatient gesture. “I know about that. Before—while we were at the crash site. They were at the cathedral, doing their best to talk the bishop around to letting them open Ruli’s tomb.”
“Why?”
“For their film, they said. Gilles wouldn’t give up. He followed the bishop around and kept begging, pleading, even tried to bribe him.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. What possible use is showing pictures of a burned corpse, no matter whose it is?”
“I do not know.” Beka looked both ways again. “Here is what’s important: my grandfather received a message late last night. Very disturbing. The bishop himself, after receiving my grandfather’s request, checked the vault and sent to say that there were signs it had been tampered with. Probably at the very moment Gilles was pestering the bishop.”
“Dude!”
Beka drew in a breath. “I don’t know how
many conspiracies there are, at this point. Outside of our own, which at least I know is not intended to harm anyone. So I wished to warn you, be careful this evening.”
“You’ll be there, right?”
“I will be there trying to guard Honoré, who insists on going.”
“What about the Vigilzhi, don’t they usually do guard duty?”
She gave a quick nod. “Dmitros Trasyemova has seen to that. My job is to guard against—”
A door opened, Beka linked arms with me, and walked me back into the temple, which was mostly empty. “Au revoir,” she said, letting me go.
“Au revoir,” I repeated and hustled out, hoping I hadn’t kept the Waleska contingent waiting. No, everyone was standing around chatting with friends as a snarl of wagons and sleighs slowly sorted itself out.
“You will get ready for the ball tonight?” Theresa asked and, on my nod, she sighed. “I would so like to go to a ball.”
“Not I.” Katrin wrinkled her nose. “Not if you cannot dance the round dances but must be partnered with a boy.”
“Don’t like boys?” I asked.
“Most of them seem to be like my brothers.” Katrin made a gag face. “They would put spiders in my hair, or step on my hem, or belch tunes, and think it funny. I like the grand balls Miriam writes in her st—”
Theresa shushed her, and launched into a description of the perfect ball gown, reaching flights of fancy that Katrin, who apparently was an experienced seamstress, would shoot down as impractical or impossible.
“Theresa, a gown with a thousand diamonds and rubies would weigh so much the neckline would reach your knees the first time you tried standing up”—which caused a friendly argument, Miriam joining in once she had recovered from the horror of nearly being outed as a secret novelist.
Anna, who had stayed behind to start the supper, had taken delivery of my ball dress. The girls promptly insisted on seeing it. Tania followed us, but her expression was unreadable. I waited for her on the stairs. “Tania, what’s the problem?”
She gave me a quick smile. “Nothing!”
“Want to go to the ball?”
She gave her head a shake. “I have nothing to wear, and the girls . . .” She clammed up.
We’d reached my room, where the two sixteen-year-olds were waiting for me to open my door. When I did, they went in and stood looking in awe at the gown hanging over the edge of the wardrobe door.
“Look but don’t touch,” I said. “It’s got to stay fresh, at least until I get there.”
I shut the door on them and pulled Tania out into the hall. “Tania, there’s a problem. I can see it.”
Tania opened her thin hands. “I think I need a better place for experiments than my room,” she admitted.
I was about to exclaim Why didn’t you say so in the first place? But I knew it would hurt her. She was scrupulously honest as well as careful. I had a responsibility for another person, for the first time in my life.
“What we really need is an office of our own, where we can experiment, and meet,” I said. “Or a classroom! Listen, if you don’t know of a convenient room to rent, then go talk to Beka Ridotski. She might be able to set you up in a classroom over at the temple school, where nobody will ask nosy questions. Tell her that I sent you.”
Every word that established a possible line of communication had a visible effect, and I thought about how much we depend on knowing whether we’re doing the right thing. In Tania’s view, going to Beka on her own was wrong, but my asking her to go to Beka was right. Weird, that.
We went back into my room, to find Katrin bent all the way over so she could examine the stitchwork on the gown. She’d begun to lecture Theresa on satin stitches versus chain when Madam’s voice boomed from below, “Theresa?”
Theresa’s hands flew to her mouth. “The apples! I am supposed to peel and core the apples for the gibanica!”
“I’ll help,” Katrin said as they started out. “We have to get it done, or we’ll never get a good place in the crowd.”
“Miriam promised to save space. . . .”
I shut the door on their chatter. “Tania, I just thought of something else. Something small.”
I held my breath as an intense, visceral memory seized me: the brush of Alec’s fingers, the scent of his soap, and the fabric of his Vigilzhi formal tunic as he set his mother’s diamond necklace around my neck.
I wondered how many charms that thing had on it.
“I didn’t bring any jewelry, and I’m about to go to this ball in a few hours. I would like you to take my cash and get me something that will go with this dress. You choose. I like your taste—I saw that when you were dealing with customers in the lens shop. Bring me something I can wear, and put your best charms on it. I have a feeling that I’m going to need it.”
She whisked herself out, her body language full of purpose. I shut the door and slumped onto the bed, whooshing my breath out.
Then I thought in disgust, I still didn’t know what “Esplumoir” was.
TWENTY-SIX
HERE’S THE THING about long hair. Yeah, it’s a hassle to wash, dry, and comb out, but if you want an elegant do in about two minutes flat, all you need is to pull it on top of your head, coil the locks around in twists, and skewer them with a pretty hairclip. Instant elaborate hair style.
Then I dug out the makeup my mom had bought for me in London. Usually I only wore it when dancing on stage. Well, I thought, as I painted in the eyeliner, this is a dance, and I am going on stage.
As I slithered at last into the dress, I thought about going alone. I’m so not Party Girl. That is, I like parties, but nobody thinks of me when they count up those charismatic personalities that turn a disparate gathering into a good time for all.
When I stepped back, my spirits lifted. Maybe Madame Celine was about as Parisian as I was, but one thing for sure, she and her team were awesome dressmakers. The gown was as dramatic as the one Ginger wore while waltzing with Fred up and down that fantastic staircase in Swing Time.
I studied my reflection, turning this way and that. Decked out like this I could totally take my place among those grand portraits of my ancestors and their relatives. I tried my smile—the crooked smile with the single dimple that was so rakish on Tony, whimsical and rare on Honoré, cool and sophisticated on Phaedra, and supercilious on the duchess. On my mother, it was utterly charming, which was interesting, because Mom and the duchess were doppelgangers, same as Ruli and me. Yet you couldn’t find two women who were more different in all other ways.
I wondered what would happen if the two of them were ever to meet.
Then I took a last look from my pale hair down to the perfect black shoes. All that was needed was something sparkly.
Tania returned as I sat down in the dining room to a cup of soup and a piece of bread, with a tablecloth swathed around me in case I slopped. She sat across from me with a decided air of triumph as she handed me a handkerchief-wrapped item.
The necklace was very simple—a crystal pendant on a thin silver chain—but the pendant had been exquisitely shaped and faceted so that it shone like a diamond. In the center glimmered a five-petaled star. Looking into it caused sparkles to glimmer at the edges of my vision, and I rocked unsteadily, fighting that sense of being drawn down into it. I caught images of an old woman’s hand closing around it, a carved box with marquetry done in Old Norse knotwork, an intent gaze from a pair of black eyes in the face of a child.
Dizziness threatened to overwhelm me, and I shut my eyes to steady myself.
“The charm on it is very old,” Tania said. “Renewed by a Salfmatta every time it comes to a new person.”
“Where did you get it?”
She handed me the money I’d given her. “Domnu Petrov gave it to me. He would not take money. It was his mother’s.”
“I’ll have to thank him in person,” I said. “But right now I’d better get going. Everyone going to that ball will be wanting an inkri, and I don’t want t
o walk in this outfit.”
Tania smiled. “People are lining the streets to watch the arrivals. That is why the girls wanted to leave early, to gain a good place.”
I bent my head, fixed the necklace on, and watched the sparkling crystal drop against my breastbone, framed by the V neck of my gown.
“Thank you, Tania. It’s perfect.”
She flushed with pleasure. “You look beautiful, Mam’zelle.”
“Kim,” I said. “We’re co-workers now.” I almost said co-conspirators. She gave me a quick, shy grin. Wednesday Addams triumphant.
I got up to fetch my long black velvet cloak but froze when everyone in the dining room turned toward the street windows, where golden lights shimmered and swung. The young Waleska cousin with the wannabe mustache called, “You must see this!”
The family and patrons stopped what they were doing and crowded around the window. I peered over shoulders at the fantastic sleigh that waited out in the street. It must have been designed by someone like Lalique, with art nouveau ironwork runners that curved up in the front like swans. The body was a combination of steam-era cool and Cinderella, with a canopy hung with fairy lamps made of glassed-in candles with mirror insets that reflected and refracted the light.
The driver looked just as fantastic, wearing a white wig à la the eighteenth century and a black livery complete to a skirted coat, knee pants, white stockings, and diamond shoe buckles.
He walked to the door and called into the total silence, “Mademoiselle Dsaret?”
Zip! You could practically hear the swivel of every head turning my way.
“Me?”
I recognized that driver. It was Jerzy von Mecklundburg. He bowed suavely, his lopsided smile almost a grin. “Count Robert promised to provide the appropriate carriage, and I volunteered,” he began in French, then shifted back to Dobreni, in an appropriately grand manner. “Shall we depart, my lady?”
A minute later he was settling an enormous, brocaded carriage rug around me—kind of like a down-filled quilt. There was a footrest that must have had hot coals inside, because it was nice and warm. So even though the sleigh was open to the air, between the carriage rug, the heated footrest, and my beautiful new silk-lined cloak, I was toasty, except for my face. But the ride wouldn’t be long.
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