The archbishop gathered the several series of diagrams into a stack and placed them at his right hand. “I will examine these further,” he said.
Margerit stifled a protest. There were details, analyses that she couldn’t easily reproduce from memory. The notes from that last ceremony that Aukust presided over would be impossible to duplicate. She wished she’d thought to make copies. And yet this was what she’d hoped for: to be given a hearing and have her work acknowledged and tolerated. There had never been a reasonable expectation of more. The flaws in the Mauriz tutela would continue to haunt her, but she was learning to choose her battles.
“Was there anything else, Your Grace?” The question was directed at Princess Annek.
Her answer was deliberately casual and she waved one long-fingered hand as if to dismiss the matter. “Nothing of great importance. The Guild of Saint Adelruid would like permission to celebrate a new mystery in the cathedral.”
The request should have been only for form’s sake. The Royal Guild was the most exclusive and prestigious of the lay guilds—certainly the most important of those sponsored by the cathedral. There would need to be good reason to deny it. Their private mysteries were their own affair, unlike the Mauriz tutela, which belonged to the cathedral.
“And what would be the nature of this ceremony?”
“Do you recall that unfortunate matter of the Atelpirt castellum? The one that caused such a fuss back before I was confirmed as my father’s heir? We’ve reworked it. Or rather Maisetra Sovitre has. The basic structure is sound and it seems a good addition to the royal mysteries.”
Margerit knew it was tactful of everyone not to mention the part she’d had in designing the original, treacherous version of that ceremony. The one that had ended with Iohennis Lutoz banished and Estefen Chazillen executed. This was her hope of redeeming that disaster: the adoption of the mystery as part of the divine protection of the realm.
“As you wish,” he replied.
It seemed an anticlimax: all the preparation, the courting of the dozzures to support her presence, the careful analysis and diagramming of her visions. But there had been two goals and both had been achieved. She had been presented to those who mattered as the princess’s thaumaturgist, with her work not dismissed outright, and her first great mystery would have its place on the calendar.
* * *
Finally released from the council chamber, Margerit looked around to find where Marken would be kicking his heels, waiting to escort her home. Her armin would have preferred to fulfill his duties by standing behind her throughout her ordeal, but that would not have been proper. His mandate did not extend to the council chamber, only to the streets and ballrooms where an unmarried heiress might need protection for her reputation and her person. But instead of his stolid bulk she saw a tall, slim figure in mannish riding clothes, rising from the window-bench opposite the door. The sight made her heart leap every time, even after so short an absence. “Barbara! I didn’t realize you were back.”
“Only an hour or two. Did you think I’d leave you to face the dragons alone? I told Marken I’d see you home.” Barbara kissed her lightly on the cheek and Margerit raised a hand to tuck an unruly lock of tawny hair back under Barbara’s low hat. It always felt daring to make those gestures in public, even though any close friends might have shared such a salutation.
“And Marken allowed it?” Margerit inquired teasingly. The armin took his watch over her very seriously—more seriously than was necessary only for propriety. Barbara had preceded him in that duty back in the days before she had become Baroness Saveze, but he was disinclined to cede it to her these days. And he looked askance at Barbara’s own preference for going about unescorted. In his eyes, a baroness owed something to her own dignity.
“I insisted,” Barbara said. “I thought we might stop at the Café Chatuerd for a bit. The moment we walk in the door at Tiporsel House there will be a thousand claims on your time, and I wanted to have you to myself for a while.”
Moments later the doorman at the café bowed deeply to Barbara, murmuring, “Baroness Saveze, we are honored. Maisetra Sovitre, will you be joining friends?”
At a shake of her head they were shown to a table upstairs, where it was quieter and where a spot by the bowed windows gave a view out across the Plaiz without putting one on display for passersby. The café had been named for the old palace watchtower that had once stood on the site, but the name fit, for it still served as a vantage point over the heart of the city. Barbara waited until a plate of delicate pastries and the small steaming cups of coffee had been brought, then took her hand and asked, “How did it go? Have you restored the ancient wording of the tutela?”
Margerit laughed. She hadn’t realized how much the hearing had weighed on her until that weight was gone. “I never hoped for that! But he listened, and that is enough for now. And the Royal Guild will perform my castellum. I’m trying to remember that advice Mother Teres once gave me about pride. Alpennia will not stand or fall on the basis of my mysteries. And what of your errand, was it successful?”
Barbara shrugged. “Well enough. I’ll be glad to stay home for a while. Except—”
“Now we come to it! Except for what?”
“I have a royal invitation. Efriturik asked me to Feniz for his hunting party. I don’t care to say no to an Atilliet. May I go?”
It was a game they played—the asking of permission. The expiation of a time when there had been too much silence and too many things taken for granted. There was less need for it now. The world knew…well, what the world knew and what it suspected were two different things. But society understood that an invitation from Tiporsel House came under the seal of Saveze. And it was known that if an invitation to the baroness did not also include the name Sovitre, then it was likely she would be otherwise occupied. Beyond that, what the world knew was that the woman who had inherited Marziel Lumbeirt’s fortune and the woman belatedly acknowledged as his daughter who now bore his title had their lives bound together too tightly to ignore. And if gossip went further than that? There was always gossip, and most people chose to see only what was convenient. Once Rotenek society had granted a woman the label of Eccentric, it required only that she be discreet and entertaining.
Barbara was still waiting for an answer, amusement glinting in her pale eyes. “You can hardly say no to Princess Annek’s son,” Margerit said. “And whatever would I do at a hunting party? I don’t even ride!”
The amusement turned into a wide smile. It was another private joke between them, one of the threads weaving the tapestry of their lives. “In truth, I think Efriturik only asked me in hopes of learning all the best coverts. It was one of the baron’s properties, you recall.”
Between them, he was only ever “the baron,” never “my father.” Margerit was one of few who knew the depth of hurt and anger behind that. That, too, was a thread that bound them. She looked out over the Plaiz, watching the ever-changing river of people passing by in the square that lay between the cathedral and the palace. The season had begun only a few weeks ago—the feast of Saint Mauriz marked its formal start—but already it was as if the summer exodus had never happened. A figure caught her eye and then disappeared into the crowd before she realized why her attention had been held. A movement, a way of walking, the turn of a head—it couldn’t be. She leaned toward the window as if that would help to find her again.
“Margerit?”
She hadn’t been attending to what Barbara had just asked. “I’m sorry, I thought I saw…Never mind. What was it?”
“I was wondering what this evening’s to-do is about.”
“A musical soirée,” she answered absently. “Uncle Fulpi asked me to sponsor a composer with some connection to one of his business associates. I don’t know much about the man but I have so few chances to make my uncle happy. And if he takes, then I’ll have the glory of having discovered him. And there’s a very talented soprano that Jeanne recommended.”
Barbara grinned. “No doubt a very beautiful and talented soprano.”
That brought a laugh. “And have you ever known the interest of the Vicomtesse de Cherdillac to fasten on anyone who was not both beautiful and talented?”
“I seem to recall that she was interested in me for a time,” Barbara teased.
It was precisely that parade of beautiful singers and artists in Jeanne de Cherdillac’s life that had cooled the jealousy Margerit once felt toward Barbara’s first lover. “It wouldn’t be very handsome of me to accept that as a contradiction to my claim! But I will admit that you’re not in her usual style.”
“She’s deeper than you might think,” Barbara said thoughtfully. “And she’s stood a good friend to us when we needed her.”
“And that,” Margerit said, “is why I’m more than happy to hire her latest ladybird for my entertainment.”
Chapter Three
Jeanne
The visitor’s voice was too quiet to hear well, but Tomric’s voice, denying her, was icily clear even in the front parlor, where Jeanne was dutifully attacking her correspondence.
“Are you expected?”
The butler’s dismissal evidently was not sufficient, for the visitor’s muffled reply was countered by, “The Vicomtesse de Cherdillac is not at home.”
Who could possibly be that persistent? She could recall no bills that were so far overdue as to warrant rudeness. Benedetta wasn’t expected, and the servants knew better than to refuse her entrance in any case. Curiosity stirred, but there was no point in encouraging importunate visitors by giving in. Jeanne rose to abandon her letters until such time as she could work undisturbed. Then a startlingly familiar voice echoed clearly in the foyer. A voice she hadn’t thought she'd hear again. One that expected to be obeyed. “You will tell the vicomtesse that Mesnera Antuniet Chazillen wishes to see her and will wait until it is convenient to be received.”
She could hear the man’s hesitation in the face of that commanding tone. He would remember the scandal—everyone did. “Mesnera…Mesnera, I do not believe the vicomtesse would be advised to receive you.”
“That’s hardly your decision to make, is it?” Antuniet snapped. “Announce me!”
Jeanne relieved her butler’s dilemma by emerging from the parlor. “Antuniet, ma chère! How delightful to see you again!”
It was easy to see the cause of Tomric’s confusion. She herself wouldn’t have recognized the figure in the well-worn traveling suit of gray serge without prompting. Even beyond the clothes, the past two years had greatly altered her visitor. She was thinner—gaunt even—which only emphasized her imposing height. The cool, distant gaze that had once been thought haughty now seemed haunted. Her straight dark hair was still pulled back in a severe, practical bun, but now a few threads of silver told a tale of more hardship than twenty-five years should have seen. And yet, now that Jeanne looked closer, there was no mistaking the piercing dark eyes and that famous blade of a nose. They had never been bosom friends—differences in age and taste had seen to that. Had Antuniet Chazillen ever had bosom friends? But still, one knew everyone to some degree in Rotenek society. And beyond her enduring interest in the scholarly set that Antuniet had favored, their lives had intersected in the person of Barbara Lumbeirt, Baroness Saveze. “Where have you been keeping yourself all this time?” she asked, as if it had been only two months and not two years and more.
“Here and there.” Antuniet’s forceful entrance retreated into diffidence. “Prague. Heidelberg most recently. I thought it was time to come home for a while.”
“And you’re still doing alchemy, I see,” Jeanne added, glancing briefly to where the other’s skirts were pocked with small, even holes and washed with pale stains.
Antuniet followed her gaze and Jeanne could have sworn she saw her blush. Except that Antuniet Chazillen never blushed at anything. “Yes, I’m still doing alchemy. And that touches on why I wanted to see you.”
Jeanne would have received her for no reason other than curiosity and boredom, but this added spice. “But of course. Come in and sit. I was writing some tedious letters and you’ve saved me from the chore for now.” She turned to Tomric, who waited in some trepidation to learn how his judgment had erred. “Have some tea sent in, and—” She looked Antuniet over in quick evaluation. “Tell Cook to send up some cake and sandwiches, or whatever she can manage. I was too busy to eat earlier and now I’m famished.”
It was a bald-faced lie. He knew it, the cook would know it and Antuniet could certainly guess. Jeanne saw a mixture of mortification and gratitude sweep across her face. “How long have you been in town?” Jeanne asked, leading the way to the green-striped settee by the bow window. “You must be starved for news.”
“A few weeks only.”
“Then you’ll know we lost Aukust a year and more past, God rest him.” She chattered on of marriages and deaths until the refreshments had been brought and the doors closed again. “Now tell me,” she said with a sudden change of mood, “whatever brings you knocking at my door?”
Antuniet finished eating a slice of almond cake with careful small bites, then settled her hands in her lap and looked Jeanne in the eye. “Because you know everyone. And because, given your disregard for convention, of all the people I know in Rotenek, you seemed least likely to feel the need to deny me.”
“Et voila!” Jeanne responded with a gesture of welcome. “But that tells me only why it was my door and not why you have returned at all.”
“And why shouldn’t I return?” Antuniet countered. “My exile was my own choice, not demanded by law.”
Jeanne waited patiently for her to recall that she had come for a larger purpose than verbal fencing. “You mentioned something about alchemy?”
“Yes.” And then, with the air of a rehearsed speech, Antuniet explained, “I was engaged in some very promising work in Heidelberg, but now I find myself in need of a patron. I hoped that you might be willing to act as a go-between, given that there are certain…difficulties in approaching prospects myself.” The mask slipped a little. “And you aren’t the sort to dismiss the idea out of hand—of a woman alchemist, that is.”
That was the Antuniet she knew: plunging into business with no pause for preliminaries. Jeanne sipped her tea slowly to sort through possible replies. Alchemy. Not at all within her usual métier. Opera parties and boating expeditions were more in her style. And yet she could see why Antuniet had approached her. This called for the same sort of diplomacy and strategy as launching an ill-favored debutante. “It seems to me that there is one obvious candidate for a woman seeking a patron for her studies. Have you asked Margerit Sovitre? It’s likely she’s forgiven you by now.” Jeanne could only guess what might have passed between those two in the disastrous collapse of the Guild of Saint Atelpirt. Antuniet’s brother had tried to have Margerit condemned. Perhaps his own life had fully paid that debt.
“But I have not forgiven her,” Antuniet responded in a tone as smooth and hard as marble.
“No? If you don’t care to speak to her directly, there’s always your cousin the baroness. You know the two of them are—” She placed two fingers side by side and waggled them suggestively. At Antuniet’s startled response, she wondered if she had been too indiscreet.
“No,” Antuniet repeated, less coldly but just as firmly.
Jeanne shrugged. “As you will. I can think of several men who might be interested in such an investment, but they’ll want more details of what you plan.”
“I would prefer,” Antuniet said carefully, “a patroness rather than a patron.”
Jeanne threw up her hands in a shrug. “Now you’re being foolish. It’s the men who have the money and it’s the men who take little risk to their reputations in associating with a Chazillen…or an alchemist. That’s how the world works.”
“I know well how the world works. Should I seek a male patron…” Antuniet’s shrug was more sedate. “I have neither the aptitude nor the inclination to please a man
in exchange for his support.” She left the implications hanging between them.
“And yet you come to me, knowing my reputation,” Jeanne said with a smile. “Dare I flatter myself to think you wish to solicit me for a carte blanche? Oh, Toneke, if you could see your face!” She couldn’t tell whether Antuniet was more flustered by the gibe or the nickname. “No, no, sit down. If you’re going to come to me for help you must learn to bear with my teasing! Truth to tell, I think you would be too expensive for me. My purse isn’t deep enough to support an alchemist even if my name could bear the weight of being tied to one.” She tilted her head to one side as another thought struck her. “Have you considered disavowing the name Chazillen? Your father’s cousin did, I hear. It would greatly increase your prospects.”
The response came with Antuniet’s legendary coldness. “My cousin Sepestien is a coward. Lack of imagination is the only thing that saves him from being as great a fool as my brother was. When the name of Chazillen is redeemed, he’ll have no share in it.”
“So you have a plan for this redemption? And—dare I guess—it involves alchemy. Tell me more.”
At first Antuniet’s face closed up like a shutter, but then she seemed to relent, perhaps realizing that some bait was required when fishing for patrons. There were gaping holes in the story she told, but the essence came through. Not the usual transformations of metal, but something more subtle, more complex. A gift for the crown of Alpennia more valuable than mere wealth. Lost techniques—or, if not lost, kept secret so long they had gone out of knowledge. And how had she come upon them in the space of a year or two? That answer was not forthcoming.
“There’s no true benefit to simple working in metals,” Antuniet explained. “Master the transmutations and in the end all you do is cheapen what was valuable. But to create something that enhances Princess Anna’s ability to rule—that could be worth a family’s honor. There’s nothing of fraud or sorcery in it, I swear. Nothing that would put anyone’s soul or reputation at hazard.”
The Mystic Marriage Page 3
