“After the ancient hero? No wonder he looks ready to charge off after dragons!”
“No, after his grandfather.” Maisetra Chamering sighed. “He’ll need to settle down soon. There was time to indulge in fancies when he was younger, but he needs to find a trade now. I fear your visit will have him dreaming and restless for months on end. It isn’t every day you meet your cousin the baroness.”
“He’s your youngest?”
She nodded. “The rest are out with their father taking in the hay. Perhaps I’ve kept him too close. He was a delicate child. He was sickly as a babe and we nearly lost him to a fever when he was five.”
“He hardly looks delicate to me,” Barbara countered, watching him play touch-and-go with Tavit.
“I suppose I’m too used to comparing him to his brothers!” She laughed. “But there were years when even going out to feed the chickens left him exhausted. I convinced his father to let him be schooled, more than just reading and ciphering. We thought he might go for the church. It’s never a bad thing to have a priest in the family. Or at least a clerk. But you’re right: all he ever wants to read are romances of ancient knights and bold musketeers and the adventures of noble duelists! I hope your man isn’t encouraging him in that nonsense. We’ll never hear the end of it and it will make Petro cross.” And then she gave a little start. “Oh my! Petro. Whatever will he say? I should have sent word ahead.”
“Did he know you came to visit me?” Barbara asked.
“Oh yes. He didn’t approve but he didn’t forbid it. He thought I was putting myself too forward. I didn’t tell him…”
Barbara finished the thought silently. Didn’t tell him I’d sent you packing. “I’m sorry for that,” she said.
When they reached the mowers, no one gave her much mind while unpacking and laying out the food, but when all the workers had fallen to, she felt Maistir Chamering’s eyes on her and touched her aunt’s arm to draw her attention. He was a ruddy, weather-beaten man, his balding head gleaming in the summer heat. Only the quality of his waistcoat differentiated him from the men working under him.
Almost shyly, Maisetra Chamering went to bring him over, saying, “Petro, I would like you to meet my niece Barbara, Baroness Saveze.”
“I was passing by,” Barbara added, “and hoped you would forgive the visit with no notice.”
His reply was little more than a grunt and then as if thinking better, a curt nod and, “Mesnera, you’re welcome. Will you be staying long?” It was clear that he had some trepidation at the thought of entertaining her.
“Not even to the evening, I’m afraid,” she replied. “My journey can’t wait. But perhaps another time, when it’s more convenient.”
His reply was noncommittal.
They would have set up a chair for her but Barbara insisted on settling onto the spread blankets alongside her host and shared the meal she’d helped to prepare. For all his surliness, she could see that her aunt’s description had not been mere protest. There was genuine affection and partnership between them. He took the time to point out her other cousins, their names passing by too briefly to stick in memory.
Barbara watched Brandel as he paraded his newfound friend before his taller and more imposing brothers, to Tavit’s silent amusement. She could tell that the topic must have turned to the armin’s profession, for there was much gesturing and playacting of swords and the occasional glance at her. Whatever stories Tavit was telling must have been the embroidered versions of what he’d heard, for they’d had no adventures together that resembled anything of the sort. And then the boys cut willow wands for an impromptu mock-duel and she laughed. “Brandel really does live for the old stories, doesn’t he?”
“Useless fairy tales,” Maistir Chamering said dismissively. “Time he left it all behind. I’m sorry I ever let him go for that nonsense. But his mother…”
A glance was exchanged between them. It was clearly an old argument and one she had won.
“It’s time he learned there’s no place in the real world for daring adventures and dashing swordsmen. The sooner the better.”
Barbara laughed again. “You couldn’t tell that by my life!”
“But he lives in our world, not yours.”
And he seemed as out of place here as she would have been. A thought struck her—the other half of the apology—and before she could think better, she turned to her aunt and said, “I can’t pay you back for everything you lost for my mother’s sake, but I could do something for Brandel, if you permit.”
“What?” Maistir Chamering jeered. “Turn him into a swordsman like that nancy-boy there?”
She bristled at the slight to Tavit but let it pass. If he were a man who could see no strength beyond pitching hay and loading sacks of grain, all the more reason to press the offer. “Armin’s a fading profession,” she said in an offhand voice, “though you wouldn’t know it from the court. But that’s all it is now, really: a bit of playacting to amuse the nobility. But there are other professions in Rotenek he might be better suited for than what he can find here. And a courtier’s training isn’t the worst place to start for any of them. He’s what? Thirteen or fourteen? That’s not too late to start. Think about it. If you choose, send him to me in Rotenek at the beginning of the season and I’ll take him into my household and do what I can for him.”
She could see worry in her aunt’s face warring with recognition of the opportunity. Plant the seed. Let them consider it on their own. A letter could confirm her offer and then they would see what would come.
And what will Margerit say? I shouldn’t have offered without asking. Yet at the moment it seemed the right thing to do. Time enough to make it right with Margerit when she was home again. And that day couldn’t come too soon. She glanced up at the angle of the sun, judging how far they could go before dusk. She was relieved when her hosts took up their rakes and forks again and she could make her farewells.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Antuniet
Antuniet sat at the open window in her bedroom and settled the tray securely in her lap. She ran her fingers lightly over the stones nestled in the bunched cloth that kept them from sliding and rattling. Some were angular and sharp-edged, others smooth as river pebbles; a few were rough like hardened hoarfrost. They caught the rays of early morning sun that struggled past the neighboring buildings and glowed like drops of colorful dew. This was a luxury—an indulgence really—that she’d started allowing herself on rising, born out of the need to remind herself that her progress was real and not an illusion of her dreams. The ordinary stones were locked away in a chest in the workroom but these she kept closer: the purest, most perfect gems, the ones that had survived through the multiplication and cibation—that had succeeded in wedding spirit and matter to fix their inherent properties and become true elixir.
The use of the twinned roles had been both more successful and more difficult than she’d expected. Iudiz Monterrez had fulfilled the requirements of her part and been willing enough, but she’d lacked some essential knack that Anna brought. Or perhaps it had only been a lack of practice and skill. There had been enough time to prove the method but not to develop it further.
She laid her hand across the tray, touching as many as she could reach. Their power was like the hidden heat of a new-laid egg or the buzzing of a gnat so tiny its presence was more felt than heard. She’d grown more skilled at detecting the power in the ordinary stones too: the ones where the fixation hadn’t taken, or where flaws in the heart fractured the influence into mere echoes. In those the emanation felt as light and subtle as the feel of the sun on her skin or the faintest stirring of a breeze on the hairs of her arm. Most of those stones she would destroy if they couldn’t be pulverized for reprocessing. A few would have their use as carefully budgeted coin, paid to Monterrez for his work on polishing and setting the better stones.
She longed for a few luxuries—ones Margerit’s stipend should not be asked to cover. It would be pleasant to have a n
ew gown suitable for a visit to the palace, or for any invitations that might come her way. But selling gems would risk the attention of those who held monopolies on that market. There were all manner of accusations that could be made against her work that could mask simple greed. Until she had a greater sign of favor than Margerit’s patronage, better to remain invisible. She sighed. In the old days Mesnera Chazillen had practiced alchemy without fear of consequences. But that Mesnera Chazillen wouldn’t have contemplated turning the Great Art to vulgar trade. It was dangerous to start wanting things again.
She closed the lid of the tray and put it back in the bottom of the chest that held her clothes. It was time to go down and unbar the door. Mefro Feldin grew more sour than usual if she were kept waiting. She had keys, of course, but ordinary locks were only for the daytime hours and against ordinary thieves. At night it took iron bars to keep the darkness out. Those and the amulet under her pillow were what chased the nightmares away and let the sweet dreams of success take their place.
When Jeanne arrived just before noon, they left Anna copying out notes for the afternoon’s process and walked up to the riverbank. It had become something between habit and ritual even when the heat wasn’t so oppressive that the excursion was necessary for comfort. Antuniet nodded to familiar faces along the river wall and acknowledged their greetings in turn as they found their favorite place just in the shade of the wall halfway down the path to the water’s edge. There was an air of change in the life of the city, anticipating the month ahead when the cream of society would begin returning. But for now Rotenek still belonged to those who had no other home. And to those who had chosen to stay.
Antuniet had never asked Jeanne outright why she’d chosen to return. At the beginning of the summer she’d been certain of the reason and had been furious—too furious to speak of it. But here they’d been, week in, week out, sitting on the stone wall, watching the Rotein flow past. Laboring in the sweat and dust of the workshop. Laughing at the joys and frustrations of the work. Had Jeanne truly stayed, turning her hand to whatever labor was set before her, only in the hope of a few nights of passion? It can be pleasant, she’d said, but it was hard to believe that pleasure was worth all this effort. What did Jeanne want?
What did she herself want? She barely knew. That night in May she’d recognized the truth in the fire’s portent: that her heart had seen something beyond the wit and gaiety. Had seen something and longed for it with an ache that went beyond this cautious friendship. But she couldn’t have said then what it was she longed for, only that she knew it was beyond her reach. And yet here was Jeanne, within reach, and still she wasn’t sure.
Jeanne had changed since the spring. Antuniet found herself missing…oh, the little things. She was honest enough to admit that she’d enjoyed the courtship before she knew it for what it was. That way Jeanne had of talking in touches: on the hand, the shoulder, once on her cheek. The teasing that had brought her back from the precipice of the winter’s despair. The myriad of ways the pet name Toneke had fallen from her lips. Don’t call me that! she’d cried. And never once since that night had it been uttered. And now she found she wanted…wanted something impossible.
Do you consider it impossible that someone might love you? That question had haunted her. One voice echoed, Yes, impossible. Another whispered, But what do you mean by love? Flirtatious glances and jealous rages? The awkward fumbling of bodies in the dark? 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? But Jeanne had been speaking of Margerit and Barbara then, not something that mere mortals could aspire to. Her throat tightened. It was dangerous to start wanting things.
“You’re pensive today,” Jeanne broke in.
Antuniet felt herself blushing, as if Jeanne could see her doubts and questions. “I was thinking that we can almost see the end of summer now.”
“Yes.”
Jeanne’s voice held an air of wistful regret. And yet what had the last months held that could be regretted?
“We should go back. There are still things to be done before the alignment this afternoon.” Antuniet stood and shook out her skirts as Marien silently folded the blanket they’d been sitting on.
After Antuniet closed the door behind them and hung the keys on the hook beside it, she called into the workroom, “Anna, are you finished with your notes yet?” There was no response. She poked her head in and saw Anna’s dark braid-crowned head laid across her papers, the pen still in her hand and one cheek smeared with ink. “Anna?” she called sharply.
The girl jumped guiltily, knocking the inkwell over across the finished pages. “Oh, Maisetra! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to sleep.” She began mopping at the spreading stain with her apron, heedless of its ruin.
“Are you well?” Antuniet asked in some concern.
“It’s nothing,” Anna replied, belying the claim with an enormous yawn.
“Nothing but…?” Antuniet prompted.
“It’s only that I was up all night baking. Iudiz’s wedding…it’s only two days away. There’s still so much to do. But I promise I won’t fall asleep again.”
Antuniet felt a rush of guilt. Of course. She’d known the wedding was coming soon but she’d given no thought to the demands on her apprentice’s time. She surveyed the mess and made a quick calculation. “You shouldn’t still be here on such an occasion. Go, go. And I don’t want to see you for at least a week. The work here can wait, and a sister only gets married once. Or in your case, three times! Mesnera de Cherdillac and I can find something to work on until you come back.”
“Thank you,” Anna said fervently as she continued to mop at the ink.
“No, leave the mess,” Antuniet said. “I’ll have Mefro Feldin clean it up. Go and wash, then we can ask Mesnera de Cherdillac’s maid to escort you home.”
Feldin balked at the request, after Anna had been packed off and things were set to rights. “I was promised I wouldn’t have to clean up in that room. I won’t have anything to do with…with unnatural arts.”
“It’s not from the alchemy,” Antuniet said tartly. “It’s only spilled ink. It could have happened just as easily in the front room, so take care of it, if you please.”
As Feldin went off to find water and a scrub brush, Jeanne asked, “Why do you put up with that? She should show you more respect. If she were in my household I’d have shown her the door long ago.”
Antuniet shrugged. “But you see, she isn’t in my household; she’s in Margerit’s. And she knows it.”
“Then Margerit should dismiss her.”
“For that, Margerit would need to be told. No, Feldin suits my needs. I’d rather an honest surliness than false cheer.”
Jeanne laughed, but it seemed a touch brittle. “In that case, what must you think of me!”
“Is your cheer false?” Antuniet asked.
“Not with you,” she said hurriedly.
Antuniet knew it for at least a small untruth.
Jeanne waved a hand out at the city at large. “But for them I put on my mask and play my little act on the stage.”
“And what applause do you get for your performances?”
“Why, I’m paid in champagne and invitations, don’t you know?” Jeanne said more lightly. “And a very good living it is.”
“And yet you’ve traded champagne and invitations for tea and hard work,” Antuniet said, feeling that she was advancing past a line from which there was no retreat.
Jeanne smiled, but said only, “So is today’s work all wasted with Anna gone?”
Antuniet bit her lip in thought and rummaged through her handlist of recipes. “We can’t do the enhancement I was planning, but we could still use the preparations for the beryl process and substitute the influence of the moon for that of Venus…”
Jeanne looked over her shoulder and traced a finger down the column with the symbols marking the roles and properties. “
Oh yes, you should definitely do this one,” she said with an edge of teasing. “To make the bearer tranquil and not at odds with those nearby. And then you could give it as a present to your housekeeper!”
“A worthy goal, but I don’t think that would work.” Antuniet pulled out the zodiacal watch and checked its dials against the notes in the list. “The firing would have to start at moonrise and that won’t be until almost midnight.”
“But why not?” Jeanne said with infectious enthusiasm. “It will be an adventure! When Marien comes back I’ll send her on home and we can take turns tending the furnace, as long as you show me what to do. It’ll be like keeping vigil before a festival: we can entertain each other with stories all night.”
Antuniet eyed her skeptically, but she seemed in earnest. “Why not, then?” She spread out the working notes and started noting the changes for the new ceremony.
* * *
When the first streaks of dawn lit the edges of the closed window shutters, the heat from the furnace had finally become pleasant rather than oppressive. Antuniet poked in among the coals to spread them out and let the chamber begin cooling, then looked over to where Jeanne slumped asleep over the worktable, just as Anna had been the afternoon before. A lock of raven hair had come loose to hang across her face and it stirred in time with her breathing. Antuniet fought the urge to go over and brush it aside, fearing to wake her.
They had failed to take turns tending the process after all, spending the long hours sharing stories in the safe intimacy of the dark, lit only by the furnace glow and one small lamp, until she had turned back from one last shovel of coal to find that Jeanne had succumbed at last to the lateness of the hour. As the process moved into the final stages of the congelation, Antuniet had remained standing, leaning against the bench, to fight off the same temptation to sleep. She’d watched silently over the mystical transformation of earthly matter to something finer and more elevated.
A growling in her stomach brought her mind back to those earthly matters. A faint clatter in the street outside told her that others were stirring as well. She gathered a few coins and slipped quietly out the front door and across the street to where a heady smell wafted out from the bakery.
The Mystic Marriage Page 32
