“—and everything else flew out of your mind. I know how well that can happen!” Jeanne brushed away her annoyance and put on a smile as she rose. “I’m afraid the food’s all gone cold, but there’s plenty for three,” she said with a nod to Margerit.
“Oh, no, I’m already late getting back,” Margerit countered. “We’re promised to Lady Marzim for dinner and I’ll need hours to make myself presentable.” She gestured at the grimy smock thrown over her clothes and scrubbed at a smudge on her cheek, only worsening it. “But Antuniet, tomorrow? May I return to see the results?”
“Of course. Jeanne, truly, I am sorry. Can you wait for me to wash up? Anna, bring one of the other chairs out here.”
A little more waiting would scarcely matter, but it was annoying when an elaborate plan went awry. And how long had Margerit been a partner in the alchemy? Jeanne directed Marien to begin laying out the hamper of food. Jealousy was such a pointless thing. And she wasn’t jealous of Margerit, not really. Not even of her fortune—though how differently things might have gone if she herself had been able to stand as Antuniet’s patron last fall! No, it was the work itself that was her rival. And there was no answer to that except to embrace them both. Without that work, the woman she loved wouldn’t exist.
Antuniet showed a gratifying attention to the food. Jeanne chattered of inconsequential things while they ate, but when they’d come to tea and biscuits she asked, “What is it that had you all excited this morning?”
“We finally worked out the process for a batch of the chrysolite. I couldn’t manage it before with just Anna and me. This is a chance to really test the strength of the exaltation. With so many of the properties it’s as bad as looking for signs of miracles from a mystery: did the saints hearken or was it only chance?”
“And why is this one different?” Jeanne asked.
The barest flicker away of Antuniet’s eyes spoke volumes. “It’s…it banishes evil dreams. If it works, I’ll know.”
“The same dream still?”
Antuniet looked confused.
“You had bad dreams that night you spent at my house at the New Year. Something about your mother.” She could tell from Antuniet’s response that it was not a subject she cared to discuss. “No matter,” Jeanne said, dismissing it with a brief touch on her arm. The chance to comfort her wouldn’t be worth the distress. “Tell me what you did this morning.”
It was so easy to listen as Antuniet poured out the details, the plans and the expectations. So easy to be lost in the animation of her eyes. This was the wine she came here to drink. But she tried to take it in more deeply, to ask questions that showed not only interest but understanding. And when Antuniet noted for the third time how much more progress they’d made now that there were more participants for the roles, Jeanne said quietly, “You could have asked me as well.”
Antuniet looked startled. “I didn’t think…it wouldn’t…Jeanne, this isn’t the ceremonies of a mystery guild. It’s dirty work. The roles—they aren’t just symbols. They represent tasks in the processing and enhancement.”
“I suppose I should get myself some sort of gardener’s smock like Margerit’s,” Jeanne said, dismissing the objection. “And gloves, or…would gloves interfere?” She looked down at her hands, preserved against time and weather with such diligent care. Was she mad? But it would always be a barrier between them if she held back.
“Gloves, of course,” Antuniet assured her. “Are you sure? I’d love to have more help, but you’re always so busy.”
“With morning visits and soirées and pleasure drives out to look for elusive snowdrops. I’m sure I can be spared on occasion.”
Antuniet paused in looking over the sweetmeats. “Snowdrops?”
Jeanne launched into the tale, making it both more amusing and less attractive in the telling than it had been in life that morning.
* * *
And the work was dirty and sometimes tedious. But then there were times when she was swept up in the excitement of creation. There were parts to learn and roles that sometimes seemed more like a holiday masque than a scientific process. One by one they worked through the formulas that Antuniet had chosen for the demonstration of mastery.
“What came before were only the elements. Oh, I made a few enhanced stones to confirm it was possible, but this is the real work.” She sorted through the piles of notes and diagrams that carefully documented the essential details not elaborated in DeBoodt. “It’ll take years to learn the techniques for every stone and every property he describes and we don’t have the participants for most of them yet. But here’s the list I want to produce before—”
She left the rest unsaid, but Jeanne knew: before she went back to Annek to present her gift. Curiously, she reached over and took up the book. Antuniet had her own copy again now, bound in dark green leather with gilded edges. That had been her own gift—that binding. Too ornate, perhaps, for a working text but she’d been unable to resist. She read through the handlist tucked between the pages. “What about this one? ‘To protect travelers and make the stranger welcome.’ That would be useful.”
Antuniet gave her a rueful glance. “There was a day that would have been more than useful! But it needs someone for the Mars role.” She sighed. “I don’t want to bring in outsiders until we’ve had more practice.”
Margerit looked thoughtful. “Does the role specifically require a man or simply a warrior? I was wondering: might Barbara be able to try it?”
“For that I don’t know. It might be interesting to see, but the baroness hasn’t offered.”
A thread of tension stretched through the room. Had Barbara been asked and refused? Or had she simply washed her hands of her cousin’s life again once the crisis was past? Jeanne skimmed down over the list of formulas, looking for those with no more than four female roles. “I like this one. ‘To ensure that the true worth and beauty of the bearer is seen.’” Her gaze flicked briefly to where Anna was working. How many women could benefit from that power!
Antuniet glanced over at the handlist, then looked through her own papers. “I don’t think we can manage that one at the moment. It requires a mirroring of the virgo role. Anna usually takes that one but—”
“Couldn’t Margerit take the second?” Jeanne asked. “After all, it isn’t as if—”
Antuniet cut her off with a gesture and turned to say, “Anna, go fetch water to fill the copper. It will be nice to have it hot for washing up.”
Jeanne watched the girl leave. “Was that necessary?”
“I’m responsible for what she learns under my roof,” Antuniet said briskly. “DeBoodt is fairly explicit in the definitions of the several types of roles. For the virgo he says it must be ‘one who has not known carnal embrace.’ And Margerit, I doubt you meet the requirement.”
Margerit turned a pretty shade of pink and said, “Yes, I suppose so. But couldn’t you take it?”
“No,” Antuniet said sharply and pushed away from the table to busy herself with something on the bench.
And what was that about? Jeanne wondered. The answer had scarcely invited further questions. Antuniet had spent nearly two years wandering the face of Europe alone. It would be no wonder if… Her imagination failed her, not knowing whether it should lead to curiosity or pity.
“I had another thought for the male role,” Margerit offered into the lengthening silence. “I want to explore it further before mentioning names, but it wouldn’t be an outsider. Not exactly.”
Antuniet only shrugged and said, “As you please,” as if she were weary of the conversation.
Jeanne lingered when the others had left, seeking a chance for a question that couldn’t wait, but uncertain of Antuniet’s mood. “Toneke, you’ve disappointed me,” she began at last.
“And what have I done now?” Her voice was tired.
Jeanne knew instantly that the teasing had been a mistake but it was too late to begin again. “You promised that you’d come out with me if you were invi
ted by name. And I know that Margerit asked you to the opening of Fizeir’s new opera. And I know that you refused.”
Antuniet sighed. “Jeanne, I have nothing to wear. Not to the opera. I can’t go on always borrowing your gowns.”
“Which is why I’ve made an appointment for you with my dressmaker tomorrow. I made sure it was in the late afternoon because I know you have work planned in the morning, but she’ll need a week to do her best and that doesn’t leave much time.” She saw Antuniet preparing to refuse and pleaded, “Please let me do this. I know you let Margerit buy you that rock crystal crucible and it must have cost twenty times what a ball gown would.”
And once more she knew she’d managed things badly when Antuniet colored and looked away, mumbling, “That was for the work.”
“I don’t know what’s come over me today; everything I say is wrong!” She reached out to take Antuniet’s hand and said earnestly, “I try to understand. I really do. But I can’t help you the ways that Margerit can. You take so little time for yourself and that’s where I can help.” She searched Antuniet’s face, trying to see if she had redeemed herself and finally released her hand when Antuniet stopped trying to pull away. She added more cheerfully, “And I won’t enjoy the opera nearly so much if you aren’t there beside me.”
A war fought itself out in Antuniet’s face but at last she said only, “Thank you. And thank you for asking Margerit to invite me.”
* * *
An opera night always called for more than ordinary care in dressing but it didn’t usually entail the mountain of gowns that had been considered and discarded and lay waiting for Marien to return them to the wardrobe. And it rarely called for more than an hour to be spent over the selection of jewelry and the application of powder and paint. Jeanne brushed at her cheek once more with the haresfoot, then leaned toward the mirror. She pulled at the corner of her mouth, smoothing out an imagined line. Someday soon I’ll become as ridiculous as an aging roué. Please God, not for a few years yet.
Why had she ever thought—even for the moment of denying it—that Antuniet might grow to feel more for her than gratitude and friendship? Every time she tried to reach out she became as clumsy as a green girl. And for what? As she kept reminding herself, there was no future for her there. It was time to let go of that fantasy before Antuniet found her attention tedious. And yet she was drawn again and again like a moth to the moon, simply for the pleasure of her company and the taste of bittersweet dreams. So it ever had been. She had no power to deny herself even the shadow of pleasure. But giving up didn’t mean letting herself go. She addressed her image in the glass in stern tones. “When you admire a woman, it is a virtue to make yourself attractive for her, even if it isn’t possible to make yourself attractive to her.” She took up the haresfoot again and dipped it in powder to brush across her cheek.
Marien tapped and entered, carrying her feather-topped turban, freshly arranged into crispness. “Your guest is here, Mesnera.”
“Tell her to come up, I’m almost ready.”
She finished the last touches and stood as Antuniet was shown into the dressing room. “Oh, Toneke, it’s beautiful! Dominique triumphs again!” She had known the rose shade would set off Antuniet’s dark coloring, but the dressmaker had transformed her steadfast refusal of lace and ribbons into an elegant texture of pleats and tucks. “You look lovely,” she added in the face of clear skepticism. “Now help me choose a shawl. I keep coming back to this hideous thing.” She held up the offending garment. “Tio convinced me that striped fringe was all the rage, but…” She shuddered in mock revulsion.
“You’re coming to me for advice on fashion?” Antuniet asked in amusement. “Which one do you like the most?”
“Ah, that would be this one,” Jeanne said promptly, holding up a length of mauve cashmere, its borders decorated with a design of peacock feathers. “But the color is impossible with this gown. Although…” She held it up speculatively against Antuniet’s shoulder. “Perfect! You simply must borrow it for tonight,” she urged before any protest could be made. “With that vision before me I can bear the striped fringe.” She held it up and circled around behind Antuniet to drape it across her arms and shoulders. A wave of heat ran through her. The wisps of hair trailing across the back of Antuniet’s bare neck invited kisses. She closed her eyes, only to have her senses filled with the scent of her. No, this would never do! If she didn’t find some distraction soon, she’d be betrayed into doing something unforgivable.
Margerit had offered a light supper before the affair but Jeanne had demurred. “I hope you don’t mind, Toneke,” she offered, “but I thought you might prefer a quiet bite here with me.” And she would have the pleasure of Antuniet’s company all to herself for a time. She was different in public, even with just the few of them at the workshop; there only the work brought out her inner fire. But here at home…“Tell me more about Prague,” Jeanne urged when the soup was served. “Once you promised me the full story of how you found your treasure with a true-love charm!”
Antuniet leaned forward, but her eyes were distant. “There’s an ancient wall by the castle where long ago people built houses into the spaces of the archways. Back in King Rudolf’s day, when he gathered alchemists from across the face of Europe under his patronage, it was known as a gathering place. I don’t know whether it was a bookshop already at that time or if it was DeBoodt’s workshop, or one of his student’s. But somehow his greatest work came to fall behind a case, against the wall. I was in the shop one day, a tiny place crammed so full of books you could hardly turn around. When I worked the finding charm it kept leading me to the back of a cabinet, even after I’d emptied out all the shelves onto the floor. And when I tapped on the back there was one spot that didn’t echo like the rest. It took most of the day to convince the owner that I was ready to buy whatever it was, sight unseen. He had to chisel open the back of the cabinet because it had been plastered to the walls ages ago. The book must have fallen down from on top and been utterly forgotten for over two hundred years.”
It was like an ancient fairy tale with romance and adventure, chance and destiny. She could imagine Antuniet standing there among the shelves and corridors, lighting her tiny candle and sprinkling the dust of the charm over it to see which way the sparks pointed her. And she was grateful that in the course of time they’d pointed her back to Rotenek. Antuniet had brought new fire into her life even if it could never go beyond moments like this.
The opera itself was only ordinarily entertaining. Maistir Fizeir was known for his historic tragedies, but tragedies had become less popular than farce. His attempts to join the two made for an odd assortment. The guests, too, were an odd assortment: the aunt and uncle and some assorted older Pertinek cousins; a countrified-looking gentleman who might be some connection of Margerit’s Chalanz relatives. Jeanne suspected that Margerit was using the occasion to pay off a collection of social debts that hadn’t balanced out in the ordinary course of things. She should put a word in her ear about how to manage these things more elegantly.
It mattered little. An excellent performance could have been transporting, but tonight it was enough to enjoy having Antuniet at her side and to exchange small witty comments with the other guests. Antuniet seemed to have expended most of the store of her conversation over dinner, but she gave every sign of enjoying the music and the company. “It’s different,” she said at one quiet moment. “When my mother dragged me to the opera it was always to be on display. And then there would be a quarrel when we returned home because I hadn’t spoken to this one, or was unfriendly to that one. There was no chance simply to listen.”
“I’ve never thought of conversation as a burden,” Jeanne said. “What you must think of me! I made you talk all through dinner.”
The music swelled and prevented a response, but when the song was finished Antuniet continued, “I didn’t mind. You make it so easy to talk. It’s different when it’s just us. I miss—” She hesitated uncertainly. �
��It may seem strange to miss anything about those awful months last fall, but I miss our little picnic lunches. There never seems to be time for that now.”
Jeanne was tempted to retort about whose fault that was, but instead she pressed Antuniet’s hand silently. She let go more quickly than she’d planned as the heat rose again. But it was gratifying to know that she’d been able to provide those bright memories.
They walked about the galleries at the interval, though Antuniet declined to do more than nod to old acquaintances in the hallways, and then returned early enough to Margerit’s box to catch the last of the visitors there.
“I was wondering where you’d wandered off to,” Count Chanturi greeted her, rising from where he sat beside Barbara. “I’m holding a small celebration afterward to congratulate Fizeir on the new work. I’ve been hoping you could come because there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Will you grace us?”
“So kind of you to invite us, Rikerd,” Jeanne replied, looking pointedly at Antuniet, still close at her side.
Chanturi added, “Maisetra Chazillen is welcome too, of course.” Antuniet nodded hesitantly, but she couldn’t say she hadn’t been specifically included. He turned back to kiss Barbara’s hand and bow farewell to their hostess.
The opera ended in a muddle of deaths and triumphs, with the lighter elements falling somewhere by the wayside. Jeanne doubted it would be performed again after this season.
They were a smaller party to join the celebration afterward. The Pertineks and several others had made an early evening of it. Margerit’s country friend pleaded business in the morning and perhaps sensed that he would be out of place in the Count’s crowd. But the rest descended to the smaller concert hall that Chanturi had hired for his festivities.
There were speeches and congratulations from the composer and his patrons, all hearty and insincere. The principals were toasted and then the guests were released to the scattered tables of food and drink, with small groups of performers entertaining between them. At first Jeanne feared they might be regaled with a repetition of highlights from the evening’s work, but it seemed the singers and dancers had been directed to bring out favored bits from previous seasons. She recognized snippets of the overtures and a few of the arias. But the entertainments were the least of the evening. Maisetra Ovinze offered a wealth of gossip regarding performances they could expect in the fall, and when Tionez claimed her attention to tell all the fashion news her husband had written from Paris, a crowd of eager listeners buzzed about them. Antuniet drifted away while Tio held forth and Jeanne watched her worriedly with half an eye until she fell into conversation with Margerit.
The Mystic Marriage Page 20
