by Rosalyn Eves
It had not felt as much like loyalty as desperation. “I do not have so many friends that I can afford to spare any of them.”
“I hope you will count me as a friend.”
Something about his words, uttered in hushed Hungarian under the shifting green branches, pricked the hairs on my arms.
“Thank you.” I hesitated, already hearing Catherine’s censure for what I would say next. “As a friend, may I beg a favor? I should very much like to be part of the Congress that is forming, but my brother-in-law tells me there is no place there for ladies.”
Franz Joseph frowned. “My mother will be there, and surely no one would dispute her place. But—perhaps it is not suitable for unmarried ladies?”
“I miss being useful,” I said. “I miss hearing people talk about ideas instead of clothes. I miss being part of things that matter.”
His frown still lingered. “I understand. I will think on it—that is all I can promise.”
Fair enough. I caught up my reins and shifted back into German. “Do you race?”
A gleam lit his eyes. “Aber natürlich.”
I spurred my horse forward, driving her down the long stretch of pathway. Beside me, the archduke bent low over his sleek grey horse. The trees flashed past me, clumps of flowers perfuming the May air. The constraints and smallness of the last few weeks seemed to melt away, and there was nothing but me and the horse beneath me, the wind streaming through our hair. Franz Joseph’s horse pounded along beside me, and when he looked across at me, he grinned. I grinned back.
By the time we reached the end of the straightaway, Franz Joseph less than a length ahead of me, we were both flushed and laughing. The others, who had watched our race with varied expressions of amusement and contempt (directed entirely at me), joined us. A few of the young men applauded politely. The talk turned general, and we returned to the park gates and the more staid streets of Vienna.
At Richard and Catherine’s flat, Franz Joseph dismounted and lifted me down from my horse. As he set me on the ground, his hands lingered for a fraction at my waist, firm and warm. He murmured, in Hungarian, “I understand now why the Hungarians adore you. You are quite charming. I think—yes—I will send you an invitation to the Congress as you ask.”
I froze, heat stealing into my cheeks. Part of me thrilled at the thought of the Congress, of finding my voice. But a deeper part flinched away from the interest I saw kindling in his eyes. I knew myself enough to know I was not immune to such flattery. I also knew that such interest was dangerous—for him to indulge, for me to respond, and for Gábor, who would be unfairly hurt by it all.
All these thoughts flashed through my head as the archduke stood before me, his hands still warm at my sides. Then he backed away, bowing his head, and I dropped a curtsy.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” I managed, and fled into the house.
I tapped the glass face of the pocket watch on my dressing table. If Ginny did not hurry back with the walking dress she was pressing, I should be late to the praetherian lecture. Perhaps Catherine had put her up to this: my sister had not been thrilled when I announced I meant to attend the lecture, but she had grudgingly given me leave to go when I promised that Noémi would come with me (though I had not yet asked Noémi when I blithely committed her).
I could not explain to Noémi or Catherine why I was so desperate to attend. It was true I felt an interest in the creatures I had set free from the Binding spell. But it was also true that the Hungarian delegation to the Congress was likely to attend, and I hoped I might see Gábor.
My plan, however, hinged on a timely arrival. I tapped the watch again.
A scuffle at the door drew my attention. Ginny stood there, tears in her eyes, her freckles standing out against her pale cheeks. “Oh, Miss Anna, I am so sorry. I don’t know how it happened.” The grey walking dress was crumpled tight in her hands.
I bit back my annoyance. The dress would never do now she had mangled it like that. “Bring me the dress, please.” When Ginny didn’t move, I rose from my chair and took the dress from her. I shook it out, then gasped in dismay. Small black spots polluted the front of the gown. When I touched one, the tip of my finger came away ashy.
“How did this happen?” I asked, trying to stay calm. Ginny was my friend as well as my maid, and I was lucky she was here. The spots were too small and irregular to have come from the ironing press.
“I don’t rightly know.” Ginny’s voice trembled. “There was a smudge on the skirt, but the more I tried to clean it, the more I brushed, the more the spots appeared. I felt like I’d swallowed a coal, I was that upset. Like tiny fires in my fingertips and everywhere I touched did this.”
I stilled. “The spots happened when you touched the gown?”
She nodded. “You can take it out of my wages. It shouldn’t have happened.”
“Don’t worry about that. The dress is not important.” I brushed a finger against one of the burnt spots, my frustration gone, and looked across at Ginny. “I think you might have magic in you. Has anything like this happened before?”
A beat of silence before Ginny answered. She felt for the chair at my vanity table and dropped into it. “I’m no Luminate.”
“You needn’t be Luminate to possess magic. Not since the Binding was broken.” Not since I broke it. “The archduchess Sophie has founded a school for magicians who come from non-Luminate families. First thing in the morning we’ll go by the school and have you tested. Come now, help me dress.”
Ginny helped me button a lavender walking gown with navy frogging on the fitted jacket. Her actions were rather mechanical, and when I glanced in the mirror I saw her lips moving behind me. Magic, she mouthed, her eyes very far away.
Magic.
*
Noémi and I arrived at the lecture with just enough time to secure a pair of seats. As more and more people crowded into the room, latecomers ringing the walls, the temperature rose. Though someone had opened the wide windows into the square, the spring evening was still and the room was close. I scanned the audience, looking for Gábor, but mostly unfamiliar faces greeted me. Borbála Dobos stood near the wall on the far side of the room, dressed in men’s clothes, her dark hair under a hat. She nodded at me.
Noémi scooted toward me, her new spectacles flashing. “The large gentleman beside me keeps winking at me. Remind me again why we have come?”
A faint movement in the back of the room caught my eye—more newcomers pressing into the crowded area near the door. The gentleman tipped back his hat, revealing Hunger’s golden eyes. Beside him, Vasilisa smiled as a young man sprang up to offer her his seat.
I curled my fingers over the edge of my chair. Why were they here?
Noémi leaned into me again. “You have not told me about your ride with the archduke. I want to know all the details. Did you like him?”
“He was kind,” I said. “I did not dislike him. But I scarcely know him.”
“That has never stopped you from forming an opinion before.”
I laughed. “Very well. I liked him. Happy?”
Noémi grinned at me. “Very. Now tell me what he said, how he looked, what you did.”
So I told her, breaking off only when a bearded gentleman rose to introduce the speaker, Dr. Helmholz, who proved to be a white-haired man with a narrow, ascetic face: exactly as one might picture a medieval scholar.
“The praetertheria,” Dr. Helmholz began in a ringing voice, gripping the sides of the podium, “more colloquially known as the praetheria, are a great mystery to men of science. We know they were secured in the Binding and released on our world when the spell failed, though we do not know their origins prior to the spell. We do not know the extent of their sentience. Certainly, some of them are quite clever and work as servants in our best houses. But an orangutan at the royal menagerie can manifest a similar knack for simple tasks. Make no mistake, the praetheria are not our equals. Humans possess superior intelligence and a more sensi
tive moral organ. It is well known that the praetheria lack what, for want of a better word, might be termed a soul. Or conscience. They simply do not feel things as we do.”
I thought of the lady who had blessed me before I broke the Binding spell, the majestic creatures who had come to our aid in Buda. The doctor was wrong. He must be. I glanced behind me. Hunger leaned against a wall, his face inscrutable. But Vasilisa’s face glowed with an unearthly smile; I could not tell if it hid amusement or something more lethal.
“Folklore abounds with stories of the untrustworthiness of such creatures, though for many years scholars and scientists were inclined to dismiss such stories as tales invented to frighten children. Now it seems clear—”
“What evidence have you that the creatures lack a conscience?” Hunger’s interrupting voice was smooth and tongue-curdlingly sweet as syrup.
I clenched my fingers in my lap, bracing myself.
Helmholz peered irritably into the crowd. “Surely you have heard stories of the violence wreaked by the monsters who attacked Buda Castle in the late difficulties. Men torn apart by griffins, their insides strewn across the street.”
Hunger had been there. Would he say as much? Would he say, further, that I had let the praetheria out of the Binding? My silences were flimsy things: they would not protect me if my secrets came to light.
“Humans have been known to do the same,” Hunger said. “Your own field marshal Dragović burned captives alive in the Lombardy revolts. I do not see violence in wartime as conclusive proof of praetherian soullessness.”
Helmholz pruned his lips together. Did he suspect Hunger was praetherian, or was he simply annoyed by the challenge? “Then perhaps you will accept this evidence? Three weeks ago, in the Croatian capital, a pair of vodanoj lured nearly half a dozen children to their deaths in a city well, for no purpose other than to see them die. That was no wartime violence.”
“And Elizabeth Báthory, who set the Blood spell at Sárvár?” Vasilisa asked. “Your own empire’s history is filled with human killers, women and men.” She smiled as she spoke, and I wondered if it was only the lighting that made her teeth appear fanged.
Helmholz eyed Vasilisa rather grimly. “You take a keen interest in these monsters, lady. Such interest is not safe.”
You are not safe. For a moment I thought Vasilisa had spoken aloud the words that hummed through my head, but her lips held their same brittle smile.
Helmholz blinked and waved his hand, as though dismissing her. He continued, sketching out some of the more common praetheria in the Austrian Empire and offering methods to categorize them, according to blood type (warm or cold), preferred environment (water, air, land), eating preferences (carnivorous or non), propensity for flight, and other characteristics. I must admit that my attention strayed midway through his lecture. This was not at all what I had hoped for. There was no sign of Gábor, and the lecture was only stirring up old doubts. Had I done right in freeing the praetheria?
I shook myself. Not all the praetheria were violent—and surely, violent or not, they all deserved a chance to prove themselves.
“How dangerous are the praetheria?” a broad-faced man asked as Dr. Helmholz began to wind down his taxonomy.
“Extremely.” He brushed one hand through his white hair. “I do not propose their utter eradication, as that would be a severe cost to scientific knowledge. Much as we do not let wild beasts roam our streets, but keep them confined in a menagerie, so we ought to contain these creatures. We are too dazzled by the seeming beauty of some, and miss entirely their sheathed claws.”
A sudden gust of air rattled the windows behind me; the evening had gone dark in the square outside.
Vasilisa stood. “I should think you’d prefer beauty to claws.” She raised her hands above her head, then brought them down with a clap. Light radiated like shock waves from her clasped hands, temporarily blinding me.
When my vision cleared, the learned doctor was surrounded by a cluster of incandescent women. He attempted to continue his lecture, but as one of the women loosened his neckcloth, he faltered. As another took his hands, he came to a stop completely. A sound surprisingly like a giggle escaped him.
The women—were they vila?—began to sing, a wordless melody that held all the ache and wonder and longing of childhood rolled into one. Illusions sprang up all around us: a cool dappled forest with a sweet breeze running through it, a relief after the hot, cramped air of the room. Birds dipped and soared among the shadows. The walls appeared to melt into the trees, and when the vila danced out the door, most of the men in the audience followed them, including Dr. Helmholz.
I nearly followed them myself, pulled by a sharpness in my chest and the memory of the Binding. Before I had seen its secrets, that world had haunted me with its beauty. Noémi grabbed my hand, her nails digging into my palm, the prick of pain grounding me in the real world.
When the sounds of the vila faded, the illusions did too, and Noémi and I found ourselves blinking into a nearly empty room. Borbála Dobos scribbled into her notebook. Hunger regarded us steadily near the doorway. Vasilisa was gone.
I shook my head, trying to dislodge the lingering, dreamlike pull of the vila song. “She should not have done that.” I could already imagine the fury of the assembly when Vasilisa’s Pied Piper illusion ended.
Hunger smiled, and a thin thread of longing uncoiled inside me. “Perhaps she should not have been given such provocation. Don’t worry—no one will be harmed.”
Noémi blinked and turned toward his voice. “Not all dangers are physical.”
“And do you find us dangerous?” He seemed amused.
“Us?” Borbála asked, joining Hunger near the door. “You are praetherian? Would you mind answering some questions about Dr. Helmholz’s presentation?”
Hunger did not answer; his gold eyes fixed on my cousin.
Noémi was quiet for a heartbeat. “Oh yes,” she said at last. “But not for the reasons the doctor suggests.”
Hunger laughed. “I suspect you are underrated yourself, my dear.” He swung a glossy black hat onto his hair and bowed to us. “I ought, perhaps, to see that everyone is restored to their proper place.” Turning to the journalist, he added, “I should be happy to discuss your questions at another time. I’ll find you.”
He disappeared through the door.
“Who was that?” Noémi asked. “His voice was familiar.”
I heard longing in her words, and it drew ice fingers down my back. No one, I wanted to say. No one of consequence. But I had already lied to her once, about Mátyás, and I did not wish to add to that. He helped me break the Binding.
Borbála watched me with a bright, curious tilt to her head, so I did not answer Noémi’s question. “It is good to see you again, Fräulein—Borbála—though I wish we could meet in less fraught circumstances.”
She smiled and shrugged. “Peaceful times do not pay well. I won’t complain.”
I wished her good evening, then tugged Noémi through the doorway of the lecture room and down an arched hallway.
“Was that praetherian in the Binding spell with you when Mátyás died?” Noémi asked, shaking off my hand.
I kept walking, staring down at the tiled floor and listening to the click click of my heels. If Noémi asked Hunger to tell her about Mátyás’s death, he would do so. Noémi scrambled after me, repeating her question. I reached the open front door. The cool breath of night bit at my face as I descended the stairs.
“No,” I said.
We had just reached the bottom of the stairs fronting the white-pillared university when someone called after us. “Miss Arden! Anna!”
I knew that voice. My heart dipped and then soared, a lark launching itself into the sky. I released Noémi’s arm and spun around, my smile threatening to split my face.
Gábor emerged from the open doorway, his cupped hand held oddly before him, lamplight gleaming on his dark hair. I raced back up the stairs, my gloved hands r
eaching to grasp his.
“Careful!” he said, tucking his cupped hand toward his body.
Careful? I blinked at him, my outstretched fingers wavering. I had not spoken to Gábor in nearly eight months: perhaps his feelings had changed and he wished to spare me. But no—Gábor extended his hand and uncurled his fingers, and a small gold-and-black-furred insect lifted off his hand. “I found it inside the lecture hall, battering against the window. A creature that makes something as delicious as honey deserves better than death in a giant box.”
“It might have stung you!” Noémi said, peering closely at his bare palm.
“But it did not.” Gábor smiled, and I remembered why I had not forgotten him: the way kindness came to him as casually as breathing, the way a smile turned his face from a rather severe icon of an Eastern saint to a living boy, the way my whole self seemed to ease in his presence.
This time Gábor took my hand. I wanted to throw myself into his arms and smell the sunlight and grass scent of him. But we were in a very public square and Noémi was beside me, so I contented myself with squeezing his fingers in return. It was a very poor sort of substitute.
“Were you at the lecture?” I asked. “I didn’t see you.”
A pleased smile lit his face. “You looked for me? I came in late, and then when the vila…” His smile fell. “I was outside before I saw the spell for what it was. I went after Dr. Helmholz, but he would not be stopped.”
I hoped Vasilisa knew what she was doing. This night may have only given the anti-praetheria crowd more ammunition. “How are you? Are you well?”
He nodded. “Well enough. And you? But I don’t need to ask. Everyone at the embassy was talking of your exalted caller.” Was that the slightest note of jealousy in his voice?
“The archduke is kind,” I said. “But he was not you.”
My heart beat hard and fast. It was very forward of me to say as much—suppose he no longer cared for me in that fashion? We had made each other no promises.
Noémi curled her arm through mine, a gentle reminder that we should be walking home.
