“Exactly what I was looking for!” Loosening the drawstring, Fosca spilled some tiny dark things into her palm and held them out for her guest to see.
Mirabella drew back, disappointed. “They look like common seeds.”
“Oh, not at all common,” Fosca assured her. “They grow and blossom in a night and their scent—” she smiled at the packet, “is as sweet and heavy as syrup of poppies. A hedge of these, planted around a tower, kept one young lady asleep for nearly a century. When she awoke, all she had loved was dust and ashes.”
“I’ll not need a century to deal with Monna Chiara,” Mirabella pointed out, fascinated in spite of herself.
“They are equally effective over a short term,” said Fosca. “They should certainly render her helpless enough for your purposes. She will revive only when the flowers are removed from her presence. And to ensure your success,” she reached again into the chest and drew out a narrow silk-swathed bundle, which she unwrapped as tenderly as an infant, “the cincture of Venus.”
Mirabella gazed raptly at the length of gilded leather, embroidered with thread-of-gold and seed pearls. “It’s magnificent.”
Fosca reverently fingered the embroidery. “They say that Roman artisans labored for centuries to reproduce the designs on her girdle for mortal use. There are but three of its kind in the world. Wear it—and even the most devoted husbands, the coldest and most continent priests, will desire you. Doubtless a man encumbered by so coarse a creature as you describe will easily succumb to your wiles, my lady. Not even Lucrezia can boast such a weapon in her arsenal!”
Mirabella reached for the girdle, then paused. “And the Duchess? Will she or her ladies notice?”
“Unlikely. Venus, you may recall, had little use for other women. Does her Grace have a court magician?”
“Not really. The Duke’s mage, Master Tancredi, is practically retired and the Duchess’s artificer—Mistress Gionna—is newly qualified and hasn’t two words to say for herself.”
“Very fortunate. Still, my lady, you should use the cincture sparingly, at least until the first part of the enchantment is in place. You wish to purchase the night-blooms too?” Then, as Mirabella nodded, she continued, “I shall need a few things: a sample of the young man’s handwriting, a lock of his wife’s hair,” she paused, considering, “and a lock of yours as well. There should be something to help bind him to you. Then, if you could discover his itinerary—”
“And tell you when Alessandro is due to leave Corrina again!” Mirabella struck in triumphantly.
“Just so.” The procuress and the Lamia exchanged smiles of perfect understanding. Fosca lifted her cup of damson wine. “To the hunt, my lady.”
It was easy enough to snatch a few strands of Monna Chiara’s hair from her brush, and Mirabella’s nimblest page contrived to obtain a sample of Alessandro’s handwriting. Mirabella dispatched both, with a lock of her own hair, to Fosca’s establishment and settled down to wait. Her recent purchases had nearly exhausted her monthly allowance from Pandolfo, but she did not begrudge the expense. She would have paid three times the sum for the girdle alone.
At the next banquet, she gave it its first test, and the results were all she had hoped for. The powerful Count on her right plied her with the choicest morsels on the table, while the handsome nobleman on her left composed an extemporaneous sonnet upon the tiny lily-bells resting in her hair. Even Alessandro, seated almost directly across from her, had caught her eye and smiled with genuine warmth. Monna Chiara, flaunting herself in scarlet brocade, had noticed nothing.
The banquet also provided her with long-awaited news: Alessandro was leaving to spend several days with the Duke’s main ally, Count Talverino, at his country estate, thirty miles away.
The day after Alessandro’s departure an equerry clad in the Talverino livery delivered a basket of blood-red roses to Monna Chiara as she sat with the other ladies in the Duchess’s garden. “From Don Alessandro,” he informed them, bowing with a flourish.
Mirabella watched intently as Alessandro’s wife paid the equerry, then buried her face in the blooms, her friends fluttering and cooing like the palace doves.
“Red roses, for eternal passion!” breathed the youngest and silliest lady.
Monna Leonora sighed enviously. “My Valerio never sent me anything so beautiful! You are the most fortunate of wives!”
Monna Chiara blushed, then twitched the attached note from the basket’s handle. “My lord says he had these from Count Talverino’s own garden!”
“And everyone knows his garden is the finest in Corrina,” Mirabella put in hastily, lest anyone should notice and comment on her silence. “Is not that so, Mistress Gionna?” she inquired of the little artificer, who was seated some distance away, tinkering with a clockwork bird.
Startled, the pale girl looked up from her labors. “Oh, indeed. The very finest.” She glanced vaguely at the basket of roses. “You should put those in water, my lady, before they wither.”
Mirabella smothered a smile, a few of the younger ladies tittered. Monna Chiara merely beamed. “Of course, I’ll have it seen to directly.” She fastened one of the best blossoms to her bodice, then beckoned to her maid. “Take these to my chamber and place them in a vase beside my bed. I would have my lord’s gift very near.”
Mirabella dropped her eyes to her embroidery, fighting to quell her rising excitement. All was going as it should, and arraying her newest servant in Talverino colors had been a particular stroke of genius. Time and Monna Chiara’s vanity will surely do the rest!
The next morning, Monna Chiara’s maid ran into the corridor, shrieking that her mistress could not be awakened. For the next few hours, the Duke and Duchess’s leeches and healers filed into the lady’s bedchamber; all emerged, sadly shaking their heads. No amount of burnt feathers or aromatic salts waved beneath the nose, no amount of prodding, poking, or chafing of wrists revived Monna Chiara. The mood in the palace grew darker; the word “poison” hung unspoken on the air. Someone rousted the Duke’s mage from his apartments, while another fetched the little artificer.
Mirabella’s page, lurking outside the invalid’s chamber, brought her a full account of the proceedings. The mages had burned incense, chanted spell after spell, even etched pentacles around the bed, but to no avail: Monna Chiara remained insensible. As with Monna Sophia, no one suspected the Lamia’s involvement, nor did anyone particularly note the vase of crimson roses set by the lady’s bed. Indeed, why should they? Mirabella reflected complacently, pinning fresh lilies to her bodice. Only Chiara was affected by the night-blooms’ scent, and Don Alessandro’s habit of sending flowers to his wife was common knowledge at court. Surely no one could suspect so devoted a husband of wishing to harm his bride.
As befitting a devoted husband, Don Alessandro departed for Corrina the moment word reached him. Idly twirling a lily between her fingers, Mirabella watched from an upper window as he tossed the reins of his lathered horse to a groom and raced towards the palace entrance. Within minutes he was striding down the corridor to his wife’s chamber, followed by the mages, both talking at once. Mirabella pressed herself against the wall as he passed but fortunately, he was too distracted to notice her.
Now is not the right time, Mirabella thought, but it will come soon. The red rose would wither, and the lily, slender and pale, would reign in her stead. Smiling, she tucked the flower into her bodice and drifted back to her chamber.
For the next few days, Don Alessandro hovered at his wife’s bedside until the Duke himself commanded him to take food and rest. Mirabella kept track of his movements, noting how his absences from Chiara’s chamber gradually became more frequent, as hope dwindled and despair took its place. Strain and exhaustion, however, only enhanced his beauty.
A week after Monna Chiara had been rendered unconscious, the Lamia made her move.
“I had no idea anyone was here,” said Mirabella in her sweetest accents, “Forgive me for disturbing you, Don Alessandro.”
She had traced her quarry to the Duke’s library, where he sat huddled in the shadows. He smiled wanly at her approach. “Not at all, Monna Mirabella. I just…came here to think.”
“Of course. Your poor wife—has there been any change?” Mirabella paused on the threshold, allowing the light from the doorway to illuminate her graceful form. She had dressed with special care, in a clinging white gown, embroidered with gold. Pandolfo had sent the most perfect lilies that very morning: they nestled in her hair and at her bosom like tiny ivory chalices. The cincture of Venus now gleamed at her waist.
“None,” Alessandro sighed, wearily running a hand through his fair hair. “I’m beginning to fear she’ll never wake in this world again.”
“You mustn’t think that,” Mirabella remonstrated, gliding towards him.
He bowed his head. “They say she does not appear to suffer or require nourishment.”
“But is that not good news? She’ll be none the worse on reviving.” Mirabella placed a soothing hand on his shoulder. “And I am certain that it will be soon.”
“You are kind, my lady,” he murmured, his eyes still fixed on the floor.
“Oh, not at all,” she assured him, grateful for the shadows that hid her amusement over this truth. “Do let me know, Don Alessandro, if there is any way I can be of service to you or your wife.” She slid cool white fingers beneath his chin as she spoke.
This is almost too easy, she thought, when Alessandro finally looked up at her.
For the glint of gold and pearl at her waist caught and held his gaze like a lodestone. His expression became fixed, oddly vacant; he rose to his feet as though pulled by strings and took one, then two, wavering steps towards her. The Lamia from which she had taken her name could not have mesmerized him so completely!
The blackness of Alessandro’s pupils drowned the amber of his eyes; he breathed as if he had been running. Still gazing into Mirabella’s eyes, he drew her into his arms and his mouth descended on hers. Exultation swept over her—whether coerced or enspelled, he was hers now, to do with as she willed. She arched against him, arms twining about his neck…
A faint dry cough sounded from the doorway. Alessandro started as though waking from a dream. Mirabella felt his mouth jolt apart from hers, as he turned sharply towards the intruder.
“Don Alessandro?” It was the little artificer, peering into the gloom. “Your wife is showing signs of improvement.”
He did not drop Mirabella, but he released her abruptly, while she was still off-balance, so that she stumbled when he let her go. Before she had fully regained her footing, he was sprinting from the room, the artificer at his heels.
Gone! Without so much as a backward glance! How could that be? Hands trembling with fury, Mirabella smoothed her hair and straightened her gown, automatically tucking her lilies back into place. Then a more alarming thought struck her: the artificer had said Monna Chiara was improving!
Her mind racing, she hurried after the others, following at a discreet distance.
“She showed slight signs of reviving the moment we removed the flowers. I only wish we had seen it sooner,” Mistress Gionna was saying as Mirabella stole up to listen at the chamber door. “It did seem strange that roses sent nearly a week ago showed no sign of fading or dropping petals. But everyone thought they came from you—”
“They might well have,” Alessandro broke in. “I was thinking of sending her some. Do not blame yourself.”
“A servant wearing the Talverino livery brought them.”
“Talverino? Why should the Count wish to poison my wife?”
“I doubt the Count had anything to do with it. Master Tancredi is examining the flowers now—but this pastille should work as a counterspell.” There was a sputter, followed by a sudden fizzing noise, then billows of pale green smoke poured out through the half-open door.
Mirabella sneezed, barely managing to muffle the explosion. Clouds of herb-scented smoke swirled around her, tickling her nose. Snatching the lilies from her bodice, she buried her face in them, breathing deeply until the danger of another sneeze had passed.
Inside the room, Alessandro and the artificer were coughing. Then a woman’s voice, still slurred with sleep, rose above the din.
“Mary Mother, I’m hungry! What day is it? And why is my room full of smoke?”
Alessandro started to laugh. Regaining his composure, he answered both questions, his voice low and caressing. Chiara murmured endearments back at him, and Mirabella clenched her fists, seething. To have come so close, only to fail!
Then she stiffened as Monna Chiara asked, in puzzled tones, “Who could have done this?”
But it was Mistress Gionna’s reply that sent a chill all through her. “Not the Count, I think. If you wish to find the true culprit, you may need to look closer to home.”
The Lamia’s mouth was dry, her pulse beating so tumultuously they must surely hear it. But whatever the mages found in the flowers, there would be nothing to incriminate her, not when she had been so careful. And she still had the cincture: the battle might be lost, but not the war. Heartened, she gathered up her skirts and stole back towards her chamber.
She did not see Mistress Gionna standing in the doorway, watching her go, an unreadable expression on her young face.
“You failed, twice!” Mirabella snapped. Her temples throbbed with the headache that had become her constant companion in the last three days, her teeth hurt from incessant grinding, and her stomach churned with anger. “That hawk-faced trull awoke, and Alessandro’s more devoted to her than ever! He walks right past me as if I were invisible, even with this on!” She flung the cincture of Venus down on the table before Fosca.
“Indeed?” The procuress did not seem unduly distressed. “The little artificer might have something to do with that. I’ve heard the Gionna line occasionally breeds a clever one.”
“I paid you to be ten times cleverer!” Mirabella spat. “And I demand that you return my money or give me something more potent!”
“I fear I cannot oblige you in either case, my lady.” Fosca’s voice held little of her previous deference. “The Ecclesiastical Council has been asking some awkward questions about my license now, and I find myself compelled to leave Corrina at the earliest opportunity.”
The Lamia stared around the room, noticing for the first time that the curio cabinets were almost empty and most of the fine furnishings were gone. “Leave? But you can’t—what about my commission?”
“My wares were in perfect condition when I sold them to you, my lady. I cannot assume responsibility for what happens outside my establishment. Surely you understand that, even if another truth escapes your understanding.”
“What truth?” Mirabella demanded waspishly.
“That, perhaps, for all her ‘commonness,’ Don Alessandro truly loves his wife, and no sorcery on this earth can change that.”
“That’s not what you promised me!” Mirabella snapped, massaging her aching temples.
Fosca shrugged. “I said the cincture would make men desire you, lady. Love, however, arises from the heart. Which you would know…if you possessed one.”
“How dare you address me with such insolence!” Mirabella gasped. “Don’t you know who I am?” She advanced unsteadily upon the procuress, her hand upraised to strike.
Fosca’s gaze was calm. “Of course. But it might be more to the point to ask: do you know who I am?”
Who I am, who I am…the words swelled to a thunderous roar in Mirabella’s ears, as pain lanced through her head and the room swam before her eyes. Her swaying legs buckled beneath her, but it seemed an eternity before she reached the floor. The stubble of Fosca’s carpet rasped her cheek but she could not lift her head. Her limbs were leaden, even her tongue felt paralyzed. Poisoned, she thought dazedly. How…?
Seen from a prone position, the procuress looked much taller. “I, too, learned from the great Lucrezia. Did you think, my lady, that I would not have acquainted myself with
all of your habits? The sweetmeats you favor, the cordial you drink upon retiring…but no, the unicorn’s horn would have warned you about those. Or perhaps the lilies you wear on your gown?
“Oh, yes,” Fosca continued, as Mirabella feebly struggled to rise. “The flowers your lord sends you every day from your country estate. Did you not consider that he might have wearied of your infidelities at last? That he might have paid me for this commission long before you sought me out? Although I’d have done this for no fee at all.”
Through dimming eyes, Mirabella saw the procuress’s rounded features melting away to show a stronger, more patrician face beneath. Sculpted cheekbones, a classically straight nose, full, curving lips…all crowned with a glory of red hair, just touched with grey. The face of Monna Sophia, grown twenty years older.
“After learning what you did to my daughter,” the woman purred, her voice dripping honeyed venom, “I’d have paid your husband for the privilege of taking you down.
“And, Lamia, dear,” she leaned down to murmur in Mirabella’s ear, “save for disguising myself, I haven’t had to resort to a single spell for this. Time and your own vanity did the rest.”
Her mocking laughter was the last thing Mirabella heard as she spiraled into the beckoning darkness…
She Stoops To Conjure; Or, The Misspells Of A Night
“NOT bad, if I do say so myself.”
Celia Eversleigh studied her creation with satisfaction: the simulacrum was perfect in every detail. Only the expression was different—a smile of vapid sweetness that Celia would never have worn.
Awakened and Other Enchanted Tales Page 6
