Aster had seen Celtin perform before, and she’d seen several pieces of this production. She’d helped him write the story. But she rarely got to see him perform in such a refined capacity, before an audience of gentlemen and ladies, in a room so beautifully gilt. And on a stage! Someone stepped on her toe and rushed an apology, but she hardly noticed. The moment the first light appeared between hung maroon curtains, she was entranced.
It was a pale blue light, wavering like smoke off a candle. Celtin appeared behind it; he’d changed his waistcoat to the azure one she’d mended two weeks ago. In that faint light, even his hair took on a bluish hue, like the ocean after a storm.
It was perfect.
“It begins on an island,” he crooned, and while he had a strong voice, Aster detected a feather of magic amplifying it to the room. Celtin waved his hands, and the blue light grew in intensity and size, spreading out over the stage, rippling as though swarmed by waves. The crowd oohed and ahed, but Celtin was only getting started.
A glimmer of gold formed in the middle of the ocean. If one were to look closely, they would see sparks of the color flowing from offstage, where Drummond knelt behind a curtain. That gold color came from real gold, provided by Lord Trundon. The shimmer spun and grew, forming a sandy beach. Browns and greens flowed after it to form plants, trees, and houses. Celtin paused, hands on his hips, scanning the room. Then he shrugged and lifted his hands toward the maroon curtain overhead, pulling color from it to form the shadows of people. The curtain was left translucent, and the audience chuckled.
Aster did too, despite expecting it.
“The island was in the middle of the earth, surrounded by an ocean larger than any we could know,” Celtin’s rich baritone sang. “The ocean brought them life. Not only sustenance”—more colors flew out from what Drummond had prepared, forming fish and whales coursing through the water—“but trials and blessings.”
Rain began to pour over the island, coalescing from the air overheard. The entire stage darkened as black clouds—that color stemmed from the soot Aster had spent weeks collecting—churned overhead. A spark of lightning ripped through them, causing many in the audience to gasp. But seconds after the storm descended, it lifted. Through waving hands, Celtin formed a brilliant rainbow that stretched the entire width of the room. It looked real and received much-deserved applause. A sudden seagull passed through it, not of Celtin’s creation, and from behind the curtain, Drummond called, “Cuh-cah!”
Aster snorted, then quickly covered her mouth. No one seemed to notice the unladylike sound—they were too busy laughing. She hadn’t expected the seagull.
“But one day,” Celtin moved his arms before him as though stirring a great cauldron, and the colors and light swirled with the gestures, “from the depths of the ocean came a fantastic beast unlike any before seen.”
The blue of the ocean darkened with the black of the clouds, forming the masterful shadows and details that made Celtin so popular. The great dragon formed, filling the entire stage. It was blue, gray, and black, with a long, fanged face so terrifying Aster shied away, despite knowing it was only an illusion. It resembled a serpent, but with half a dozen fins and two muscled legs. Its eel-like tail hung off the stage, and thin tendrils of lightning pulsed around it. Each time the power flashed, the pale mane covering the first third of its body rippled. It was alive, it was magnificent, and for a moment, Aster thought it looked directly at her.
Or, rather, at Meri Gurney.
“It rose from the depths!” Celtin’s voice strengthened, and the dragon surged upward, causing many to shriek. “And took up the island on its great back. It swam south, to the place of its winter rest. But the winter would destroy the island and all that lived upon it. The beast had to be stopped.”
The dragon melted away as the island grew, lending to the effect of looking at it through a telescope. Many people, now with defined faces, hair, and clothing, gathered around. Their speed and gestures related their panic. One tall man, his body speckled silver, stepped in front of them and put up his hands.
“Their bravest warriors would leap from the isle’s tallest mountain in an attempt to reach the beast’s head,” Celtin explained. With the coaxing of his crooked finger, red flowed in from the audience. A man let out a startled sound, and those around him chuckled; Celtin merely winked. The color might have come from a waistcoat or sash, something that could be left modestly translucent. He’d return the color when the show was over.
The gathered warriors now wore red garb, the color worn by soldiers. They ran to the edge of the island, armed with spears and harpoons, as guns would do nothing in the midst of the sea. They hesitated. Aster waited with bated breath.
The first leaped, and the current instantly swept him away. More gasps dotted the audience. The second leaped and swam hard, but lost his spear. The next three jumped together and got a spear into the dragon’s great neck, but could only hang on for dear life, for they had not the strength to swim closer.
Several of the warriors deserted, shucking off their red uniforms and hiding amid the island trees. A man behind Aster booed.
Then, finally, the last warrior stood on the mountain peak. Aster clutched her hands together under her chin, blood racing with excitement.
The warrior backed up for a running start, then leaped farther than all the others. He dived into the foray and, with the use of two arrows, began to climb up the serpent’s back.
The visual telescoped in on him, the stage darkening as the serpent dived deeper into the ocean. Still the warrior carried on, one hand over the other until he reached the serpent’s mane. He clutched it in handfuls. Lighting sparked, shaking his body, but onward he went. “For my people,” Celtin whispered. Then again, louder. “For my people!”
The warrior reached the dragon’s head and, grabbing one of its eyelids, forced it to turn back.
“You will return my island!” Celtin sounded angry. “Or I will kill you and let you sink to the bottom of the sea.”
The serpent laughed, though the disembodied voice wasn’t Celtin’s, which earned more gasps. Aster recognized Drummond’s voice. “If I sink, so will you.”
“No, the warrior said,” Celtin made gold light pulse at the warrior’s heart, “for my homeland sails with the strength of its people. As God is my witness, we shall live, but you have no such promise. Choose your life, dragon.”
The dragon continued to sail. A few in the crowd whispered one to another. But, after several long seconds, Drummond the Dragon answered, “I will turn back for your valiance.”
The colors and light shifted as the entire visage rotated, casting dancing lights across the ballroom ceiling. “But,” the monster continued, “tell me your name so I might know to fear it, that others of my kind will not risk their souls with such thievery.”
The warrior stood tall as the dragon breached the surface. “I am Ann of the Island.”
Many gasped. A smile so large it hurt Aster’s face, and she clapped as the warrior removed a red helmet and a cascade of golden hair rippled behind her in the wind.
Celtin had wanted a surprise ending. Aster had suggested making the warrior a woman. She hadn’t known Celtin would use the idea.
For a moment, as cheers erupted from the audience, Aster felt herself up on that stage, garbed in red, her hair flowing freely behind her. The monster conquered. And, indeed, the woman warrior looked remarkably like Meri Gurney. Was that coincidence, or had she inspired Celtin to make a last-minute change? Hope like fire swirled inside her. The room went dark, earning a few exclamations from those around her. Within seconds it brightened again, and the stage was empty, everything returned to normal, the colors and light snuffed out. Even the overhead curtain hung in its full maroon splendor.
A second applause filled the room. Aster joined it, holding her place while the other guests spread out in the ballroom and the musicians took their seats. She searched for Celtin. Where had he gone?
It took a moment, as Lord
Trundon took to the floor with his son to speak to the guests, for her to notice a cluster of people near the southmost exit. She caught a hint of graphite hair among them.
Not wanting to cross the ballroom and upset Lord Trundon, Aster took the long way around, hurrying best she could through the onlookers without drawing attention to herself. Around a pillar, past the refreshments ... she nodded politely to the first man who’d asked her to dance, then exited the ballroom and came back in through another door to avoid a gaggle of matrons.
Celtin was at the center of a social hurricane. Even with Lord Trundon taking the floor, many guests swirled around the magician, asking him questions, remarking on his display, pointing out symbolism and whatever else excited them. Celtin addressed them all politely, from what Aster could see—she only got glimpses of him here and there before a woman’s head and a man’s shoulder blocked her view.
She opened her mouth, closed it. Raised a hand, as though to be seen behind the group, but more people from the stage side joined in. One young woman who was all legs and beauty elbowed her way over with a woman whom Aster assumed to be her mother trailing behind her. Several people allowed her passage; she must have been someone important to earn such deference.
Within moments Celtin’s full attention was on that woman, her lovely face, her bejeweled ears and neck. And yet the rest of the crowd would not part for Aster. And why should they? She was a nobody.
A nobody who was supposed to be distracting Master Celtin Dereng from women like this one, who laughed behind gloved fingers in a way so elegant Aster felt like she’d been slapped.
She backed off. It was no use to fight the crowd. She’d simply ... wait. She’d charmed the magician earlier, had she not? And yet just as she had thought the warrior woman in the showcase looked like Meri Gurney, she also resembled this wealthy woman giggling over Master Dereng’s every word.
The night is barely half over, Aster. She searched for an empty seat close by. Lord Trundon finished his sentiments, and a round of applause sounded across the ballroom. A few chaperoned young women approached Mr. Trundon, the eligible bachelor of the evening.
If only he were the only one.
Taking a deep breath, Aster spotted a free chair away from other guests and started toward it. She bumped shoulders with another woman, unsure if the contact was due to her distraction or if the other lady had simply been walking too close.
“My apologies,” Aster said, turning to see the very woman she’d emulated earlier, the one from Wetherby with hair pale as beeswax.
The woman offered a tight-lipped smile. “I don’t recognize you. Charlotte.” She extended her hand almost as though expecting Aster to kiss it. Aster clasped it instead, then released it. “Meri,” she said. “From—” She couldn’t say Wetherby! This woman would know her otherwise.
Fearing a great pause, Aster used the first place she could think of: her hometown. “Wisbech St. Mary.”
“Oh.” A soft laugh passed Charlotte’s pink-painted lips. “No wonder I don’t know you! That’s a backwater little place in the Fens, isn’t it? All ... farms and such?”
Aster’s skin warmed. “There is a lot of farmland, yes. Lord Trundon brings in his wheat from there.”
Her smile was condescending in a way Aster couldn’t put her finger on. “Well, next I eat bread, I shall think of you, Miss Meri.”
She offered a curtsy and headed toward Celtin and his fans.
Aster watched her go, her chest tightening. Finding her chair, she sat at its edge, wringing her gloved fingers together. That was unnecessary, she thought, glancing back Charlotte’s way. The other woman had already merged with the cluster.
An ache formed in her chest, and she rubbed it with a knuckle. Celtin. His title was earned and not inherited, so he was not restricted to the laws of society like Mr. Trundon was. He could marry whomever he wanted, even a backwater doctor’s daughter from upriver.
And yet seeing him so at ease with the social elite, Aster had to admit Drummond was right. She’d been in love with him for a year and a half. Eighteen months to win him over, and never once had he looked her way. Why would he do so now? And even if she did catch his eye tonight ... would he not be angry when she came clean? Aster certainly would be. Celtin was slow to anger, yes, but Aster was stepping beyond her bounds. She risked her employment and his trust with this ruse. She couldn’t possibly reveal her deceit in hopes of shifting his heart to the true her, assuming Meri Gurney could claim it in the first place.
Best to keep the lie to a minimum. Best to leave while she was ahead.
Blinking away pricks in her eyes, Aster stood, smoothed her hair, and hurried to the closest exit with her head held high. No use having some gentleman follow after her and ask her what’s wrong, or offer her a carriage. She lived in the servants’ quarters. Hard to explain that, dressed as she was.
She had nearly reached the stairs when she heard her name. The false one, that is. “Miss Gurney!”
Her heart lodged into her throat when she turned to see Celtin catching up to her, a little ragged but no worse for wear. He straightened his waistcoat and offered her that handsome smile of his. “Leaving already? You’ve not told me if I kept my word. Did you enjoy the performance?”
More pricks. Pray Drummond’s blue eyes mask them. “Oh, I loved it.” She tried to push enthusiasm into her voice, for she genuinely adored the show. She adored everything about it, including its creator. “It was truly spectacular.”
Celtin’s brows drew together. “Are you all right?” He lifted an arm to touch her, but settled it instead on his pocket.
She managed a smile. “Quite well, just tired.”
“Not too tired for another dance, I hope.”
Her heart twisted so hard, her breath caught. She glanced to the stairs. “You are a remarkable dancer and an excellent teacher, Master Dereng.” Her voice grew soft, so she forced more air into it. “But I think it best you dance with the other women. I don’t belong here.”
She curtsied and hurried away, dodging any more questions he might have. Leave Celtin to be the noble gentleman she’d tried to avoid!
But of course he would be. Because he was Celtin. Beautiful, kind, unobtainable Master Dereng.
She could not go straight to her rooms. She was no magician; only Drummond could take off her disguise. So she took the servants’ stairs to the laboratory, avoiding others best she could. She paced the length of the room three dozen times before Drummond came in, carrying a crate of all his show supplies.
“Drummond!” Aster exclaimed, and her friend dropped everything in his arms. Translucent bobbles and bags scattered over the floor.
“Sorry,” she added, rushing over as Drummond, after seeing her, whipped around to shut the door.
“What are you doing down here?” he asked.
“I left early. This was a stupid venture and not worth the risk. Just”—she shook out her skirt—“take it off, please?”
He sucked his cheeks in, but came over to remove the spells, starting with her hair and working down. “Did something happen?”
Aster shook her head. “Nothing happened.” And nothing ever will. How silly this was, trying to merge my daydreams with reality. I have enough.
Her chest hurt.
He pulled the last of the illusions off her dress, turning it into simple but nice-enough church attire. Aster pulled the pins from her hair and pocketed them before combing through the brown-again locks and braiding them over her shoulder. An appropriate hairstyle for an assistant.
“Thank you,” she said, grateful when Drummond did not pry further. She helped him pick up the baubles and return them to the crate before making her escape. But as she pulled open the door, she said, “Drummond, when you get your residency ... you’ll take me on, won’t you? It’s a bother finding an assistant, let alone training one.”
He looked taken aback. “But of course I will, Aster. I wouldn’t leave you behind.”
She smiled, or thought s
he did, and took the stairs two at a time.
The kitchen was empty; the last of the refreshments must have gone out. Aster snagged a crust of bread, but immediately thought about wheat and the Wetherby woman from upstairs and tossed it aside. She wasn’t really hungry, besides.
With no need to rush or hide, Aster took her time winding through the dark halls. Taking the serving stairs up, then up again. No one else had retired just yet; the bedrooms were dark, the windows lit by moonlight. Choosing a detour, Aster trailed down the hallway to the balcony at its center. The night air bore a light crispness. She breathed it in, letting it cool her as she strode to the stone railing. The ballroom was just beneath it, and its music, accented by distant conversation, drifted upward. Closing her eyes, she listened to it, imagining her feet executing the dance she’d shared with him. Meri Gurney had gone home and moved on with her life, but Aster had stayed behind to cherish the memory. She replayed it in her mind to exactness, ensuring she wouldn’t forget the steps, the song, the touch.
Drummond would be done with his apprenticeship in a year or two. Then they’d move on, together. Drummond with a wife of his own, Aster following his children around the house, preparing his materials for work or entertainment or whatever Drummond decided to specialize in. It would be a good life. Good enough.
She opened her eyes just in time to see a yellow spark in the air that mimicked a butterfly before it winked out. She sighed. A finding spell—Celtin used them when he needed assistance and she wasn’t around. Even in the middle of the night, on occasion. Only minutes would pass before he found her. Probably to clean up backstage after the guests left. Normally she’d take initiative and head over, but she wanted a few more minutes of music and starry sky. It calmed her.
A quarter hour passed before another set of footsteps sounded on the balcony. “A little dark to enjoy the view, isn’t it?” Celtin asked as he approached.
Steeling herself, Aster turned toward him and smiled, trying to ignore the stretching of her heart. “I suppose it depends on what you’re looking at. For the gardens? Yes. But I find it difficult to see the stars in daylight.”
Midsummer Night Page 3
