Scarlet in the Snow

by Sophie Masson

  ‘Oh, just a small firm called . . . called Luel,’ I gabbled. ‘You will not know it because, er, Madame Luel, the owner, is a seamstress who used to work for my family, then she set up this business. Only a year since.’

  ‘I see. Maman told me you brought more of them with you,’ said Finette, with a questioning tone in her voice.

  ‘Yes, that is so,’ I agreed cautiously.

  ‘Then might you perhaps consent to bring some to the shop where I work? I know my employer, Madame Ange, would love to see them and buy some if, of course, they are indeed for sale.’

  ‘Why, yes, of course,’ I said eagerly. This was an unexpected opportunity and I did not intend to miss it. ‘When would you like them by? I have left the goods in my room of course but I could bring them to the shop later on today, or tomorrow if that is more suitable.’

  ‘Later on today will be perfect,’ said Finette. ‘I just had the morning off to be with Maman and I am going back to the shop at two. Perhaps if you might call around three or four?’

  ‘Very well, I will bring a good selection,’ I said.

  ‘I look forward to it very much,’ she replied.

  I parted company with them soon after, pleading an urgent errand, and hurried as fast as I could back to Argent Lane. On the way there, I bought some tissue paper and a cardboard box from a stationer’s, for I’d need to pack the flowers so they wouldn’t crush.

  With my door safely bolted, I sat on the bed with the comb. I pulled it once through my hair and down tumbled a lovely spray of golden mimosa mixed with jasmine, set against a backing of silver lace. Twice, and there was a tiny bouquet of rosebuds of an unusual shade between orange and pink. I hesitated. Rashly, I’d said I’d bring a good selection. But I had no way of knowing how many more the magic would give me. It wasn’t like with the sweets, where I could see at a glance how many I had left.

  Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. So I combed my hair again and this time into my lap tumbled a perfect shower of miniature flowers, everything from violets to geraniums, daffodils to lilies, bluebells to pansies. And rosebuds of red, white, gold, mauve and pink.

  Hastily, I lay the comb aside, hoping that the sudden bounty didn’t mean the comb’s magic was exhausted, the way a stressed plant might produce a rush of flowers or fruit just before dying. I had no way of knowing that except by running it through my hair again and that I was certainly not going to do. At least now I had more than enough to take to Finette’s shop, and could leave a few behind as well, just in case.

  I carefully made my selection. I’d take the spray of mimosa but leave the rose bouquet behind. And I’d take three or four of the individual rosebuds, as well as several other types of flowers. The rest I’d leave for another day. I wrapped the selected flowers in tissue paper and laid them gently in the box, all except for one, which I pinned to my hat. Then I crept out of my room with my precious cargo, down the stairs and into the street, without being spotted by anyone.

  The millinery shop was a good distance from Argent Lane and I did not want to run the risk of crushing my parcel under my arm on a long walk, so I spent the last of my coins on a ride on the underground train. I’d have to hope that Finette was right and that Madame Ange did love the flowers, or I’d be in something of a pickle till I could get the handkerchief to conjure up something for me – only if it would, of course. From everything I’d ever read, it’s foolish to have faith in that sort of feya magic, for it is unpredictable and can stop working every bit as easily as it started.

  More than ever I wished Luel would contact me. Things would be a lot less uncertain if she were with me. Old Bony had said she’d ‘followed her nursling’ – which meant she had gone in search of Ivan. She had not been the sorcerer’s target; it was Ivan who was in danger from him. So where did that leave Luel? She had been able to keep Ivan safe, hidden away, but had been powerless to break the spell-curse. Now that Ivan was in the sorcerer’s grasp, was she also perhaps helpless and unable to rescue her lord, able only to watch him from a distance? That must be it. Luel was in hiding. She didn’t even know I was here, and I couldn’t find her. Once again, my doubts about leaving the rose petal behind resurfaced. For not only was it my link with Ivan, it also allowed me to speak to Luel. If I’d had it, I might have been able to reach her through a mirror. But that way was closed to me now, leaving me quite on my own.

  The simply named Madame Ange, Milliner was a beautiful shop, with white carpets, gilded mirrors and crystal chandeliers, and the company’s airy, filmy creations poised on stands, like sculptures in a gallery. Madame Ange herself was a tall, graceful woman with silver hair stylishly piled on her small head, wearing a simple yet elegant dress that set off the beauty of its pearl-grey silk. She looked the epitome of the legendary Palume elegance, and her manner was of that natural politeness that is a mark of true elegance, beside which the superciliousness of the self-important dandy was shown up for what it really was – the mark of a fool. It was not for Madame Ange to have me sent round to the back door; nor for her to treat me with anything less than absolute courtesy, and that was obviously true in her relations with her staff, too. Fortunate Finette, to have found employment in such a place!

  Just as the young woman had predicted, her employer loved the flowers. Madame Ange delicately turned them over in her hands, her eyes alight. ‘This is the work of a true artist,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite as perfect. And yet Finette tells me this person isn’t even a trained flower artist but used to be a humble seamstress.’ Madame Ange looked at me.

  ‘She trained herself,’ I said hastily. ‘I used to watch as she’d practise.’

  ‘One can practise and practise, but if one does not have the gift, the result would be competent and nothing more,’ Madame Ange said coolly. ‘And these are extraordinary, worthy to be worn by princesses. Does the imperial family of Faustina not know about Madame Luel?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You see, it is only new, her business, and she is most modest. It is I who suggested to bring some of her creations to Palume.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Madame Ange thoughtfully. ‘Have you shown these to anyone else?’

  ‘No, Madame. Not yet.’

  ‘Good.’ She turned to Finette. ‘The hats for the President’s wife and daughters,’ she said, ‘for the garden party. Fetch them.’

  ‘Yes, Madame,’ said Finette, shooting me a happy glance.

  So that was how I sold my entire stock, which would be destined to adorn the hats of the Champainian Presidential family. Madame Ange gave me a fair price for the flowers, not that I knew the going rate for such things, only that my purse was fatter with banknotes and that I had enough to tide me through quite a way ahead.

  ‘If you are in contact with Madame Luel, tell her I will buy everything she cares to send,’ Madame Ange said as she paid me. ‘Indeed, I’d like to make an exclusive contract with her, if that would be agreeable. Our clientele here is very influential in all walks of life, and it would be well worth her while.’

  ‘Thank you, I will tell her,’ I said a little faintly, hiding a smile at the thought of the feya becoming, of all things, an exclusive Palume hat-trimmer.

  Finette saw me off into the street, and as we shook hands, she said, ‘My mother would like to invite you to the restaurant one evening, before she and Papa return home. They thought perhaps this coming Tuesday evening. We will come and fetch you from Madame Pelty’s. Would that be agreeable to you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Thank you. You are all so very kind.’

  ‘No, not at all. It was your generosity in giving my mother your beautiful flowers that will earn me a bonus this month,’ she said, smiling. ‘Madame Ange is just delighted with me for having asked you to come today.’

  ‘Then I am very pleased indeed to have helped,’ I said warmly.

  ‘Oh, by the way, Maman mentioned that you had been asking where Lilac Gardens was. She thought it was a park. But it’s –’

  ‘An art gallery.
Yes, I found that out. So you’ve heard of it?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. But only because of the painting.’

  ‘What painting?’ I asked, confused.

  ‘The one where the model was wearing one of our creations,’ she said. ‘The painting was called Summer Morning. Madame Ange created the hat specially for it.’

  ‘So Summer Morning was exhibited at Lilac Gardens?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, after it won the competition. That was before my time. I was still at home then.’

  A funny feeling tingled up my spine. ‘What competition?’

  Her expression was a little puzzled. ‘The Imperial Art Prize, of course. The very first one.’

  I stared at her, suddenly feeling cold. ‘The one Felix Vivian won?’

  ‘Yes. I thought you’d know the name of the painting, as you’re from Faustina.’

  ‘I . . . I had forgotten; I was pretty young when it won.’

  ‘It’s true Felix Vivian’s done nothing since,’ said Finette. ‘You see, I think Summer Morning was his masterpiece, and when it vanished, his heart broke and he just could not take the strain and –’

  ‘It vanished? What do you mean?’

  ‘It was stolen from Lilac Gardens about a month after it won the prize. Madame Ange said it was the perfect crime: there was a guard on it, it was supposedly impossible to steal, and yet it vanished without a trace. Some say magic must have been involved.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Finette shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s possible. On the other hand, maybe it was just clever thieves. I’m sorry, Alexandra, but I have to get back to work. Thank you, again, and I look forward to seeing you on Tuesday evening with my parents.’

  ‘Yes, I look forward to it too,’ I said cheerfully.

  As I walked away, my mind was in a whirl. What I had just learned had put a completely new light on things. That’s why Luel had sent me to Lilac Gardens, because that was where a brazen theft had occurred – the theft of a valuable, prize-winning painting. What if it was an inside job? And Ivan had found out? Something startling came to me then and I nearly gasped aloud.

  Old Bony had said there was a reason why the sorcerer could turn Felix into a soulless puppet, but not Ivan. And now I knew why – Ivan had resisted and Felix had not.

  Felix had allowed himself to be taken over. Not because he was afraid or weak-willed – but because he was striking a bargain. I suddenly felt sick and had to sit down quickly on a nearby stone bench. Oh, he won’t die, Felix had gloated. That would be too easy. That was the voice of his master, the voice of the sorcerer. And the fate of that poor fleshy puppet would be the fate of my love, because he had willingly delivered himself into the sorcerer’s hands.

  Terror shook me, and a pit of black despair seemed to open at my feet. Who did I think I was fooling? I couldn’t save Ivan. I wouldn’t get to him in time. How paltry my little triumphs had been so far, how useless my investigations! I’d gotten no closer to Ivan and I had no idea where Luel was, I was living on borrowed time in a foreign city and was scaring my family back home. What good was I to anyone or anything?

  I took a hold of myself. I really would be no good to anyone or anything if I thought like that. Ivan had delivered himself into his enemy’s hands, yes, but before that he had resisted so fiercely that only the worst spell could vanquish him. And even after he had endured three terrible years as a monster, the darkness getting worse with each day and threatening to swamp him, he had resisted. He had fought hard to preserve his spirit, clinging fiercely to the last shreds of his humanity. I could not – would not – believe that that resistance, tempered and toughened by those terrible years, would have now disappeared like snow in the sun.

  Dashing away tears, I stood up. I had a job to do. And do it I would, even if hell itself should open before me. There was no point in dodging the question and trying to get at things sideways. No, I would not go back to canvassing candidates for Ivan’s identity. I had to confront the evil head-on. I had to go back to Lilac Gardens and demand to be let in.

  The art gallery was still closed when I arrived, the street just as quiet. But I could see lights on in the windows above. Someone was home. I banged on the front door, loudly, but there was no reply. Looking up, I saw a curtain twitching and a face appeared in the window: a mean face, pinched and narrow.

  ‘Open up!’ I yelled in my thick accent. ‘Open up at once!’

  The face vanished. A few moments later, the door opened. A man stood there, the owner of the pinched face. The rest of him, thin and stoop-shouldered, with a few lank dark hairs clinging to a domed skull, was no more attractive. But he was smartly, expensively dressed, and in his small black eyes was the expression of one used to command. This was no servant. This was the master of the place, Messir d’Louvat himself.

  ‘How dare you make such a commotion in my street!’ he sneered. ‘I don’t take on women artists and never will, and whoever told you that this performance would attract my attention is going to get a letter from my lawyer. Now vanish at once before I take it into my head to give you the lesson you deserve!’

  Thunderstruck by this baffling speech, I could only stare at him.

  ‘Get going before I change my mind!’ he hissed, and was about to close the door in my face when I stepped adroitly past him.

  ‘No,’ I said, pushing the door open, ‘it’s not going to be as easy as that.’

  ‘What do you think you –’

  ‘Shut up,’ I growled, advancing on him. ‘I’ve found you. And you’re going to do as I say.’

  ‘What?’ He backed away, fear flickering over his face, and it made me feel good.

  ‘Not so sure of yourself now, are you, d’Louvat? Not like the last time.’

  ‘What?’ he repeated weakly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What last time? I’ve never clapped eyes on you before.’

  I laughed. ‘Right. But hear this – what you did to Felix Vivian, you’re not going to do to the man I love.’

  His eyes widened. ‘Eh?’

  ‘I won’t allow you to,’ I said, a little uncertainly now. Something was wrong. He wasn’t reacting in the way I had expected.

  He looked at me for a moment, then his face cleared. ‘Oh, I see. You’re dez Fomer’s floozy! I told that fool yesterday not to bother me again with his daubs; they’re never going to get anywhere and neither is he. What he does might be good enough for Ashberg or whatever tin-pot little place you come from, but this is Palume. You need to be special to make it here, and he isn’t, not by a long shot. And what happened to young Vivian back then was not my fault. He had a brain fever, but then he was never strong, even his father said that and he should know, so I will not have these absurd accusations bandied about by a –’

  ‘Shut up,’ I said wildly. ‘Just shut up.’ Nausea was churning in my throat. I’d made a mistake. This wasn’t the sorcerer.

  ‘No, I will not,’ he said, drawing himself up. ‘You go home and tell your boyfriend that not only can he forget about Lilac Gardens, he can forget about any other gallery in Palume too. I’m going to get the word out that . . .’

  But I wasn’t listening. There was a feeling crawling up my spine, a feeling like the other night, when I felt as though I was being watched. It wasn’t coming from d’Louvat. It was coming from behind a door just beyond him. I could feel it, waves of it, searching me out . . .

  ‘What’s behind that door?’ I said, cutting him off in full flow.

  ‘Eh? That’s the gallery, and if you think you’re going to . . .’

  But I had already pushed past him, and opened the door.

  I opened the door to a big white room, an exhibition room. It was quite bare, with no furniture and no pictures hanging on the wall. And nobody there at all. But the feeling I had of being watched was stronger still.

  ‘Don’t you dare . . .’ came d’Louvat’s fretful voice behind me, but I took no notice. I walked through the room to a door at the far end, an
d tried it. It was locked.

  ‘Open it,’ I said.

  ‘What? You must be –’

  ‘Open it,’ I hissed, grabbing the art dealer by his lank hair and yanking so hard that he squealed. ‘Open it or I’ll show you what we do to crooks in my country.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he said tremulously, but he took a key from his fob pocket and put it in the lock, turning it. ‘You’re a journalist, not dez Fomer’s floozy, aren’t you?’ he said, looking at me with an ingratiating expression. ‘Who told you? It was supposed to be a secret and . . .’

  I ignored him and stepped through the open doorway into another room, another exhibition space, smaller than the first but also bare. Except for one thing. Halfway up the far wall was a set of golden brocade curtains, drawn closed. The feeling intensified in me. The watcher had to be hiding behind those curtains.

  ‘Look, I’ll give you an exclusive. But only if you keep quiet till tomorrow,’ said d’Louvat desperately, as I walked over, snatched the curtains aside and saw . . .

  A painting. I’d never seen it before – not as a painting, that is. And yet I knew it. For it showed a sunny walled garden, where climbing white and pink roses rambled on the walls, as well as the more exotic blooms of mimosa and jasmine. There was a little white wrought-iron table and chair in the garden, and a young woman sat there with her back to me. She had a pretty, filmy summer hat on her head, her black hair in long loose ringlets down her back, and her dress was a flurry of pale pink ribbons and snow-white tulle of the same delicate shades as the roses.

  It was the exact scene I’d seen in my dream, at the enchanted mansion. Only that had been taken from life, and this was a version in brushstroke and paint. Beautifully, even exquisitely rendered though it was, there was a quality to it that made me feel uneasy, even beyond the fact I’d seen it in a dream.