The evening was warm enough that Jeanne’s plan to hold the late supper on the terrace was proclaimed to be inspired. And while all were being fortified with cold roasts and pickles and honeyed fritters, a brazier was brought out and a small fire—hardly worthy of the name bonfire—was prepared for the divination. Antuniet stood beside it, running her fingers through the little folded billets in the basket while the others ranged themselves on benches gathered on all sides.
There should be grand and portentous words spoken to put them in the mood, Antuniet realized. Her book-finding charm had been stripped down to a few muttered essentials to avoid drawing too much attention, but she cast her mind back to how her old nurse would have them all hanging on her words, and intoned, “The mystery of love is a deep mystery. Only those who see all things know for whom we are fated. Tonight we petition the saints—Falinz and Nikul—to share with us a glimpse of what fortune holds for us. Five will be tested.” She held up the first of the billets that came to hand. “If there is a message here for you, perhaps you will be granted that glimpse of true love.”
She held the folded slip up high. Like the public mysteries, half the success came from making a good show that would catch the enthusiasm of the participants. This hardly counted as a mystery—more like an old wives’ charm—but she had too much professional pride for half-measures. She spoke through the sing-song verse of the mystery, trying to recall the original words from before she had devised her own. The billet was held over the flames just long enough to soften the wax and then she pinched the sides so it would spring open and let the contents fall into the flames.
A shower of sparks flew up, but they winked out quickly. There was a collective “Oh!” of disappointment as Antuniet unfolded the parchment and held it sideways to catch the flickering light. “A.C.” She looked up. “Maisetra Chaplen, I fear your true love waits for you somewhere outside the circle of this fire.” There had always been a stock of answers for the disappointed to soften the blow. She dropped the parchment in the flames and reached into the basket again as it shriveled and blackened.
When the contents of the next billet were cast into the fire, a swirl of sparks and smoke rose up, twisted by an errant breeze, and hung over Barbara’s head before winking out. There were cries of appreciation for the effect and Margerit called out, “If anyone’s name but mine is on that billet, there may be blood spilled!” provoking gusts of laughter.
Antuniet flattened it out and held it so the bold looping “M” could clearly be seen. “I hardly know why you bothered,” she said, dropping the note once more into the flames. “It doesn’t take a divination to see that one.”
The next was once more noncommittal and the woman whose initials were revealed seemed relieved at the results. At the fourth repetition the sparks flew sideways at Tionez and seemed to follow her hand as she batted them away. Antuniet unfolded the note and read, “T.P.?” in a mystified tone.
Tionez looked abashed for a moment and then held up her hand with a laugh, pointing out the gold wedding ring there. “Alas, it’s true,” she said ruefully. “I love my husband! You may now cast me out of the sisterhood!” Again, there were catcalls and laughter.
Antuniet reached into the bowl, intoning, “The saints will speak to us one last time tonight. Whose fate will be revealed?” This time the powdered herbs met the flames in a brilliant blaze as the breeze shifted once more and drove the sparks to dance before Jeanne’s face.
An explosion of mocking laughter ran around the circle. Someone called out, “I suppose this means you won’t be sleeping alone tonight!”
“Tell! Tell!” another cried. “Who’s been holding out on you?”
There was a stone in the pit of Antuniet’s stomach and she stood frozen, holding the unfolded billet out over the flames until she snatched back her burnt fingers with a cry. The parchment fell into the fire and shriveled into a cinder.
“Oh no! Who was it?”
“I didn’t see,” Antuniet said flatly. And when there were demands to open the remaining packets to tease out the answer, she dumped the remainder into the flames, saying, “The divination is at an end. The fates have spoken.” A swarm of sparks rose up like angry bees, scattering randomly among the women.
There was more dancing after that. The musicians had already gone to bed in anticipation of an early morning start on their return to Rotenek, but Ermilint’s high, clear voice sang out a chorus-dance that had been popular a generation ago and a circle formed around the remnants of the fire. Then another singer took up a popular song with a waltz tempo and several couples claimed the tiled space around the fountain.
Antuniet leaned against the columns of the pergola to watch, trying to still the turmoil within. Jeanne, of course, was dancing, held in Tionez’s arms, heads together whispering. Barbara and Margerit were once again caught in their own private world, enjoying the freedom to join their bodies into one with no gossiping tongues to task them for their transgression. They continued swaying alone in the space after the song had finished.
“Jealous?” Jeanne’s voice whispered in her ear.
A knife turned in her gut. “What?” How did she…?
“Are you jealous of them?” She waved a hand toward where the two swayed in close embrace. “I am. Oh, I don’t mean personally. I gave up on Barbara the first time I saw the two of them together. But I’m jealous that they found each other. I’m jealous that Fortune smiled so brightly on them and left people like you and me in the shade.”
Antuniet said tightly, “Fortune never owed me anything.”
“But don’t you ever dream what it could be like?” Jeanne’s voice was almost wistful. “To have one person in this world whose first thought on waking is of you? Whose last memory at sleeping is your touch? Who rejoices at your happiness and mourns your sorrows?”
The knife turned again and sank deeper. She twisted away from Jeanne’s side and fled blindly out into the darkness, down the path toward the river. She stumbled over a tree root and fell, tearing the skirts of her gown. After that, she slowed her flight until she came out into the moonlight and sat on the stone wall at the river’s edge. At first she didn’t recognize the sound as emanating from her own throat. It was a harsh animal bleating, welling up from deep within. She stuffed her fist into her mouth to stifle the noise, and bit down until the blood came, as if pain could drive out pain.
She heard the footsteps coming down the path after her and thought, Go away. Please just go away.
“Antuniet?” The voice came hesitantly. And then, “Oh God, Toneke, I’m sorry. What’s wrong? I don’t know what I said, but I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Didn’t you?” Antuniet asked, gasping to force the words out. “Didn’t you tell me once that that was the price of your friendship? That I had to put up with your teasing?”
“Teasing? But I…oh.” She fell silent. And then, “Toneke, I didn’t mean it that way. I didn’t think that you…” The quality of the silence changed this time. Antuniet dreaded what would come next. “Toneke…that last billet. Was it yours?”
Denial was impossible. Confirmation was unthinkable.
Through the darkness she heard the faintest of sighs. “Oh, Toneke, that’s no call for tears. Don’t you see? I’d stopped daring to hope—”
“—that you’d succeed in making me your next conquest?” Antuniet turned away, not wanting to risk meeting her eyes even by the wan moonlight. “Oh yes, you’re very skilled. I’ve watched you at work. How long did you expect it to take? How many parties and presents did you calculate it would cost?”
“Toneke—”
She was shouting now because it was the only way to get the words out. “I’m not some cheap actress whose company can be bought for the night with a ball gown or a cashmere shawl.”
Silence again. “I never meant it that way. Toneke—”
“Don’t call me that!” The mocking endearment echoed in her ears.
When Jeanne’s voice came a
gain through the dark, it was low and tightly controlled. “They say if a man is starving and can’t get bread, he will eat the husks from the threshing floor just to fill the emptiness in his belly. Don’t blame me for what I’ve done when I was hungry.” And then there was silence again except for the soft patter of dancing slippers climbing the path in the dark.
It wasn’t possible to stay there forever. Even on a summer night the cold from the river crept in. And eventually morning would come and she would need to face… No. It was time to return to Rotenek. She could leave in the coach with the musicians in just a few hours, before anyone else was awake. Jeanne would continue on to Saveze, and if their paths crossed again after the summer…well, she would be stronger by then.
Antuniet slipped into the house by a side door, though the other guests all seemed to have sought their own beds already. She found ink and paper and wrote an apologetic note to Margerit, leaving it propped on the dressing table in her room. There was little enough to pack; no need to bother anyone else with the matter. The ruined ball gown she left in a heap on the floor.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Margerit
The glorious weather they had enjoyed for floodtide had turned to wind and thunder. The summer storm would pass swiftly, but it matched the change in mood that had come over the company after May Day as the guests departed. Margerit watched Fonten House slip behind them through the rain-streaked windows of the coach and sat back on the cushions with a sigh. “I wish I knew why Jeanne changed her mind,” she said. “She was so eager to spend the summer at Saveze. I would have enjoyed her company. Did she say anything to you?”
Barbara hesitated long enough to betray herself. “No, she didn’t say anything,” she said carefully. “I have a suspicion, but it isn’t my secret to tell.” She turned with a half-smile. “The last time Jeanne endured a summer in Rotenek was in pursuit of me.”
Margerit cast her mind back over the past week. Jeanne had been her usual ebullient self, flirting with everyone and giving preference to none. “But…but who?” she wondered aloud. And then, “That divination—do you think there was some truth in it?”
“I don’t know,” Barbara said, shaking her head. “And I’d rather not guess for now.”
They took the trip in easy stages for Akezze’s sake, though she declared that if it were possible to travel night and day it would be worth the misery to be done with it. But Chalanz to Saveze was four days’ travel at the best of times and they stretched it to six to allow more rest. The last day of their journey was marked by the sight of Saint Orisul’s, glimpsed with increasing frequency at every turn of the road, its bright walls gleaming like a beacon set up against the mountainside.
Margerit couldn’t see it now without the overlay of that first time, fleeing across the countryside to sanctuary. But today she and Barbara traveled two different journeys on this road. Barbara’s heart lay several miles farther on where the manor of Saveze sat nestled on a slight prominence overlooking the river, opposite the village. You could see in its bones the fortress that had once guarded the pass beyond. Those bones had been fleshed with more peaceful stonework in centuries past. The baron had corrected a generation’s neglect but had declined to remake the place in the modern fashion. It was left a bit of this, a bit of that: towers of gray stone, white-plastered walls and blue-green copper roofs splashed against the green fields.
A boy working in the fields spotted the coach and ran ahead, setting up a cry. By the time they passed through the village the horses were slowed to a walk to thread through the small crowd gathered to welcome their baroness home. There was always a feeling of possessiveness in their greetings. They had known Barbara as a child growing up here while the baron was off in Rotenek, though no one had suspected her heritage then or how she would one day return to claim Saveze as her own.
It embarrassed her, Margerit knew, but she bore with it all in good humor. The staff of the manor itself were more businesslike. For several days they had already been dealing with arriving wagons full of boxes and trunks. Margerit spent several hours hunting down her books and taking inventory to make certain all had arrived safely. She wondered again whether she should have brought Tanfrit’s Gaudericus. She’d barely had time to glance at it yet, but she hadn’t wanted to risk it in travel. The unpacking took hours, for she was shy about interrupting the servants to help her. She still felt like a stranger among these people. Only a handful of the staff from Rotenek had come with them. Saveze was very much Barbara’s domain, not hers. Everyone was unfailingly polite and respectful, but they treated her as a guest, not part of the family.
When the last of the books had been found and directed to the library, Margerit requested a bath and settled in for the luxury of doing as little as possible for the first few days. Barbara’s plans were less restful. At dawn the next morning, Margerit rolled over to find her up and dressed in riding clothes.
“Hush, go back to sleep,” she said. “I’m just going out with Cheruk to begin riding the markein.”
It was one of those rituals of the nobility that Margerit had been oblivious to before their first summer here together. Not quite a mystery, but more than a mere survey of the lands. They wouldn’t trace the true boundaries, of course, up along the stony mountaintops. But there was a path that stood in for those bounds and the riding of it in easy stages was not to be put off. “Do you think anything’s changed since last year?” she asked sleepily.
“I certainly hope so! Estefen had this place for scarce two years and I’m still repairing the damage. LeFevre gives me all the numbers and figures, but that’s not the same as seeing it for myself.”
Margerit allowed herself several days of indolence with nothing more strenuous than reading through the sheaf of papers that Iuli had pressed on her at the end of their final visit, but then it was time for her own summer ritual. Over morning tea she asked Akezze, “Are you recovered enough for a short drive? I’m going up to the convent today and I thought to introduce you.”
Akezze agreed somewhat reluctantly, but when she was handed up into the little one-horse gig, she commented, “This shouldn’t be so bad. It’s only the closeness of the traveling coach that does me in. I didn’t know that you drove.”
“Not in Rotenek,” Margerit answered as she twitched the reins to give the horse leave to start. “I wouldn’t dare try to manage a team in the city. But I had to learn the first summer I was here. Marken doesn’t drive,” she said with a nod to where he perched precariously behind them. “Barbara says it isn’t done to go about the countryside with a coachman and footmen and all. So if I had to learn, I preferred this to riding. I never have been entirely comfortable on a horse’s back.”
They left Marken with the gig at the livery stable at the foot of the hill and climbed up the path to Saint Orisul’s. He took his responsibilities in a more relaxed fashion here in Saveze. Country rules were different, it seemed. The portress at the gate didn’t need to ask their purpose but escorted them directly to Mother Teres’s office.
“You’ve come early,” the abbess greeted her.
“Yes, we left at floodtide this year since I won’t be attending the summer term at the university. I brought you a gift,” she said, holding out the sealed paper.
Mother Teres took it without examining it. It wasn’t the donation itself, of course, only a letter confirming it. But Margerit insisted on delivering it personally. “I’ve brought you another gift as well, if you like,” she continued, turning to Akezze. “This is Maisetra Mainus. She’s come to tutor me this summer but she fears I won’t give her enough work to earn her pay. So I thought, that is…I know most of the students go home for the summer, but perhaps she could offer some classes?”
“We don’t generally allow outsiders to teach the secular students,” Mother Teres interrupted. “But perhaps she will have something to offer our own teachers. What subjects do you know?”
Akezze nodded in greeting and rattled off a host of topics.
Mother Teres looked thoughtful. “Yes, perhaps. I’ll speak to the others and see what might be useful. And you, my dear,” she said to Margerit. “Will you be lending us your services as well? I still recall how helpful you were with the pilgrims’ mysteries that winter you were here.”
Margerit wondered how best to answer. “I made that offer to Sister Marzina last summer but it seems she had no need of me.”
“Indeed?” Mother Teres said. “I see.” She turned to her assistant who sat patiently by the door. “If you would, ask Marzina to come speak with me.”
Margerit wished she’d found a way to pass over the matter. In the months that she and Barbara had found sanctuary here, she had worked side by side with the nun in charge of helping those who came to the convent in search of help with a miracle. But a careless word—a glance that carried too much meaning—had betrayed their secret to Marzina and she had turned cold and disapproving. I hadn’t yet learned to be circumspect that spring, Margerit remembered with regret. She doubted that Mother Teres was that much more accepting, but she had the welfare of the convent’s coffers to consider. There was no point in offending their two closest patronesses.
Sister Marzina appeared and asked, “You wished to speak with me?” without a glance at the guests.
The abbess rose from behind her desk. “As you can see, Maisetra Sovitre has returned to Saveze for the summer. I’ve let her know that we would be honored if the Royal Thaumaturgist could find time to assist us while she’s here. I’m sure you have only to send a message to the manor if the occasion should arise.”
“As you wish,” the nun said stiffly and bowed again. She left, still without greeting Margerit.
As they made their way down the path from the convent, Akezze asked curiously, “So is it only outside Rotenek that people dare to disapprove of you?”
“I’m certain that there’s disapproval enough in Rotenek.” She turned it to a joke. “After all, if it weren’t for me there would be an eligible baroness on the marriage market.” She added, “And if it weren’t for Barbara, there would be an heiress as well.”
The Mystic Marriage Page 27
