Scarlet in the Snow

by Sophie Masson

  ‘You are both so very kind,’ I babbled. ‘I will never forget you.’

  ‘You better not,’ she said teasingly. ‘We’ll certainly be expecting news of you by and by.’ After a final wave she was gone, leaving me shaking my head and smiling.

  As the bus rattled through the streets, I opened the envelope to discover that my extraordinary friends had given me a final gift far more valuable than the couple of banknotes I’d half-expected. Instead, there was an official-looking passport document on thick paper, in the name of ‘Sveta Popova’, complete with a most creditable facsimile of the Ruvenyan double-crowned lion seal. In my agitated single-mindedness, I hadn’t even considered how I was going to pass the Champaine port authorities’ check. Now I was even more glad I had at least repaid them a little, even if it was with that dull book.

  At the seaport, I soon found a merchant steamer bound for Boucal, the Champainian port closest to Palume. I spent practically all of my money on the passage, but I could not worry about that, not when I was finally well and truly on my way.

  The least said about the next couple of days, the better. I had never been on an ocean-going ship in my life, and it was not a pleasant experience. As soon as we were out of the harbour and into open water, I began to feel queasy. By the time we were a couple of hours away from land, my stomach was heaving and I was miserably, atrociously sick for the rest of the day and night and some of the next day. It was only during the last few hours of the voyage that I felt normal again, and after a thorough wash and a light snack, almost human.

  Profiting from a moment when I was alone, I took out Luel’s box and looked at the comb and the handkerchief. They must have some purpose. Rather gingerly, I took out the comb. It seemed like nothing more than an ordinary comb. But then the sweets had looked like ordinary sweets until I had tasted them. Perhaps, like the sweets, the comb had to be put to use for its purpose to be revealed. I raised it to my head and warily began to comb my hair.

  And as I did so, there, spinning softly down into my lap, was a delicate silk flower – a little pink rosebud so finely made it looked like the real thing. Another rake of the comb and there was another silk flower, a pale blue peony this time. Hmm. Silk flowers were the sort of thing you pinned on a fine hat or a ball gown. And these looked like the very best, most expensive sort, imported from Faustina, where they were a traditional handicraft. But what use were they to me?

  Next, I unfolded the handkerchief and shook it. Before I even had time to put it to my nose, tumbling out of the folds came a miniature case in cream morocco leather. I opened it and found it contained a beautiful little manicure set made of filigree silver and mother-of-pearl. And inset into the lid of the box was a tiny inscription that read ‘Made in the Faustine Empire’. I stared at the manicure case and the flowers as the germ of an idea came into my mind. These things were giving me a hint: not only must I change my identity, I must change my nationality.

  Sveta Popova would do till I disembarked. But it wasn’t safe to continue with this name afterwards, or to be associated in any way with Ruvenya. The sorcerer’s spies were sure to be looking out for a Ruvenyan girl. But I didn’t feel I could pass as a Champainian in Champaine; I would too easily be recognised as a foreigner. I should become Faustinian.

  I needed a new name. What better than to take as a surname that of our old Faustinian neighbour, the kaldir Dr ter Zhaber? And for a first name, why not Alexandra, my middle name? I knew it was also used in Faustinian. So I would be Alexandra ter Zhaber. Easy to remember, easy to fit into.

  Now for my cover story. Who was Alexandra ter Zhaber, and why was she in Palume? Let me think – yes, Alexandra is an orphan seeking her only living relative, her father’s sister, Aunt Hilda ter Zhaber, who’s lived in Palume for decades and has worked as secretary to several artistic families in the capital – families associated with the School of Light. But Alexandra doesn’t know the present whereabouts of her aunt, which is why she has to go around making inquiries. My imagination sped on, clothing the bare story with all kinds of details, so that within a few minutes, Alexandra felt like someone halfreal, like a well-drawn character in a book. All that was needed now for Alexandra to step out of that book and become real was to take one of Luel’s language lozenges – the one marked ‘F’. But that I could not do until we had safely arrived in Boucal.

  We finally docked there the next morning. It was raining, and disembarking in the midst of the mud and bustle of the port, in a crowd of noisy passengers, I attracted just as little attention from the officials as I had hoped, with my document hardly even drawing a glance before it was stamped. Clutching my holdall, I walked not towards the railway station, where most of the passengers were heading, but into the ramshackle alleys behind the port. There I might be able to accomplish my identity switch, safe from prying eyes. I also hoped to find a pawn shop where I could sell the manicure case, for I did not have enough money to buy even a third-class ticket to Palume.

  I settled on a quiet spot in a sheltered doorway and nervously opened the tin of sweets. I had no idea if these lozenges would work in the way I hoped, or how long the effect would last, if they did at all. Still, I had to try. With my heart banging against my chest, I picked an ‘F’ sweet from the tin, and quickly swallowed it before I could think twice.

  At once, I felt my brain spasming and my thoughts becoming as shapeless as rags. In the next moment, a tingle started at my feet, running all the way through my veins, like the fizziest, sharpest sherbet, fast as quicksilver, right up through my throat and into my head, ears, eyes and tongue. Then my mind cleared, brilliantly, in the same way a landscape jumps into view when sunlight pierces fog.

  Words bubbled to my lips. Faustinian words. Most wonderful of all, not only could I speak them, I understood them completely, instinctively, as though I’d been born to them. Excitedly, I took out Modern Art and Artists from my bag. Yes, I could read it perfectly now, without any need of translation. It felt completely natural!

  I was about to replace the tin of sweets in the box when a thought struck me. I might speak Faustinian like a native now, but I wasn’t in Faustina. I was in Champaine. And if I was to make any kind of headway in my investigation, if I was to get by in this country at all, I needed to be able to speak at least some of the language. But I did not need to be word-perfect in it, just have young Alexandra ter Zhaber’s reasonable grasp of it, learned in the schoolroom.

  After a little reflection, I took out a ‘C’ lozenge, broke it in half and swallowed it. A smaller version of the previous effect coursed through me, and when I opened my mouth, Champainian words came out, a little distorted and misshapen with a distinctive Faustinian accent, but recognisable still. Now I was all set, linguistically speaking, as long as the effect of the sweets lasted. I had no way of knowing how long that would be. I’d just have to wait and see, and if there were any sudden lapses when I was not in a position to take another sweet, then I’d have to pretend to be deaf and dumb.

  By dint of walking further into the town, I soon came across a pawn shop. Its dusty display window was crammed with all kinds of exotic but shabby goods, obviously sold by desperate travellers like myself. The owner, a thin little woman with a sharp nose and even sharper eyes, snatched the manicure case from me, examined it carefully through a magnifying glass, and then named a sum that was surely a miserable fraction of what the piece was actually worth. But I pocketed the two grubby banknotes and handful of loose change she’d given me without demur.

  ‘That coat of yours, it’s lined with fox, isn’t it?’ she asked, giving me a sidelong glance.

  ‘Yes.’ Shabby though it might look now, it had once been of good quality.

  ‘Well, if you want to sell that too, I can give you a little more. Or maybe you can pick something in exchange.’

  Why not? I’d already noticed how much milder the weather was here than it had been at home. So instead of money, I exchanged my heavy coat for an almost-new grey woollen jacket with black ve
lvet trimmings, as well as a hat and gloves to match.

  Retracing my footsteps, I headed back to the railway station, where I bought a third-class ticket to the capital. The next train wasn’t due for another couple of hours, so I went looking for a bathhouse and there spent one of the banknotes on a complete session. After a blissful soak in a hot tub, I had my hair washed, cut to shoulder length and dyed, transforming my normal chestnut to an almostblack dark brown. My eyebrows were plucked into a different shape and my skin rubbed with an ointment that would add a little colour to my winter-pale skin. Meanwhile, my dirty clothes had been laundered and dried, so that when I got dressed again, they felt almost as new. I would have loved to change into the red cashmere dress, but it was too fine for a third-class passenger. Finally, I bought a hairbrush, a mirror and a hairnet from a shop near the bathhouse, and a savoury hot pie from a bakery. Thus equipped, revived and transformed, I set off back to the station.

  Though the effect of the language lozenge hadn’t worn off, I kept the tin of sweets in my pocket so I could quickly pop one in my mouth if necessary. Just as I had no idea how long the lozenges’ effect would last, I also did not know how many times I could use the rest of Luel’s gifts. And whilst I still had money, I preferred to leave them for a time when I might really need them. I smiled a little bitterly to myself as I thought this, for the old me, impatient and curious, would not have been able to resist trying out that magic again and again. Old Bony was right – I had learned self-control.

  The train chugged through the sodden countryside, halting at stations in villages and small towns. We were passing through fine farming country, and many of the passengers looked like farmers in their best clothes. There was a holiday atmosphere to it all, and I soon found out why when my closest bench-neighbours told me everyone was on their way to the annual Palume Show, which was opening that evening. They were a friendly couple with work-worn hands and neat but old-fashioned clothes, who introduced themselves as the Gerards. According to them, the Palume Show was the biggest agricultural show in the whole country, if not in the world. They planned to stay with their only daughter, Finette, who worked as a milliner in the big city and who they were very proud of.

  Then they wanted to know about me, so I used the opportunity to practise my cover story. When they discovered I didn’t have a place to stay, Madame Gerard said, ‘We have a cousin, Madame Pelty, who runs a cheap but most respectable pension on Argent Lane. I’m sure she’d find space for someone recommended by the family.’ She scribbled something on a slip of paper and handed it to me.

  ‘This is so very kind of you,’ I said.

  ‘You look about our Finette’s age,’ said Messir Gerard, gently, ‘and we wouldn’t like to think of our little girl all alone with nowhere to go.’

  I was deeply touched by their concern, by the ordinary kindness of total strangers who, like Olga and Andel, had helped with an open heart. ‘Thank you,’ I said softly. ‘Thank you very much.’ And slipping the paper into my pocket, I added, ‘I wonder if by any chance you might happen to know where I might find the Lilac Gardens? Are they in the centre of the city?’

  ‘Haven’t heard of them, dear,’ said Madame Gerard. ‘But then we so rarely venture to the city and there are so many parks there.’

  ‘There’s an information kiosk for travellers in the central station, where we arrive,’ said Messir Gerard. ‘I’m sure they’ll be able to help you.’

  Soon the lights of the central terminus came into view, and our train drew in at the station with a great hiss of steam and a clanking of wheels. Just before we alighted, I impulsively fished the silk flowers from my bag and presented them to the Gerards. ‘A speciality from my country,’ I said, ‘and a small return for your kindness.’

  ‘No, no, you do not need to do this,’ protested Madame Gerard. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, my dear.’

  ‘A real pleasure,’ echoed her husband, ‘and no need for any return.’

  ‘I can just see these on one of your daughter’s new hats,’ I said, ‘can’t you, Madame?’

  Madame Gerard looked longingly at the flowers. ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘But nothing! Please, I have brought more of these with me, and it would make me so happy if you might accept them.’

  ‘Why, then, you must take them, Pauline,’ said her husband, ‘for it would not do at all to refuse a gift given in such good heart.’

  So she accepted them, with many thanks and a beaming smile, and they both gave me a hearty kiss on both cheeks, the Champainian style. We parted the best of friends, and as I headed off to the information kiosk, leaving the Gerards to wait for their daughter in the station tea-room, I felt more hopeful than I had at any time since that terrible day when Ivan had vanished.

  But the dandyish man at the kiosk, who’d been busily brushing his brilliantined moustache upon my approach, was not nearly so sympathetic. After I asked my question, he looked me up and down and said sharply, ‘There is no such park in Palume, Mam’selle.’

  ‘But I was told –’

  ‘Then you were misinformed,’ he retorted.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Maybe there is a map I could –’

  ‘Mam’selle,’ he said, drawing himself up, ‘it is my job to know every bit of the map. I repeat, there is no such park in Palume. That does not mean there is nothing called Lilac Gardens.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Lilac Gardens is not a park or a public garden, Mam’selle, as you seem determined to believe,’ he said, with some asperity. ‘It is an establishment.’

  ‘I – I beg your pardon,’ I said lamely, not sure why I was apologising to this puffed-up popinjay. ‘This establishment . . . what it is, please?’

  ‘It is an art gallery, Mam’selle. A rather smart one,’ he said, looking me up and down again, as if to say I could not expect to be allowed anywhere near such a place.

  But I cared not for what he thought. Looking calmly back at him, though my pulse was racing and my legs felt weak, I said, ‘How may I find this, please?’

  In answer, he reached under the counter and produced a map. ‘Buy one of these and I’ll mark it in for you.’

  I handed over a couple of coins and he marked the place in red ink. ‘It is too far to walk. You must take a cab.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Or an underground train, if you don’t have the money for a fare.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and smiled. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

  The startled, baffled expression that flickered over his face was priceless. It would take him a moment to work out if he’d just been insulted with irony or if I was simply a foolish foreigner who hadn’t understood she was being patronised. Either way, it would annoy him, and pay me back a little for his rudeness and disdain. Once, I thought as I walked away, I would not have been able to stand up to someone like that.

  If it hadn’t been dark by then, I’d have ignored the popinjay’s advice and made my way to Lilac Gardens on foot, to save my money. I’m good at reading maps, and from it I’d worked out that Lilac Gardens was most likely about a thirty-minute walk away. But it was night, and though the streetlights were on and I had a map, I was in a foreign city about which I knew little. I didn’t know, for example, which areas were safe to go in alone at night, and which weren’t. It was likely that Lilac Gardens, being a rather smart area, was not situated in a bad neighbourhood, but I couldn’t be sure. And in any case, I wanted to get there quickly, so I took the underground train.

  Like the ocean voyage, this was another first for me. Though my supposed home city of Faustina also boasted an underground railway, Byeloka most certainly did not. I soon got used to it as it did not seem much more different than an ordinary train, only smaller and noisier, the sound magnified in the tunnels.

  Emerging from the underground station and into the street, I looked at my map under a streetlight. The gallery should be only three blocks away. I started walking, becoming aware of the quiet here, after the noise of the underground
and the bustle of the station. It was a residential area lined with big houses set back behind high walls, and though there was adequate lighting, there was something about the place that made me feel uneasy. I soon realised what it was – there were no other people around; my footsteps were the only ones ringing on the cobblestones. Occasionally, a vehicle drove past, almost silently, as if coachmen must come with greased wheels, and horses with the light step of ghosts in order to venture into this hushed place.

  The image made me shiver. I took a hold of myself. I was letting my imagination run away with me. There was nothing wrong here – this was just a wealthy area, and wealthy people don’t walk because they can afford to have the best vehicles money can buy. Still, I quickened my step and, reaching the right crossroads without incident, turned into the lane where the art gallery should be.

  It was there all right, housed on the ground floor of a tall, narrow grey stone house. Unfortunately, though, Lilac Gardens was closed. A curtain was drawn across its big bay window, so I couldn’t even peer inside. But a notice informed me that it was owned by Messir d’Louvat and that the gallery was merely closed for the preparation of an exciting new exhibition that was set to open soon. Underneath was a date and a time – this Saturday at midday. The day after tomorrow.

  I looked up at the house. All the windows were dark, and no-one seemed to be home. There was no point in lingering. If I was to be sure of speaking to someone, I’d have to come back the day after tomorrow.

  Luel had given me the name of that gallery for a reason. I’d half-hoped I’d find her there. But it was now obvious that was not her intention. Perhaps Messir d’Louvat was the sorcerer. With that name, not only was he clearly an aristocrat, and thus likely to be wealthy, he was also an art dealer. And art dealers, aristocratic or not, were powerful – as far as artists were concerned, they could make or break careers. And occasionally they were also linked to not very savoury people. A few years ago there’d been a scandal in Byeloka concerning a prominent dealer who’d been hand in glove with art thieves and had been sent to prison for it. What if Ivan had discovered that d’Louvat had done something like that and had threatened to expose him, not knowing that the dealer had sorcerous powers?