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Table of Contents
Cover
Synopsis
Title Page
Copyright Page
Other Books by Heather Rose Jones
Author's Note on Pronunciation
About the Author
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prelude
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Coda
Bella Books
Synopsis
At last! Return to the enchanted realm of Alpennia for the eagerly awaited sequel to Daughter of Mystery and The Mystic Marriage.
All her life, Serafina Talarico has searched in vain for a place where she and her mystical talents belong. She never found it in Rome—the city of her birth—where her family’s Ethiopian origins marked them as immigrants. After traveling halfway across Europe to study with Alpennia’s Royal Thaumaturgist, her hopes of finding a home among Margerit Sovitre’s circle of scholars are dashed, for Serafina can perceive, but not evoke, the mystical forces of the Mysteries of the Saints and even Margerit can’t awaken her talents.
When Serafina takes lodgings with Luzie Valorin, widowed music teacher and aspiring composer, both their lives are changed forever. Luzie’s music holds a power to rival the Mysteries, and Serafina alone has the vision to guide her talents. For sorcery threatens the fate of Alpennia—indeed of all of Europe—locking the mountains in a malevolent storm meant to change the course of history. Alpennia’s mystic protections are under attack and the key to survival may lie in the unlikeliest of places: Luzie’s ambition to write an opera on the life of the medieval philosopher Tanfrit.
Copyright © 2016 by Heather Rose Jones
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
First Bella Books Edition 2016
eBook released 2016
Editor: Katherine V. Forrest
Cover Designer: Kiaro Creative
ISBN: 978-1-59493-517-6
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Other Bella Books by Heather Rose Jones
Daughter of Mystery
The Mystic Marriage
Author’s Note on Pronunciation
For interested readers, there are three basic rules for Alpennian pronunciation. Names are stressed on the first syllable. The letter “z” is pronounced “ts” as in German. The combination “ch” is pronounced “k.” Non-Alpennian names follow the rules for their language of origin. So, for example, Antuniet Chazillen’s surname is pronounced “katz-ill-en” (hence Gustav’s joke about calling her Kätzlein “kitten”) while Jeanne de Cherdillac’s surname follows French rules and is pronouned “share-dill-ack.”
About the Author
Heather Rose Jones is the author of the “Skin Singer” stories in the Sword and Sorceress anthology series, as well as non-fiction publications on topics ranging from biotech to historic costumes to naming practices.
Visitors to her social media will find the Lesbian Historic Motif Project she began to change the unexamined assumptions about the place and nature of lesbian-like characters in historic fact, literature, art and imaginations. She has a PhD from U.C. Berkeley in Linguistics, specializing in the semantics of Medieval Welsh prepositions, and works as an industrial discrepancy investigator for a major Bay Area pharmaceutical company.
Dedication
For the proprietor of the website People of Color in European Art History (http://medievalpoc.tumblr.com) who inspired me to ask, “Where are the people of color in Alpennia and what are their stories?”
Acknowledgments
I would like to express my gratitude and appreciation for my beta readers and subject matter experts, for their time and candid feedback: Ginger T., Irina R., Jennifer N., Julie C., Lucy, K., Mary Kay K., Sara U., Sharon K., Ursula W., Jeremy J., Elliot C., Maya C., Shira G., Carolyn C. and above all, my alpha-reader Lauri W.
Prelude
April, 1823
High in the mountains to the east and south of Alpennia, spring rains and warming winds wash the winter’s snow from the peaks and send it tumbling down the valleys. The melt gathers in rivulets; rivulets turn to streams; streams feed rivers. The Esikon, the Tupe and the Innek swell the Rotein, which flows through the heart of the city of Rotenek. And the city flows through the Rotein: in barges bringing goods up from French ports, in riverboats rowing passengers along the banks and up the narrow chanulezes that thread through the neighborhoods of both the upper and lower town.
They celebrate floodtide in Rotenek when the waters turn muddy and rise along the steps of the Nikuleplaiz as far as the feet of the statue of Saint Nikule, who watches over the marketplace. Sometimes the floods come higher and wash through Nikule’s church and along the basements of the great houses along the Vezenaf. Then the streets of the lower town merge with the chanulezes, and all the putrid mud from the banks and canals is stirred up, bringing the threat of river fever. For those who can leave the city, floodtide signals an exodus to the pleasures of country estates. Those who remain light a candle to Saint Rota against the fever.
But sometimes floodtide fails to come. When the weeks stretch out long past Easter into the rising heat of the late spring, and the falling level of the chanulezes turns the exposed banks rank and fetid, the priests at Saint Nikule’s will raise a bucket of water from the river and splash it over the feet of the statue and ring the floodtide bell.
Chapter One
Luzie
May, 1823
The first notes of the clavichord were sure and clear, t
hen Luzie winced as her student’s fingers stumbled on the keys. Just let Helena get through a few measures, soon she’d forget that her mother was listening. Yes, now the music was surer and more precise. One could almost see when the music seized her and carried her along. The notes filled the corners of the parlor, softening its stiff formality until one could imagine the designs on the carpet as a bed of flowers and the fringed swags of drapery as the boughs of trees. The high part soared over it all like birdsong.
“What a charming tune!” Maisetra Zurefel leaned over and whispered. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one before.”
“It’s just a little fribble called ‘The Nightingale,’” Luzie whispered back. “Meant to loosen up the fingers.”
She slipped a glance sideways at Maisetra Zurefel who was nodding and smiling. Good. Helena Zurefel had begun the year awkward and uncertain, able to play with careful precision but too unsure of herself to address the music with spirit and grace. And so young to be told that her hopes of a good match might rest on her accomplishments! Helena was at that awkward age: still dressed in the plain short calico gowns of girlhood but reminded at every turn to behave as a young lady.
“You’ve done wonders with her,” Maisetra Zurefel confided. “Her governess was in despair.”
Luzie kept her voice soft, though Helena was past the point of noticing their presence. “She always had the talent, I’m sure, but she has such dainty little hands. So many pieces have intervals that were beyond her. A little confidence helps. I’ve been writing arrangements more suited to her fingers.” Helena’s hands were small, but that wasn’t the whole of it. Still, it was a reason that would flatter both mother and daughter.
“I didn’t realize you were a composer,” Maisetra Zurefel said in some surprise.
“Nothing like that, just little amusements.” Luzie winced. Why did she always do that? Today was not the day to set her worth low.
Helena had finished and stood with a curtsey to her mother. “May I go now, Mama?”
“Yes, that was very nice.” Maisetra Zurefel waited until the girl had left and continued, “Well, I’m quite pleased. I do hope you’ll be able to continue her lessons when the season begins again in the fall.”
“I would be happy to, Maisetra,” Luzie replied. “And…” She steeled herself and hoped the struggle didn’t show in her face. “Perhaps we should settle the fee. You know how busy everything gets around floodtide. I wouldn’t want it to be one more tedious task to remember when you’re trying to get the household packed up for the summer.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, of course,” Maisetra Zurefel said. “That would be ten marks?”
“Yes, for each quarter,” Luzie emphasized. “There’s still the winter quarter to cover, you remember.” It seemed an outrageous sum to charge, but if she asked for less, they wouldn’t value her services.
“I’m not sure I have that much in my purse at the moment. Perhaps you could return later. My husband will settle the account.”
That was the same story she’d heard when the winter’s fee came due and she hadn’t pursued the matter. Money hadn’t been tight then. Now she couldn’t afford to let the matter slide. She glanced around at the lavish furnishings of the parlor, the newly upholstered chairs, the striped wallpaper in the latest fashion. If Maisetra Zurefel’s purse was thin at the moment, it wasn’t reflected in her house.
“You know how men hate being bothered over household expenses,” Luzie said, trying for a light, conspiratorial tone. “My own Henirik—God rest his soul—could never trouble himself over pin money and butchers’ bills. If I told him that wine and tea were dear, he’d think I’d been spending it all at the dressmaker. But if it’s not convenient for you to pay at the moment I can stop by this evening and speak to him.” From what she’d heard of certain card parties, Maisetra Zurefel’s expenses would be harder to defend than new gowns—hard enough to be worth calling her bluff.
“Oh very well,” the woman said. “Let me look in my desk and see what I have on hand.”
She disappeared upstairs long enough for concern. But at last she returned with a discreet envelope. Luzie ran her eyes over the contents while packing up her music case. It was the full fee and a little more. A sweetener, perhaps, to forestall rumors.
A brief shiver of discomfort overtook her when the Zurefels’ front door closed behind her. What would Henirik have thought? Dunning their old friends like a common tradeswoman! But if Henirik were here to see it, there would have been no need. It had been almost ten years—far more time than they’d had together. His image was blurred in her memory, replaced by the echo of his features in his eldest son’s face. She still ached for his presence. For the solid comfort and reassurance it brought. For the beginnings of something else that time and custom had only just begun to kindle in her when he’d been taken from them. She shook off the mood. There was business to do.
Luzie tucked the music case more securely under her arm and glanced down to the corner to look for a waiting fiacre. A driver caught her look and swung down off his perch in readiness but in that moment she had made her calculations. It would be a long walk to Fizeir’s place on the eastern edge of town, but the afternoon was still young and the weather was fair for now. Better to save every teneir to give the boys a real holiday when they came home from school. She shook her head briefly at the driver with an apologetic smile and walked on past. When her errand was done, perhaps she’d treat herself with a ride back from a riverman. They’d take a half fare if you weren’t in a hurry and were traveling downstream.
* * *
The composer received her in his cluttered office. There had never been even the pretense of more than business between them, no need to waste time lingering awkwardly over tea or for her to inquire after Maisetra Fizeir’s health. Once, long ago, her father had been one of Fizeir’s teachers. That had given her a foot in the door. It was hard to imagine two more different people than her father, with his unruly white hair perpetually standing on end from running his large-boned fingers through it absently, and Fizeir with his neat and dapper appearance, more like a banker in his sober black suit than an artist. Her father had been Fizeir’s colleague, she was a paid assistant.
Luzie set the neatly copied scores before him and ticked off the inventory of assignments on her fingers, concluding with, “I finished adding all the revisions to The Prince in Hiding. Will it be performed again next season?”
Fizeir only grunted in response.
The opera’s debut last year had been only politely successful, but Luzie thought it much improved now. She continued, “I’ve copied out the parts for the three quartets. There was one place—” She hesitated to choose her words carefully. “I wasn’t entirely certain about this section here. Perhaps my eyes were tired that evening. I’ve set out the cello as I thought you intended it, but perhaps you could look it over and check? If I’ve made an error, I’ll re-copy that page.”
It was simple tact to imply the manuscript had been unreadable. Fizeir was a busy man and he relied on her to catch such oversights. He was no Ion-Pazit to break the rules of harmony by intent.
He grunted again and set the pages aside.
“And that leaves only the violin concerto. I’ll have it finished before floodtide. You’ll be leaving for the holiday?”
The question was unnecessary. A composer of Fizeir’s standing would have any number of invitations from his patrons. The exodus of the upper crust from Rotenek at the declaration of floodtide was as much of a sacred ritual as any feast of the Church. No matter that the Rotein remained sluggish and low so late this year.
She waited with eyes cast down while Fizeir counted out the fee for her copywork. There was never the same awkwardness that sometimes rose over her students. Business was business for the composer. That was why her heart beat faster for her next question.
“I was wondering if you’d had time to look over that piece I showed you last time.” The bank notes were quickly tucked away in a po
cket of her music case beside the envelope from Maisetra Zurefel.
“Ah, yes. Whatever made you think of trying to compose a motet?”
It was an innocent enough question, but Luzie shrank inside. “I…I’ve always wanted to try a sacred song. There was an idea—a phrase—that came to me one day. I thought…”
Fizeir waited as her words trailed off, then said gently, “Maisetra Valorin, I have a great admiration for your student études. Your talents are very well suited to the family parlor. I’m not saying that the piece you showed me does not have promise. Perhaps in other hands…”
The disappointment was sharp, but she was no judge of her own work. Back before her marriage, her father had urged her to compose, but one couldn’t trust a parent’s fondness. “If you think—”
Fizeir mistook her intent. “Yes, if you like, I might find some use for the motifs. I’ll buy the work from you for two marks. Unless you’ve offered it to someone else already?”
It would be very little for a finished composition, but better than what the manuscript would bring lying in the back of a drawer with the others. She nodded and took the additional notes he offered before tying the music case closed again.
* * *
A light spring rain was beginning as she descended the steps next to the bridge to reach the public landing. The waiting riverman handed her a piece of sacking to hold over her bonnet when he saw she had no parasol. Luzie considered waiting to share the fare with a stranger, but the weather would grow worse before it was better. Thinking of what Fizeir had paid her for the motet, she gave the man two teneirs to row briskly.
At the direction she gave, he countered, “Water’s low in the chanulezes. Might be mud. Better I let you off at the Nikuleplaiz where they clean the steps regular. A month past Easter and still low! Time was it always flooded before Holy Week. Late last year as well!”
Mother of Souls: A novel of Alpennia Page 1
