Tracing the Shadow

by Sarah Ash

  “Again,” said the Maistre lightly. Grateful that he had not berated her in front of Jagu, she clasped her hands in front of her. Concentrate!

  This time she did not miss her entry and they reached the end of the song without further mishap. The Maistre made no comment and indicated that they should continue with the next song, then settled down to listen in his aunt’s chair by the fireplace. His silence disturbed Celestine more profoundly than if he had chosen to criticize her performance.

  After a half hour, they had reached the end of the recital.

  “Show me how you acknowledge the applause.” The Maistre began to clap. Celestine had not expected this either; flustered, she dropped into a low curtsy and, rising, turned to the fortepiano, where Jagu was sitting, glaring. Was he feeling as embarrassed as she? She gestured to him and he rose, still glaring, and managed a stiff bow.

  “If the applause continues, you must beckon your accompanist to stand beside you.”

  Celestine cast him an anguished glance but he continued to applaud. Are you tormenting me on purpose, Maistre? Reluctantly, she beckoned Jagu to stand beside her.

  “Offer Celestine your hand.”

  Celestine steeled herself to place the tips of her fingers on Jagu’s outstretched palm. Deliberately not looking at him, she bowed and heard the Maistre break into delighted laughter. She snatched her hand away and, stealing a glance at Jagu, saw that an angry flush of dark red had brought color to his pale cheeks.

  “If you two could only see yourselves.” The Maistre wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “Forgive me. If you can’t even bring yourselves to hold hands, then we’d better devise a different conclusion to your program. Of course, a true professional…”

  They were only words. When Celestine was learning the song by heart, they had seemed little more than pretty, inconsequential verses. Now they were imbued with a bitter, personal resonance.

  “Spring moon sheds its silver light on lovers, hand in hand,

  Why am I still alone in darkness?

  Where is my spring-moon lover?”

  A single teardrop fell onto the music…and then another. Celestine flung the sheets away from her, scattering them across the floor.

  What am I doing, sitting crying over a few words strung together by some stranger? How could the man who wrote these verses know what it is to feel this sweet, secret pain? And how can the Maistre know what musical notes will express that feeling until it’s almost too much to bear?

  “Where is my spring-moon lover?”

  Why, every time I sing this phrase, do I see his face, hear his voice? Why did he make me sing this song? Has he guessed how I feel about him? Is he using my feelings for him to extract a more poignant performance from me?

  Is he more cruel, more manipulative, than I could ever have imagined?

  “Why am I still alone in darkness?” sang Celestine, and broke off, glowering at her accompanist.

  “What’s wrong now?” Jagu asked, with a subtle emphasis on the final word. His voice held the slightest hint of weariness, as if implying that she was being picky just to annoy him.

  “That’s not how we practiced it with the Maistre. He holds back on that phrase, and then puts a special nuance into the echo of the melody in the right hand.”

  She saw a look of resignation cross his pale face. She heard the hint of a sigh. “From bar twenty-two?” he said, not meeting her eyes.

  I love this song. But he plays it with such detachment. When the Maistre plays it, it’s as if we have a secret understanding, as if he’s putting feelings into the accompaniment that he can’t communicate directly to me… She broke off again. Is that why I’m angry with you, Jagu de Rustéphan?

  “Where is Angelique?” Celestine fretted as she waited in the Maistre’s carriage. She was nervous enough about the evening’s recital without this added anxiety.

  Jagu came back from checking the street for a sign of their chaperone. “We’ll be late if we wait any longer,” he said brusquely. The patter of running footsteps broke the twilit silence of the peaceful little ruelle. Celestine leaned out of the carriage window and saw not Angelique but dumpy little Sister Monique puffing along, waving a folded paper.

  “What’s happened?” Celestine got out and went to meet her, but Sister Monique could only wheeze and clutch her sides. “Jagu, we must take her in to Francinette.”

  “The time,” said Jagu between gritted teeth.

  In the kitchen, Celestine and Francinette helped Sister Monique into a chair and poured barley water for her while Jagu opened the letter.

  “Angelique sends her apologies; she has come down with a migraine and has sent Sister Monique to replace her as our chaperone.” The clock in the hall upstairs struck eight. Celestine looked up from fanning the wilting nun and saw Jagu crush the paper in his fist. She had been counting on Angelique’s calm demeanor to help steady her nerves.

  “S—sorry,” whispered Sister Monique.

  “She’s obviously in no fit state to go anywhere,” he said. Celestine could sense his growing tension; his face was pale with apprehension about the coming performance. As if she didn’t feel nervous enough already! “And if we don’t leave now, we’ll arrive too late. We’ll just have to go unchaperoned.”

  The applause was appreciative. Someone shouted, “Bravo!” But as Celestine and Jagu took their bow, Celestine letting her fingertips rest as lightly as possible on Jagu’s outstretched hand, she saw that many of the Smarnan ambassador’s guests were still chatting, just as they had done throughout the recital. They had continued to drink and eat, as though the music were nothing but a pleasant background to their conversation.

  A little girl came up to Celestine and presented her with a bouquet of white roses and bright yellow mimosa. Celestine kissed her and curtsied again, holding the bouquet across her breast as Dame Elmire had taught her, so that the thorns did not snag the delicate material. She noticed that the audience had already left their seats and returned to the buffet table.

  “Time to leave,” she said resignedly. Then she glanced at Jagu and saw that his customary frown had deepened and his fists were clenched at his sides.

  “Do they have no manners?” he said through clenched teeth. “Talking while you were singing, as if you were just some cheap street singer begging for loose change.”

  “You’re not leaving already!” The Smarnan ambassador approached, accompanied by a thickset man of middle years who walked with a confident, military swagger. “The Count was most eager to make your acquaintance.”

  “Alvborg at your service, Gunnar Alvborg.” The Count bowed. “Demoiselle Celestine, your performance was ravishing.” He clicked his fingers and a flunky came over and offered her a glass of wine from his silver tray. “But you must be thirsty.”

  “Thank you. Are you with the Smarnan Embassy?” Celestine moistened her lips with the red wine, then set the glass down, determined to keep a clear head.

  “Lord, no! I’m from a colder clime. Can’t you guess from my fair complexion, and my accent?”

  Was he teasing her? “I’m sorry, Count, you have me at a disadvantage…”

  “Our countries have not always been on the best of terms in recent years,” he said, smiling. “I’m with the Tielen Embassy.”

  “You speak our language very well for a Tielen,” she said, then winced inwardly as she realized how rude that must sound.

  “And you blush very prettily.” He moved a little closer. “Perhaps you and your accompanist would like to perform before Prince Karl and his court? Although from the sullen looks your accompanist is giving me at the moment, perhaps not. He looks the jealous type.”

  “So Prince Karl likes music?” Celestine asked.

  “He’s a great patron of all the arts and sciences. He’s a very cultured man and likes to invite the most distinguished academics and musicians to Tielborg.”

  “Sciences?” she echoed.

  “I’m sure we could come to an understanding.” He mov
ed closer still and as she took another step backward, her elbow grazed against the wall. Too late she realized that he had cleverly maneuvered her into a little alcove. “One that would be mutually beneficial.”

  “I don’t quite follow—”

  “Has anyone ever told you how bewitching your eyes are?” He placed one hand on the wall above her head, leaning over her, so close that she could smell the wine on his breath. “Such a celestial shade of blue. Whoever named you chose well…”

  Celestine had never found herself in such an intimate situation before. She mustered all her courage and stared challengingly up at him. “If you’ll excuse me, Count—”

  “And how provocative when you’re roused.” His smile widened and she saw from the glint in his eyes that he was enjoying her discomfort. “I swear, Demoiselle, that I just can’t resist such a blatant challenge.”

  Was he about to touch her? To kiss her here, among all these illustrious guests? All her plans to secure her first invitation to sing abroad vanished in a single, all-consuming urge to flee.

  “And how prettily you blush,” murmured her admirer, hand sliding down the wall to catch her by the shoulder. “Where are you going, Demoiselle? We had only just begun our conversation.”

  “Let go of me,” she said in a fierce whisper. Her whole body was burning with embarrassment; she was sure that she must have turned bright crimson. The hand that rested on her shoulder strayed onto bare skin, fingers wandering along the line of her bodice to touch her breasts.

  Before she knew what she was doing, she had slapped him. But he just caught her by the wrist and pulled her close. “You’re a spirited little tease, aren’t you?”

  “Let her go!”

  Celestine felt his grip relax. Turning around, she saw Jagu advancing on them, his fists clenched, his pale face a mask of fury.

  “Keep out of this, boy. This doesn’t concern you.”

  “Let her go,” repeated Jagu. Celestine twisted her hand free and ran to Jagu’s side. The raised voices had attracted attention and she could see the ambassador whispering to a servant.

  “What gives you the right to interrupt our tête-à-tête?” The charming, attentive expression had vanished, to be replaced by a vicious sneer. The count took a step toward Jagu, who stood his ground. “Do you know who I am?” The conversation died as the salon fell silent. All the guests were staring. “I am Count Gunnar Alvborg.”

  “I represent the demoiselle’s guardian, Maistre de Joyeuse,” said Jagu with calm dignity. “He placed her in my care tonight. I cannot allow anyone to molest her.”

  “Why, you—” Count Alvborg lurched forward, taking a swing at Jagu. Several female guests shrieked. Celestine saw Jagu move with lightning swiftness. His hand caught the man’s thrusting fist and, with a sudden twist, pulled the assailant’s arm up behind his back. As the ambassador’s servants came running through the guests, he slammed the count’s face against the wall.

  “Damn you,” shouted Alvborg, through puckered lips. “You’ll pay for this, you impudent little nobody. I demand satisfaction. You’ll—” The servants caught hold of him and removed him, still shouting abuse, from the salon.

  The ambassador came over to Celestine. “I must apologize for the count. His behavior was unpardonable.”

  Shaken, she nodded. She wanted only to retreat, to vanish from all the staring, curious eyes. She turned to Jagu and saw a thin gash of scarlet marring his pale face.

  “Is that blood on your cheek? Did he hurt you?”

  His hand flew to touch his cheek; he looked at the fingertips as they came away smeared with blood. “It’s nothing. His signet ring must have grazed the skin.”

  She pulled out her handkerchief to dab at the cut but he shook his head, turning abruptly away. “It’s time we left,” he said curtly.

  Celestine’s head was spinning by the time they were ushered down to their waiting carriage. The ambassador had kissed her hand, with many flattering compliments, but she had hardly heard a word. As the carriage rattled away from the torchlit courtyard, she leaned back against the leather seat and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the carriage was moving along the wide avenue and the light from the street lanterns they passed illuminated Jagu, sitting silently watching her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You rescued me.”

  “I was only following the Maistre’s instructions.”

  “But Alvborg is a big, well-built man. And you disabled him so swiftly. Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  A shrug. “I train with the Commanderie cadets once a week.”

  Now that the initial shock was wearing off, she began to feel angry with herself that she had wasted such a valuable opportunity. She had genuinely believed that Count Alvborg had approached her to invite her to perform. She must not allow herself to be so easily gulled again. “If only I could train with the cadets too. I don’t suppose they accept women?”

  He was staring at her as if she were mad.

  A woman alone must devise strategies to defend herself. If I’m to go out into the world, I must become stronger.

  Rehearsals continued—this time for the princess’s soiree—and the frustration that had been building all week suddenly exploded. Jagu brought both fists crashing down on the fortepiano keys, and Henri de Joyeuse flinched.

  “Why did you pair us together, Maistre? She’s impossible! Nothing I do is right. You told me that she was a convent girl, sweet-natured, a little shy and retiring, yet she does nothing but complain that I don’t play the way you do.”

  The Maistre said nothing for a while. He appeared to be studying the music, his head bent, his long strands of fair hair obscuring his face.

  “Is that so?” he said eventually. To Jagu’s annoyance, there seemed to be a little smile playing about the Maistre’s lips. “I wondered if sparks might fly…”

  That throwaway comment made Jagu even more angry. What exactly was the Maistre implying?

  “I can’t do it. You’ll have to find another pianist. I’ve made up my mind.”

  “This is a royal recital.” The Maistre shut the score and came over to the keyboard. “Do you want me to be frank, Jagu?”

  “Yes.” Jagu’s chin went up defensively, ready for whatever blow the Maistre was about to deliver.

  “Celestine is right. These last weeks you’ve been playing as if your heart isn’t in the music anymore.” The Maistre leaned on the fortepiano case, looking at him keenly. “So, what’s changed?”

  Jagu turned away, not wanting to meet his eyes. He had been dreading this question for some time. “It—it’ll be my eighteenth birthday next week.”

  “Surely a cause for celebration?”

  “Have you forgotten, Maistre?” he blurted out. “It’s the age at which a man can enter the Guerriers.”

  “Ah. Your promise to Captain de Lanvaux. No, I hadn’t forgotten. I’d just hoped that, with reflection, you might have changed your mind.” The Maistre’s gaze, usually so mild and encouraging, had become uncomfortably penetrating.

  “Changed my mind? I owe him my life!” Jagu was indignant that the Maistre might have thought him so shallow that he would go back on his word.

  The Maistre turned away from the fortepiano. “It’s your decision, Jagu.”

  Jagu scowled down at the wet cobbles beneath his feet as he walked away through the rain.

  I don’t want you to be understanding, Maistre. If only you’d shouted at me, told me I was making the worst mistake of my whole life, it would have made it so much easier for me to walk away.

  “Jagu. Jagu.” Jagu heard someone calling his name.

  “What is it?” he mumbled. His eyelids were sticky with sleep. “Who’s there?”

  A wan face appears, hovering above his in the darkness.

  “Paol?” Jagu whispers.

  “I can’t sleep, Jagu.” Paol’s fair hair has faded to wisps of dusty spidersilk and the fine skin over his delicate features is discolored, like ancient parchmen
t. “Stay with me. Don’t leave me alone in the dark.”

  “It’s all right, Paol. I’m here.” Jagu reaches out to catch hold of Paol’s hand, but the frail fingers crumble to dust in his grasp.

  Jagu sat up suddenly. He was shivering. His heart was pounding and his nightshirt was soaked with cold sweat.

  “Paol.”

  His attic room was dull with the half-light before the sun rose. Shadows clustered in the far corners. He had not dreamed of Paol for some months now. He looked down at his right hand, feeling again the skeletal fingers disintegrating in his grip.

  The magus’s mark gleamed faintly in the dawnlight.

  He’s still alive, the one who did this to you. I don’t know his name, I don’t know how to begin to track him down, but I have to make sure that no other child suffers such a horrible death.

  Jagu pushed back the crumpled sheet and went over to the desk, where his precious books of music were stacked. He drew out the document that he had placed for safekeeping in the Maistre’s book of chorale preludes.

  Enrollment in the Commanderie Cadets.

  I, Ruaud de Lanvaux, recommend Jagu de Rustéphan as a suitable candidate for cadetship.

  As the applause rippled around the salon, Celestine saw her patron smiling warmly at her. She curtsied, smiling back at Adèle. The program had been planned to include several of the princess’s favorite songs, concluding with Henri de Joyeuse’s achingly beautiful “Spring Moon.” To Celestine’s surprise, Jagu had played with sensitivity and expression. But in the anteroom after the performance, he seemed even more distant than usual.

  “I won’t be accompanying you again after tonight, Demoiselle,” he said stiffly. “I’m about to enroll in the Guerriers.”

  This revelation shocked Celestine. “You’re abandoning your musical career? When you have so much talent? Why throw away all these years of hard work?”

  “Because I made a promise. A promise to a friend.”