Scarlet in the Snow

by Sophie Masson

  ‘Yes,’ I said, a little dazed by these cryptic instructions, but knowing better by now than to ask too many questions. ‘Lodka, wanderer, forest lady greetings. I’ll remember.’

  ‘And best if you keep quiet about your history and your intentions, even to friends. For it won’t be just yourself you put in danger, but also them.’

  ‘I will keep it to myself. I promise.’

  ‘Good. Go then,’ she said. ‘Go with my blessing. You are a girl of brave heart, and it will guide your way.’

  If she had been anyone else, I would have kissed her on the cheek. But she was Old Bony, the fearsome forest witch. And she’d made my life a misery for three days and three nights. So instead I bobbed my head respectfully. ‘Thank you, lady of the forest. I will never forget you.’

  ‘I’m certain you won’t, my girl,’ said Old Bony, with a great cackle of laughter, and I knew I’d struck the right note.

  If the cats felt any sense of outrage at being asked to act as guides for a mere clumsy human, they showed no sign of it. We made the two-hour journey in total silence apart from the occasional crackling of a twig under my foot.

  When we reached the edge of the forest, beyond the fields that butted up against it, I could see, rising in the air, the yellow-and-white bulbs of a village church. I had no idea where exactly I was, but Old Bony had said to head for Lodka, so it must be in that general direction. Lodka was a long way south of my own home; I had obviously come out of the forest in a very different direction from the one I’d come in. Either that or the geography of the witch’s realm was utterly unlike the country outside.

  The cats left me there, and I set off across the fields, towards the village. Upon reaching it, I soon found the place where the Lodka-bound coach picked up passengers. There was an hour to spare before the next one arrived, so I sat on a bench, and after eating some bread and cheese, took out the box Luel had left for me and extracted the slip of paper. Lilac Gardens, Palume. It made as much sense as the first time I read it; that is, not a great deal. That was clearly where I had to go, but for what purpose was still not clear. Was it to meet Luel? To see Ivan?

  And why had Luel left me those other things? I took each out in turn, but could see nothing particularly special about them. I peered closely at them and saw that each sweet bore a faintly imprinted letter. That wasn’t unusual, though. Cautiously, I touched one to the tip of my tongue. There wasn’t even a tingle. The sweet tasted inert, like chalk. ‘Useless,’ I murmured, disappointed, and was about to replace it in the tin when I realised something. I’d not said ‘useless’ in Ruvenyan. I’d said it in Faustinian. I remembered that word from my childhood, from the tutor who used to fling it at us. Nilos, she’d tell us, you’re all nilos! What on earth had possessed me to say that now?

  An extraordinary idea bloomed in my mind. Once again I put the sweet to my tongue, only this time I kept it there a little longer before removing it. ‘Strange, it’s really strange,’ I murmured, and that also came out in Faustinian.

  I picked up another sweet, touched it to the tip of my tongue and said something that I didn’t understand at all, in a language I didn’t recognise. I tried another. ‘Yes,’ I said, and this time it was my own language. I picked another, and now there I was saying something in a language I recognised, though I knew very few words in it. It was Champainian.

  I peered at each sweet in turn. Yes. There was no mistake. ‘F’ must stand for Faustinian, ‘C’ for Champainian, ‘R’ for Ruvenyan and ‘A’ for Almain, probably. Oh, Luel, I thought excitedly, bless you, bless you! A tin full of instant language – one of the most useful gifts I could ever have hoped for! With these I could not only understand and make myself understood in Champaine, but I could easily disguise my own Ruvenyan origins perfectly.

  Though I must not do it yet. They were calling all passengers to the coach. It wouldn’t do to make people suspicious. I put away the sweet tin in the box, closed it and put it back in my pocket. The comb and hanky most probably had their own secrets. But I’d have to wait to find that out too.

  The journey to Lodka was perfectly uneventful, and before dark, the coach was disgorging its passengers at an inn by the port. Lodka is a big port and there was a perfect crowd of boats at the harbour, all sorts of crafts, from graceful skiffs to lumbering fishing boats, elegant passenger steamers to workaday barges loaded with goods of all kinds. Could Old Bony have meant a boat when she said to ask for ‘the wanderer’?

  I went to the harbourmaster and asked. ‘The Wanderer?’ he echoed, and opening a great ledger, ran his finger down a list of names. ‘Ah, yes. Here it is. Wanderer. It’s in port at the moment. It’s a Faustinian barge, out of Ashberg. Carries old clothes and other used goods.’

  I was puzzled. How on earth would Old Bony know a Faustinian barge-captain? ‘Who’s the Wanderer’s captain?’ I asked.

  ‘Young man named Andel. Ashberg native. But he’s got a Ruvenyan girl with him. Don’t know her. She’s not a local. You’ll have to hurry if you want to catch them. They’re due to leave any moment.’

  When I found the Wanderer it was already moving away from the quay. I waved my arms and shouted at the barge’s occupants – a very tall, broad young man at the tiller, and beside him, a dark-haired young woman. ‘Please stop!’ I yelled. ‘I bring greetings from the lady of the forest!’

  Light broke into the woman’s green eyes and she smiled, revealing a flash of sharp white teeth. ‘Then you must come on board,’ she shouted back, and the barge edged close enough for me to jump on.

  When I was safely on board, the girl held out a hand. ‘You are most welcome, friend of the lady of the forest. I am Olga, of the family Ironheart.’

  Ironheart! The famous clan of werewolves! That explained why Old Bony knew her. I’d never imagined meeting one from that celebrated family, and I suddenly felt very shy as I shook her hand. ‘Er, good evening, Lady Ironheart. I am so very honoured to –’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Olga crisply. ‘And don’t call me “Lady”. I’m just Olga. And this is my man, the famous Captain Andel.’ And she shot him a proud, loving look.

  ‘Really, Olga, you must stop flattering me,’ said Andel, laughing. He had a soft, rather charming accent when he spoke Ruvenyan. He shook my hand. ‘Welcome aboard, Miss. Any friend of Olga’s is a friend of mine.’ With a twinkle in his eyes, he added, ‘But may we perhaps know the name of our charming guest?’

  I could feel myself going bright red. ‘Oh, sorry. I’m . . . Sveta Popova,’ I said, using my mother’s maiden surname as a precaution.

  ‘Well, Sveta,’ said Olga, ‘we are very pleased to meet you.’

  ‘And I you.’

  ‘Is the lady of the forest well?’

  ‘She is in fine form.’

  Olga nodded. ‘She doesn’t change, that one.’

  ‘I don’t suppose she does,’ I said.

  ‘Do I know this mutual friend of yours?’ said Andel, quizzically.

  ‘No, my love, you do not. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘But she knows about me, or at least about the Wanderer?’ said Andel. ‘Otherwise she would not have sent Sveta.’

  ‘You are quite right, my darling,’ said Olga, and squeezed his hand. ‘All of us forest-people are of interest to its lady. That is how it is.’

  ‘Then I suppose I have to hope this grand personage doesn’t think ill of a simple barge-captain hobnobbing with an Ironheart,’ he said lightly.

  ‘Oh, she isn’t grand, just powerful,’ Olga replied, smiling. ‘And she doesn’t interfere unless she must.’

  ‘I’m relieved,’ said Andel, with a touch of irony. ‘But now, Sveta, tell us – where are you bound?’

  ‘The seaport,’ I said promptly. ‘And there, to board a ship bound for Champaine.’

  ‘Ah, you have a long journey ahead,’ he said discreetly, not asking me why I wanted to go there. ‘Well, we can take you as far as the port at the river mouth. From there you can find a vessel that will take you acr
oss the sea. Will that do?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Thank you. Thank you so much.’ I fumbled in my bag. ‘I can pay and –’

  ‘Please put your purse away,’ said Andel, a little sternly. ‘You are amongst friends here, lady of the forest or no lady of the forest.’

  I coloured. ‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to cause you any offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ said Olga briskly. ‘Now then, Sveta, how about we leave grumpy Andel to his tiller and go sort out your sleeping quarters. Then we can have a good brew of hot tea?’

  ‘Sounds wonderful,’ I said.

  As I followed my new friend to the cabin of the barge, I thought how very different she was to how I’d imagined a werewolf to be. I’d imagined darkness, brooding, bestial silence and sudden rages. Not this frank, open-hearted girl, quipping lightly with her lover.

  I hadn’t expected the warm book-lined cabin either, or talking companionably with Olga over excellent tea and honey cakes, as the barge chugged peacefully down the river, with Andel at the helm. To my relief, Olga did not probe me for my history but spoke happily of her own. And what an extraordinary story she had to tell!

  I listened with bated breath to her account of how she’d met Andel during a dangerous adventure in the Faustine Empire. That was the first I had heard that things were beginning to change radically in the empire, for I took little notice of international news in my country fastness, and the news was still so very brand-new. And I learned that my new friends had had an important hand in those momentous events, and that as a result, the young werewolf and the simple barge-captain had very high connections in the Faustinian imperial family.

  ‘But it’s not what Andel and I care about,’ Olga said. ‘It’s that we made true friends with whom we shared so much, and whose happiness mirrors our own.’

  ‘That is so beautiful,’ I said, deeply moved, and longed to tell her my own story. But I knew Old Bony hadn’t issued her warning lightly; and the last thing I wanted to do was to endanger the happy crew of the Wanderer. Olga looked at me quizzically but she did not question me.

  A little later, when Andel came in, I managed to bring the conversation round to general talk about Palume, and then to what really preoccupied me. ‘You have a lot of books,’ I said, gesturing to the shelves. ‘I wondered if you had any about art in Champaine?’ I added swiftly, ‘You see, I worked for a painter back home and I thought I might try to get a similar job in Palume. But I mostly know about art in Ruvenya, and it would be good if it sounded like I knew what I was talking about in terms of art in Champaine, too.’ How smoothly and plausibly the lies tripped off my tongue, I thought, slightly disgusted with myself.

  ‘Excellent idea,’ said Andel, smiling, ‘but unfortunately I don’t have a specific book on the art of Champaine. However, I did pick one up a little while back about art in general, and it is bound to have an entry on Champaine.’ He walked over to the shelves and pulled out a rather shabby book inset with a sepia plate of a painting showing a city scene. Modern Art and Artists, its title read in Faustinian. ‘For a book on art, it’s not very useful, I’m afraid. There are only a few pictures and they’re not even in colour. But it’s only about five years old.’ Andel flicked to the index. ‘I’m sorry, there’s no specific entry on Champaine. But I can see Champainian names amongst the artists, so if you like I can –’

  ‘Would you mind if I had a look myself?’ I asked, trying not to sound too eager.

  ‘Oh. You know Faustinian, then?’

  ‘Only a little. I’m no good at speaking it but I had a Faustinian tutor as a child and she made us read endless things,’ I said quickly, ‘so I can read it a lot better than I speak it. Plus I have a dictionary I can consult if I get stuck.’

  ‘A Faustinian dictionary?’ said Andel. ‘But I thought you were going to Champaine?’

  ‘I am. I’ve got a Champainian phrasebook, too. I just brought the Faustinian dictionary in case I decided to go to Faustina at some stage,’ I gabbled. ‘It’s the one I had when I was a child.’

  Olga and Andel looked at each other. ‘Well,’ Andel said, ‘if you need any help translating anything, just ask. And you can keep the book if it’s useful.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I said hastily. ‘But please, I’d like to give you something in return.’ I rummaged in my bag and brought out the encyclopedia volume.

  To my surprise Andel’s eyes widened. ‘Olga,’ he exclaimed. ‘Did you see this?’

  Olga glanced at it, then at me, noting my baffled expression. ‘Andel’s got almost a complete set of that encyclopedia,’ she said, getting up and pointing at one of the furthest shelves. ‘Only that one was missing.’

  ‘Well, that’s marvellous,’ I said, sincerely relieved that at least I could do something, however small, for them. ‘I’m so pleased.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Andel, grinning. ‘Now, it’s getting rather late. How about some dinner?’

  After a simple but excellent meal of fat sausages, potato mash and caraway-flavoured cabbage, I pleaded tiredness and went off to bed. Olga had made a cosy little nook for me in the cargo hold, where she’d rigged up sheets to create a makeshift tent, made a comfortable bed out of soft old clothes and provided a big fur coat for a blanket. It was quite dimly lit in the cargo hold, but they’d given me a lantern, and its soft golden glow made my little nook feel even more homely. Settling in amongst the bedclothes, the fur draped across my lap, I took out the art book and the dictionary, leaving the tin of sweets to one side. I wanted to try to translate what I needed without the help of the sweets first, for I had no way of knowing how long their effect might last, and it would be rather awkward if I should still be speaking Faustinian to Olga and Andel tomorrow morning.

  I scanned the index of Modern Art and Artists, looking for names I recognised. Felix Vivian was there but only as a mention (the book dated from the year before the inaugural prize). In fact, he was mentioned only in the context of his father, one Richard Vivian, and, agonisingly slowly, jumping from book to dictionary, I managed to decipher the whole entry, discovering that Richard Vivian was:

  a noted painter of landscapes. Messir Vivian’s work occupies an honoured place in the annals of Champainian art and he is also well recognised beyond, especially in Almain, where he holds such an honoured place that he has been given that country’s Distinguished Artist Medal. Once closely associated with the circle of disgraced Almainian artist Timon Gelden, a noted early patron, Richard Vivian is now the Vice-President of the Fine Art Academy of Champaine, while his son Felix is a promising artist and member of the Palume art movement, the School of Light.

  Could Richard Vivian, Vice-President of the Fine Art Academy of Champaigne, be the sorcerer? It was possible. He held power in the art world, his son knew Ivan and there was that association with the School of Light. But would a father really turn his own son into a puppet – a soulless tool? It didn’t make sense.

  I decided to look up the entry on the School of Light. Most of it was a discussion of artistic techniques, which I only half-understood. But there was also a list of the school’s more ‘prominent’ young artists, excluding Felix Vivian who at the time must not have been considered ‘prominent’, only ‘promising’. They were all young, most in their early twenties, but a few were even younger. That was four years ago, of course, so Ivan would only have been about seventeen.

  In my notebook, I wrote down the five names that seemed to correspond most closely in age to him: Sebastien d’Roch, Gabriel Fontenoy, Gaetan Theodorus, Charles Gauvain and Thomas Mandon. All five had already had their first exhibitions at the time, and were considered to have glittering careers before them. Apart from that, the entries noted that all five had quite privileged family connections: Gaetan Theodorus’s father was a well-known society painter, Sebastien d’Roch would inherit a large baronial estate, Charles Gauvain’s aunt owned one of the biggest stores in Palume, Gabriel Fontenoy’s godfather was a celebrated explorer, and Thomas Mandon’s older sister was a bests
elling novelist.

  I stared at the five names, wishing the book had included photographs. Sebastien, Gaetan, Gabriel, Charles, Thomas – which was Ivan’s real name? I had no way of knowing right now. But at least I had names to start my inquiries in Palume, as well as the Lilac Gardens, whatever they were.

  It took me an age to fall asleep that night and seemed like I’d slept no more than a few minutes when I was jerked awake by a bump and a clanking, scraping noise outside. Going up on deck, my eyes still gritty and my limbs like lead, I discovered that it was bright daylight and that we’d arrived at the river-mouth port of Stereki.

  Against my rather weak protestations, Olga and Andel packed some food for me and then Olga escorted me off the barge, to point out the place where I might take the shuttle omnibus that conveyed travellers to the seaport on the other side of town.

  ‘I hope you find what you are looking for,’ she said, as we parted with a warm handshake. ‘For I see in your eyes there has been much sorrow and trouble, and I would wish on you the same happiness and good fortune we have.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I murmured, ‘thank you so much for everything and for . . . for not asking me any questions, when you had a perfect right to.’

  ‘Bah,’ said Olga lightly, ‘no-one has any right to force others to bare their heart.’ She took an envelope out of her pocket and pressed it into my hand. ‘By the way, Andel wanted me to give this to you. No,’ she said, when my eyes widened, ‘don’t open it now; wait till you have a moment to yourself.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I said.

  ‘Then don’t,’ she said, smiling. ‘There’s one more thing I have to say. The difference between good magic and bad magic is that the first fits itself to you, and the second tries to fit you to it. Remember that and you won’t go wrong.’ She smiled at my disconcerted expression. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t know all your deep dark secrets. Only, there is a smell of magic about you, and I know that smell, even if my darling Andel doesn’t. Now, hurry up or you’ll miss the bus.’