Scarlet in the Snow

by Sophie Masson

  Old Bony sat herself in a chair by the big stove and lit a pipe while the cats settled down around her. ‘Take off your coat and fetch the parcel by the back door,’ she ordered.

  I did as I was told. It contained nothing more remarkable than some shabby clothes: a large apron, a dress of patched brown wool and some clean but coarse-looking underclothes. ‘They’re for you,’ said Old Bony, in the tone of one granting a great favour, and I couldn’t help a small bitter smile as I thought of the beautiful things I’d been given at Luel’s. ‘Now put on the apron and cook me supper.’ A tremor ran up my spine, as I could imagine only too well the horrors I might be expected to dish up.

  But when I went to the kitchen, I discovered a simple basket full of mushrooms, onions, garlic, a bunch of herbs and a knob of butter. Mushroom soup, I thought, with a little inward burble of laughter. What indeed could be more fitting for a fearsome forest witch than a good big pot of homemade mushroom soup?

  I chopped and sliced and fried, then I fetched water from the little spring that bubbled out by the back door. All the time I worked, Old Bony smoked her pipe and watched me through half-closed eyes. When the smell of the simmering mushroom soup wafted around the cottage, making my own stomach rumble, the cats sat bolt upright, watching my every move. ‘They will have some too,’ said Old Bony, when I was ladling the soup into her bowl. ‘Set three places for them at the table.’

  When it was all ready, the cats sat on chairs at the table, their tails curled around them, and elegantly lapped the soup from their bowls. Old Bony drank her soup noisily, with much slurping, and when she finished she belched loudly, making me jump. I was so hungry by this stage that I felt almost faint, but I knew I must not complain or ask for anything. I watched as they ate and ate till all the soup was gone.

  ‘Now you can wash the dishes and clean the house,’ said Old Bony. ‘Then go and get some wood for the fire. When you finish that, you can start on the mending.’

  There was nothing for it but to do just that. I washed the dishes under their combined unblinking scrutiny, and was about to swill out the water when Old Bony said, ‘That will do for your own supper.’

  I bit back my anger and disgust and, fetching a bowl, filled it with the dishwater. I closed my eyes and drank it down. It was quite as disgusting as you might expect, and I had trouble keeping it down, the faint taste of mushroom soup sharpening my nausea. But still I said nothing. I washed the dish and put it away, and while Old Bony and the cats snored by the stove, I cleaned the house.

  Afterwards, I went outside and found a rickety wheelbarrow by a woodpile. I set off down that horrible path to fetch twigs and small branches. When I spotted a small patch of half-withered berries growing on a bush a little distance from the path, I longed for them as though they were the finest delicacies in the world. But I did not pick them for fear of angering Old Bony. Three days was surely not too long to wait, even if I had to go hungry. You would not die of hunger in three days. Thirst, maybe. But she was clearly not intending me to die of thirst, even if it was dishwater I had to drink.

  Back in the house, I went to find the basket of mending. To my dismay I saw it was piled with old stockings as full of holes as colanders. For once in my life I wished I’d paid attention to sewing lessons. I sat there pricking my fingers and wincing as I tried to wield a big blunt needle and rough coarse thread in and out through the many holes, my lumpy repairs looking more like small misshapen potatoes than anything. When I happened to look up at Old Bony, I saw she had woken and was watching me with a little smile on her face, as if she knew precisely what I was thinking – which, of course, she did.

  I sat there mending stocking after stocking till it was dark as pitch outside. Yet it seemed that the more I mended, the more unmended stockings there were at the bottom of the basket. As I sat there, thumbs stinging and bleeding from the repeated jabbings of the needle, tears of rage and frustration pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I fiercely blinked them away. How could I weep over such a small thing when it was for my sake that my love had delivered himself into his enemy’s hands? My sacrifice was tiny compared to his. I was only bound to Old Bony for three days while he was bound for life. Instinctively, I put a hand to my breast, where the rose petal lay, the only link I had with Ivan.

  ‘You have done enough,’ came Old Bony’s voice, breaking into my thoughts. ‘Put the basket away and have a slice of bread and a glass of milk.’

  And there on the table by my elbow was a loaf of bread, as fresh and fragrant as though it had just come out of the oven, though I knew for a fact it had not. Beside it was a pitcher of foaming milk and a glass. The unexpected kindness nearly undid me and it was all I could do not to burst into tears. But I swallowed back both tears and the words trying to escape my lips. I cut a slice of bread and ate it, then I poured myself a glass of milk and drank it. They were both so delicious that I wanted more. But Old Bony had said only one slice and one glass, so when I had finished, I did not touch them again.

  ‘Good,’ she said, ‘you are learning.’ Old Bony clapped her hands and the bread and milk vanished from the table. She got up and her cats rose too, arching their backs and purring, their yellow eyes fixed on me. ‘We ride tonight but you stay here. Whatever happens, do not take one step out of this house while it is night or you will be lost. When day breaks it will be safe. Do you understand?’

  I nodded, though in truth I did not really understand. She left then, with the cats, and as I looked out of the window, I saw the skull-lined path light up again, and in that light I saw the cats grow in size and change shape till they were exactly like the three wolves that had brought us here. They were the three wolves that had brought us here, I thought, as the sleigh materialised at Old Bony’s command and she jumped in. A crack of the whip and they were off, not into the sky but straight into the denseness of the forest, where I soon lost sight of them.

  I was alone, with the night pressing against the windows. Everything was very quiet. Though it was not a peaceful quiet but an expectant, breathing silence, as though the house itself was alive and waiting for me to make a move. The wrong move. The move that would see me trapped here for ever as Old Bony’s servant. She’d left her ears and eyes behind, I thought with a shiver. This house was an extension of her, and she’d know exactly what I was doing.

  Well, if she did, I wouldn’t be doing anything wrong. Not snooping in the house. Not looking through her things. Not trying to find a way to trick her, to get out of my promise. No, I would sit here at the table and wait for her return, and try to think about what I would do once my servitude was over and I could set off in search of Ivan. It was only then I remembered the book I’d rescued from the enchanted mansion – the book with the scrap of paper sticking out of it. A scrap of paper I’d recognised, for it had my own handwriting on it: Till we meet again. I’d left it there for him when I’d returned home. Now my heart leaped with a wild hope. For maybe, just maybe, he might have written a message on it for me. Or Luel may have. Something that would help me find him . . .

  The book was one of the P–T volume of that dull encyclopedia. I leafed through it feverishly. But the scrap of paper was no longer there. No! I could not have lost it! I rummaged desperately in the pocket of my coat but found nothing. I shook the coat, turned it upside down and felt under the lining. Nothing. I wondered if I had dropped it outside when we’d arrived. Perhaps it had fluttered out and was even now lying by the side of the path, glinting faintly in the light from the skull-lanterns. It was so vivid a picture that I was instantly convinced. It could not wait. I had to go out there at once and look for it, for I was sure it contained a message for me.

  My hand was on the door handle and I was about to turn it when I remembered what Old Bony had said. Whatever happens, do not take one step out of this house while it is night or you will be lost. But I had to. I must . . .

  No. I must do as she says, I thought. She was my only chance. I had to stay inside. I had to.

 
There was a whisper at the door. ‘Natasha, oh my Natasha . . .’ I froze. It sounded like Ivan’s voice. I couldn’t shut my ears to the desperate plea in it. I had to get that scrap of paper and read the message he’d left for me. Yes, it had to have been from him, not Luel. For strength, I put a hand on my breast where the rose petal lay, and with the other I reached out for the door handle . . .

  I was suddenly jerked back, flung away from the door. Over my heart, the rose petal pulsed against my skin while the voice out in the night whispered and sobbed, and I knew then that it wasn’t him but something else – something cruel and watchful, something I must not give in to. The rose petal does not lie. The rose petal was my only true link to him. No, it was our only link to each other. Through the rose petal, I knew he was alive and that it would lead me to him.

  I sat at the table, shaking like a leaf, and little by little the desire to rush outside left me. The voice died away and the petal stopped pulsing to lie still and quiet again. It was a test I had passed but I could hardly feel glad of it at that moment, for hearing Ivan’s voice had hollowed me with such yearning that I felt only numbness, and time seemed not to exist.

  Presently, I stirred. Picking up the book I’d left aside, I opened it and began to read to calm myself, to stop myself from thinking of the presences prowling around the cottage and of the breathing silence of the house. The book was quite as dull as I remembered it to be, and after a short time, I felt my eyelids closing as utter exhaustion began to claim me. Soon the book slipped from my nerveless hands onto the floor, as I pillowed my head upon my arms and fell fast asleep.

  I woke with a crick in my neck, a furry tongue and a nagging sense that I’d missed something important. I looked around the quiet house. Grey daylight shone through the windows, but I was still alone; Old Bony hadn’t returned. The book lay fallen at my feet, and I picked it up and put it on the table, then went to the window and looked out. The bone fence glimmered in the dawn light, the skulls unlit. There was not a sound from outside. I remembered Old Bony’s words. When day breaks it will be safe.

  First things first. I was in need of a good wash and a change of clothes. I warmed up some water in the kettle, stripped, washed, then put on the clean underclothes Old Bony had given me, which were quite as itchy as they looked. I then washed my own underclothes, set them to dry by the stove, put on the shabby brown dress, which was surprisingly warm and soft, and after carefully brushing the dress I’d been wearing, to rid it of the caked mud on the hem, folded it and put it away.

  Then I shrugged on my coat and went out into the chill air of morning. I couldn’t help a little tremor as I walked out of the house, through the gate and down the path. But nothing ambushed me, nothing moved, nothing made a sound. The forest was perfectly still – unnaturally still – but then, this was Old Bony’s realm. I walked up the path, looking carefully first to one side and then the other. It was almost at the very end that I spied it, a glint of white in the undergrowth. The paper was damp and the ink had run a little, but otherwise it was just the same as before. My words, my little drawing and nothing else. Not a line, not a word.

  I’d half-expected it to be so but had half-hoped, too, that there would be a message from Ivan. The disappointment of it sat in my belly like a stone as I slowly made my way back to the cottage and the chores Old Bony no doubt would be expecting me to do. Back inside, I laid the paper to dry near the book and set about stoking up the fire, sweeping the house and preparing porridge, for Old Bony was sure to be hungry upon her return. I was hungry too but I made nothing for myself.

  Just as I was leaving the porridge to stay warm by the stove, I had an idea. Spies wrote messages in invisible ink or lemon juice. I’d read of such things in stories. To all intents and purposes the paper would look blank, but when held up to candle or firelight, a hidden message would be revealed. What if that was what Ivan or Luel had done?

  Excitedly, I went to get the piece of paper. I opened the stove door and held up the paper to the light of the flames. Nothing. I waited for a while and then looked again. Still nothing. Well, I hadn’t really expected it, had I? This wasn’t some silly spy story from a sensational magazine. This was real and . . .

  I suddenly remembered what had happened with the photograph. I fumbled in my bodice for the rose petal, and with shaking fingers, laid it gently upon the scrap of paper. Nothing happened. I waited. Still nothing. This time the disappointment was so profound I felt sick with it. Sadly, I replaced the petal and opened the book at a random page, intending to slip in the paper for safekeeping. As I did so, I glanced down at the page and a word instantly jumped out at me, jolting me so that I almost staggered. For it was not just any word, but a name: Felix.

  It was buried in an entry called ‘School of Light’. I was now sure Ivan had not just spoken the name by accident. It hadn’t been aimed at the crow-man but had been aimed at me! It was the only clue he could give me, and it was the rose petal that had made me see it.

  I scanned the entry carefully. The School of Light was not, as its name might imply, some kind of scientific faculty. It was a famous art school in Palume, which had been founded by a woman named Madeleine St Thomas more than fifty years ago.

  She is now deceased but her pioneering work on light in art continues to influence a generation of young artists in Champaine. Students are enrolled from the age of thirteen, and come from all parts of Champaine and well beyond. There have been rumours that the artists of this school use more than natural methods to produce their beautiful effects of light, but allegations that magic is involved are completely baseless. As is well known, the Faustine Empire stringently bans all non-Mancer magic, and a School of Light artist such as Felix Vivian would never have been allowed to enter, let alone win, the inaugural Imperial Art Prize in that country if there was any magic suspected.

  The entry ended there. I looked at the publication date in the beginning of the book. The first Imperial Art Festival had been four Christmases ago, according to that item I’d read in the Kolorgrod Messenger. The book was published just after that, early in the following year. Felix Vivian. He must have been in that newspaper photograph, along with Ivan and the other artists who had travelled on board the Golden Express to the first Imperial Art Prize in Faustina. I tried to conjure up the vanished photo in my mind’s eye, to remember all the faces. But it was no good. Apart from Ivan’s, the others were a vague blur. I remembered what Felix had said to me: ‘We were students together.’ If only there was more information in the entry! If only it mentioned other artists of the School of Light!

  With a shiver, I remembered the sense I’d had that somebody else looked out from behind Felix’s blue eyes – someone who controlled him like a puppet or a ventriloquist’s doll – a presence as evil as it was ruthless, as clever as it was merciless. The School of Light . . . one of the Devil’s names was Lucifer, which meant ‘Bright One, Shining One’. I hastily crossed myself. No, the sorcerer wasn’t the Devil. He was a man. Luel had said so. He was a man who had perfected a particularly ruthless brand of powerful magic, which had turned one young man into a slavering beast and another into a hollow shell, a puppet obeying his every command.

  And the link was the School of Light. This sorcerer was somehow involved with the school. He could be a painter himself, but he was also someone with power. Perhaps he ran the school, or was an important art dealer or a wealthy patron? Whatever or whoever he was, I would find out.

  Something had happened three years ago, something which had caused this man to become Ivan’s enemy. Suppose Felix Vivian was a protégé of the sorcerer and had won the Imperial Art Prize through the magical trickery of his master, and that Ivan had found out and threatened to expose them? But while using magic to win a competition was one thing, making an abartyen spell-curse was quite another. It was very dangerous not only because it was so difficult, but also because it was magic that was banned everywhere in the world. If discovered, such a spell would land its maker in prison or the gal
lows. To take such a terrible risk, the sorcerer must have had a very strong motive – much more than the embarrassment of being caught out helping someone to cheat. Ivan must have discovered something much more explosive. The hairs prickled along the back of my neck as I remembered reading my story to Ivan and how he’d reacted. At the time I’d thought he was angry with me, but what if it I’d come to the brink of the truth without knowing it?

  Deliberate, calculated murder in the first degree by natural or supernatural means – those crimes were punishable by the death penalty in Champaine and in other places. And such criminals also had their estates confiscated, so their families would lose everything.

  I was breathless. Here indeed was a motive strong enough for the sorcerer to not only risk the abartyen curse, but to keep looking for Ivan, to make sure the beast-darkness would consume him. Now, the abartyen spell had been broken, but it didn’t matter, for Ivan was in the sorcerer’s hands.

  Oh, he will not die, for that would be too easy. Though it was Felix’s lips that had moved, they were really the words of that wicked presence behind his eyes. Felix had been turned into a soulless puppet. But not Ivan. There must be a reason why the sorcerer couldn’t do it to Ivan . . .

  ‘There is,’ said a voice behind me, making me jump. I turned to see Old Bony standing in the shadows. I had not heard or seen her come in, not a whisper, not a glimpse. ‘There is,’ she repeated, pulling up a chair by the stove, while the three cats slinked out of the shadows to lie at her feet. She looked at me with a teasing glint in her eyes, and I only just stopped myself from begging her to tell me what it was, pleading with her to have mercy on me – on Ivan. But I knew it was no good. I bit down on my lip so hard to stop the cry from bursting out that I could taste blood.

  ‘We’ve been riding a long time and far away,’ she said. ‘Fetch breakfast, girl.’ I lowered my eyes so she wouldn’t see the anger that flared in them and, nodding mutely, went to ladle out the porridge into four bowls. When I returned to the table, there was fine pale sugar in a little silver dish, rich cream in a glass jug, and plump juicy berries in a small basket. Old Bony sat at the table, ladling the goodies onto the porridge for her cats and herself. She looked at me. ‘What are you doing, standing there with your mouth open like a great goose? Fetch a bowl for yourself and come and eat with us.’