With ifs and buts you might put Byeloka in a bottle, as Sveta would say. I was letting my imagination run away with me. But there had to be some connection between Ivan and Lilac Gardens, or Luel would not have sent me there. Perhaps I would find out if I turned up on Saturday.
Halfway back to the underground station, I thought I heard footsteps behind me. I turned my head, but all was quiet and there was not a person in sight. Still, I had an unpleasant feeling of being watched, and it wasn’t until I was hurrying down the stairs to the busy platform that my heart rate began to return to normal.
I’d consulted the map and seen that Argent Lane, where the Gerards’ cousin had her pension, was on a line that branched off from the one I’d been on. Arriving at the right station a short time later, I soon found my way to Argent Lane. It was a short, narrow street, and Madame Pelty’s pension was halfway down. The lady herself proved to be a sharp-tongued, round person with a gimlet glare, which softened considerably when she read Madame Gerard’s note.
‘We’re pretty full due to the show,’ she said, ‘but I do have a little attic room I could let you have, to tide you over till another room is freed up.’ And she named a sum that was so modest I thought I hadn’t heard right.
‘Thank you, I’ll take it for the week,’ I said, producing my banknote.
She looked at it carefully before putting it away in the pocket of her apron. ‘That’ll be enough for half-board, breakfast and an evening meal, as well as the bed and warm water for your ablutions. No bathroom here, but there’s a respectable bathhouse a couple of streets away. No visitors in the room, and no noise at night either. Or any other time, in fact.’ She looked at me sharply. ‘Are you a musician?’ she barked.
‘Er, no,’ I said, bemused.
‘Good. Faustinians often seem to be musicians, for some reason. Violinists, frequently. Glad you’re not one of them. Can’t abide those screechy things.’ She pointed at my bag. ‘That all your luggage?’
‘Yes, Madame.’
‘Good. Can’t abide mountains of luggage, either. Right, then, come in. I’ll give you a jug of water so you can freshen up, and you can go straight on to the room. Can’t miss it. It’s the only attic room without any junk in it. Now, dinner’s in ten minutes. But you weren’t expected, so you’ll have to make do with soup and bread in the kitchen tonight.’
‘No problem, Madame,’ I said faintly, and followed her into the house.
The attic room was very small and the furniture rather basic, but at least it wasn’t cold. The room was up against the chimney, and heat from the fires downstairs had been rising into it. I unpacked, washed my hands and face, then went downstairs to the kitchen, as instructed.
The cook was a youngish woman who seemed friendly enough but whom I could barely understand, for she had an accent I hadn’t heard before. ‘She’s from the south – they all talk as if they have mouths full of cake,’ the kitchen-maid whispered to me as she ladled out my leek and potato soup, so thick and tasty it was like a meal in itself. ‘But you get used to it after a while. And you’re from Faustina, I hear. I read in a magazine yesterday about the romantic engagement of your Crown Prince. Wonderful story, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is,’ I said a little dazedly.
‘Oh well, we don’t have Crown Princes here, but we still have amazing stories, don’t you think?’
I nodded, my mouth full of leek and potato.
‘Like about Mam’selle Durant. Imagine, it said in the paper she never once gave up hope, but then she must be used to it I suppose, what with her mother dead long ago and her father always being away in those foreign places. I’m sure I should go to pieces, would you?’
I had not the faintest idea what she was talking about. But I nodded, wisely. ‘Most likely.’
‘They say he’s pretty ill; well, brigands wouldn’t be thinking of your health, would they? Our President said it was an outrage and . . . oops, the boss is looking this way, I’d better get on with my work. Oh, by the way, my name’s Claire.’
‘Alexandra,’ I said, smiling. We shook hands, and she darted off to her work.
Shortly afterwards, I went up to my room. My long journey was really taking its toll, and I longed for bed. Undressing clumsily in the light of the one candle I’d been given, I could hardly keep my eyes open. Even though the mattress was a bit lumpy, the pillow a little thin and the covers rather worn and frayed, I fell asleep as soon as I hit the pillow, and slept dreamlessly all night.
I awakened to weak sunlight and the cooing of a pigeon sitting on the windowsill.
Today I would start going around the houses of those five young men. If I’d not been so dazed last night, I might have pumped Claire for information. She sounded as if she had all the gossip on tap. Well, I could always try this morning.
First of all, though, I needed to test my language. ‘Good morning,’ I said to the empty air, ‘and how are you?’ Yes, I was still speaking quaint Champainian, with that Faustinian accent. But was it my imagination or did it sound a little more halting than before? So I tried something a little more complicated, and was left searching for words, with Ruvenyan breaking through from underneath. The effect was obviously wearing off.
So now I knew that the sweets lasted about twenty-four hours. I counted the number of F and C sweets I had left. Six of the first, six and a half of the second – just under a week’s supply.
My hands felt clammy and my breath fluttered in my throat. A week, that’s all I had. And where was Luel? Why hadn’t she contacted me in any way? What was going on? Oh, if only I had the rose petal with me! Old Bony said it put me in danger but now I wondered if that was really true. At least it would have led me directly to Ivan. I could have coped with anything then. I would not feel so discouraged when thinking of everything I had to do, alone, far away from my family and everything I had known.
Oh, my poor mother. I had promised Sveta I would let her know I was all right. And I had completely forgotten! I had in fact not thought of my family at all in the last few days. How shameful. I must remedy it as soon as possible. The post office would be my first port of call. I counted the rest of my money. I would have enough for a telegraph, but remembering the last time I’d sent one, I hesitated. Because you had to order telegraphs specifically and a copy was kept of them, they were too easy to track down. A letter would be slower, but cheaper and much safer, as I could just post it in the box amongst a heap of other mail. I tore a page out of my notebook and wrote some brief words.
Dear Mama, dear sisters,
This is to tell you I am safe and well. People are very kind and I am hopeful everything will work out. Please don’t worry about me. I am fine and staying in a good place. I will write to you again soon.
With all my love,
Your Natasha.
There. It would reassure them whilst not giving away too much in the unlikely event the sorcerer discovered it. I folded the letter and put it in my purse. I’d buy envelopes and stamps at the post office.
I washed from head to toe in some warm water, put on the red cashmere dress, and went down to breakfast in the dining-room, where the other guests were already gathered. They were older than me, mostly middle-aged and elderly couples, except for a family with small twin boys who kept remarkably quiet. I was the only foreigner, but after polite introductions they soon lost interest in me. As Madame Pelty had said, they were mostly country people up for the show, and their talk was of livestock and crops and the weather. I was left alone to my bread and butter and weak coffee, wishing there was creamy sweet porridge, fried eggs and strong tea instead. Breakfast was a poor meal in Champaine, it seemed.
On my way out a little later, I poked my head in at the kitchen door, intending to find Claire the kitchen-maid. But I was told by the cook that the girl wouldn’t be at work today as she’d been laid low with flu. So out I went into the bright day.
Like most people, I’d seen images of Palume in magazines and books – its famous bridges and e
legant streets, gold-domed theatre topped with a flight of bronze angels, charming restaurants, splendid department stores, decorated underground stations, and the grand presidential palace. I’d always suspected the reports were overdone, and last night the darkness had hidden the city’s true beauty. But now, though my mind was intent on other things, I couldn’t help noticing how lovely it was.
The main post office was a rather splendid building, too, and it was crowded with people, much to my satisfaction. The harassed clerk who served me was much too busy to even look up when I asked for three envelopes and international stamps. He just threw them at me, calling out ‘Next!’ as soon as I’d paid for them.
I posted my letter, keeping the other envelopes and stamps in my purse, and headed to the room where the address directories were kept. Unfortunately, they were grouped into city districts rather than by surnames, though each district volume did list the names of residents in alphabetical order. So it took me quite a while to track down the five names I was interested in: Fontenoy, Gauvain, Mandon, d’Roch, Theodorus, plus a sixth, Vivian.
I wrote down all the addresses in my notebook. At least the Theodoruses and the Mandons lived in the same district, but the others were scattered here and there. The Vivians, I learned, lived in the same district where Lilac Gardens was situated. Though their address was at the opposite end of the district from the art gallery, the disagreeable discovery made my skin prickle as I remembered the unease I’d felt last night, and again I wondered if Felix’s father could be the sorcerer.
No, I told myself stoutly, for even if he was and his spies were out, they’d not have recognised me. I looked and sounded quite different from when Felix had seen me and I had not carried the rose petal with me, so there was nothing to link me psychically to Ivan. Indeed, ever since I’d left it behind at Old Bony’s, I hadn’t felt him near me at all. I didn’t want to linger on that thought, for if I did, I’d become frightened and sad, and I couldn’t afford to be. I couldn’t even afford to think about Ivan too much. I had to simply concentrate grimly on my plan, as though it was all that existed, as though I was in a vacuum. Not a lover, not a daughter, not even a friend; just a person with a job to do. If I allowed my feelings to get the better of me, all would be lost.
The district where the Theodorus and Mandon families lived was the closest to the post office, so that was where I started. By now it was midday and the restaurants and coffee shops in this lively area were starting to fill up, and because the day was so bright, with a touch of coming spring, there were even people sitting at little pavement tables outside. But the street where the Theodorus family lived was an oasis of quiet; not the uneasy quiet of the area around Lilac Gardens, but peaceful and relaxing.
The Theodorus family occupied the first and second floors of a four-storey apartment house made of elegant grey stone, with decorated white balconies. Clearly, painting the ladies and gentlemen of Palume society did not make one a pauper. I rang the doorbell, and was confronted by another supercilious dandy, this time in a footman’s uniform.
‘All members of the public must go to the back door,’ he coldly informed me.
‘Forgive a foreigner’s ignorance, sir,’ I said humbly. ‘If you will direct me to where I should go, I’ll be very grateful.’ Over his shoulder I could see the grand entrance hall and a row of portraits, two of which especially caught my eye. They were of the same young man, but by obviously different hands.
The footman noticed the direction of my glance and shot me a suspicious look. ‘You need to go down there,’ he said, pointing to a side alley. ‘Understand?’
‘Yes, sir, of course. Excuse my rude staring,’ I said. ‘I could not help noticing those very fine paintings. They must be by great masters indeed.’
‘They are,’ said the footman, unbending just a little. ‘By the Messirs Theodorus, father and son. Family portraits, you understand.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I breathed. ‘In my country it is said that the name of Theodorus rides as high as the stars. Is that – is that the younger Messir Theodorus in those paintings?’
‘It is indeed. Messir Gaetan. One’s a self-portrait he painted last year, the other was painted by his father. They are reckoned to be most striking,’ said the footman, complacently.
‘That they are, sir. It must be wonderful to work for such great gentlemen,’ I said, fearing I may be laying it on a little thick.
But I needn’t have worried for the footman preened himself a little and said, ‘It is. But then the family only ever hire the very best-quality persons.’
I only just restrained an incredulous laugh. I bobbed my head and said, ‘Please forgive me for keeping you talking so long, sir.’
‘Not at all. Now, there’s your way to the back door. And in future, remember, in this country ordinary folk go to the back door. It is only guests and people of importance who may use the front.’
‘I’ll remember, sir. Thank you,’ I murmured, feeling an overwhelming desire to kick him in his self-important behind. Of course I did no such thing but scuttled round to the side alley, pretending to head for the back door. As soon as I heard the front door close, I sidled out again and took off in the opposite direction. I had no need of any more inquiries at the Theodorus house. I had learned all I needed to know and could now cross Gaetan off my list.
The Mandons, brother and sister, lived about five minutes’ walk away. Their house was rather smaller than the Theodorus residence, and the fresh-faced maid who answered the door was also nowhere near as expensive-looking or superior as the Theodorus’s footman. Upon being told I was a journalist who wished to interview the ‘very talented Mandons’ for a Faustinian magazine, the maid told me quite readily that Messir Thomas and Mam’selle Anne were out lunching in the Blue Bird, ‘as is their custom’.
‘Oh, yes, the Blue Bird, that famous place where artists and writers gather on Blue Street,’ I said cunningly. ‘Even in Faustina we have heard of this.’
‘Oh, no, it’s not Blue Street,’ corrected the maid, just as I’d hoped. ‘It’s on Luna Street.’
‘Of course. I’m just confused,’ I said with a rueful smile. ‘Well, thank you for your help. I will return later. When do you expect them back?’
‘Not for a few hours. But you may leave a note if you like.’
‘No, it is fine. I will come back later.’
‘I will tell them to expect you, Mam’selle . . .?’
‘Ter Zhaber. Mam’selle Alexandra ter Zhaber of The Mirror Magazine,’ I said glibly. ‘Thank you. And good day to you.’
‘And to you,’ she said, sounding just a little puzzled, as if she was beginning to wonder what all that had been about.
If Thomas Mandon was out lunching with his sister, it was unlikely he was Ivan. Still, it didn’t hurt to check, and so I headed for Luna Street and the Blue Bird with a brisk step. On the way I passed a bookshop and saw, displayed in the window, several volumes of Anne Mandon’s latest bestseller. And next to them, to my delight, was a charming portrait of the blonde, blue-eyed writer, displayed on a small easel, with the initials ‘T.M.’. Thomas Mandon had painted his sister’s portrait, thus making my job a good deal easier.
The Blue Bird was only a few blocks away. It proved to be one of those small wood-panelled restaurants with stained-glass windows, of which Palume seemed to have more than its fair share, and it was crowded with mostly young people chattering and laughing. I could not see all of them properly from the street, so I went in and ordered a small coffee, to consume while standing at the counter. I sipped the liquid slowly, scanning each table till I finally spotted Anne Mandon’s unmistakeable features. She was sitting at a table at the far end of the room with a group of young men, one of whom must be her brother, to judge from the strong family resemblance. There could be no doubt – Thomas Mandon was not my Ivan.
Now there were three left. I was hungry by now and the next closest address – Charles Gauvain’s – was a fair walk away. I bought myself a slice of onion ta
rt from a bakery – the cheapest thing I could find – and ate it while sitting in a nearby park dotted with statues and fountains. I was just shaking the crumbs from my lap and getting up to go when a familiar voice hailed me from behind. It was Madame Gerard, arm in arm with an auburn-haired young woman wearing a pretty little hat. The hat was trimmed with something I recognised – the silk flowers.
‘Alexandra!’ said Madame Gerard, beaming. ‘I thought it was you! What a good surprise! I am most pleased to see you!’
‘And I you, Madame,’ I said sincerely. ‘How is the show? And Messir Gerard?’
‘Both good. Louis is at the show again today, meeting up with his old army cronies. But tell me, my dear, did you manage to get a room at Emilie’s – I mean, at Madame Pelty’s?’
‘I did, thank you. It is a very pleasant place to stay.’
‘Oh, good. And what news of your aunt?’
‘None yet. But I am hopeful I will find her soon.’
‘I too. Oh dear, how remiss of me,’ she exclaimed, looking almost comically dismayed. ‘Here I am completely forgetting my manners. Alexandra, my dear, may I introduce you to my daughter Finette?’
‘How do you do?’ I said, and shook Finette’s hand.
‘Very well, thank you.’ She smiled. ‘It is very nice to meet you and to have the opportunity to thank you as well.’ She pointed to the flowers. ‘They are so beautiful and are of such wonderful quality. I’ve never seen finer, and in our shop we get a lot of these from Faustina. Which firm made it?’
Scarlet in the Snow Page 17
