Mother of Souls: A novel of Alpennia

by Jones, Heather Rose

  She glanced behind her to smile nervously at the singers. DaNapoli from the Royal Opera and two others no less prominent. Baroness Saveze had suggested them. She couldn’t have commanded that level of talent on her own. Now the baroness was standing before the assembled company, saying something and nodding to call her forth. Luzie stepped out and curtseyed to the crowd, barely hearing what was said of her as she and the singers took their places.

  The music enfolded her as it always did. Pertulif’s poetry could transport the hearer even without music. They had chosen a seasonal cycle. The baroness had suggested his “Song of the Mountain,” but Luzie had refused, knowing Fizeir had set it just last year. She hadn’t dared to mention this commission to Fizeir at last week’s delivery for fear he’d think she was trespassing in his garden.

  The soprano sang lightly of how spring crept up the mountainside. She was joined by the tenor to celebrate summer’s glory with a song of young love and flirtation. In a strange double-consciousness Luzie heard sighs of longing from out in the audience while all her attention remained on the page. Next, the two men sang of autumn—not truly a seasonal poem this time but a lament for young men lost to war, old men lost to the turning years. In the autumn of a man’s life, the days grow short and the leaves fall suddenly. The mood turned tense and melancholy in anticipation of mourning. She saw her father’s face before her, now lined and careworn, his once-nimble fingers knotted and swollen. All three voices joined for the concluding movement, “Storm Over the Mountains.” It was triumphant, raging, powerful. One could almost hear the keening of the wind through the passes, the icy chill sweeping down the valleys. She had been right to stand firm. It was a much better choice for this suite than “Song of the Mountain,” which was Pertulif’s love song to the rugged peaks he’d called home.

  When the last chord faded away, the music released her and Luzie sat frozen, waiting for the audience’s response. A moment of hush held sway. A breath drawn before a sigh. She turned and rose as the applause swelled from a light patter to enthusiastic acclaim. She could see heads turning toward each other with excited whispers. These were connoisseurs—the people who attended every opera opening, every concert. No matter what Fizeir had said of her work, she could believe in this. She gestured to the singers to join her and looked to Baroness Saveze to see if she, too, approved.

  There was an eager smile on the baroness’s lean face, but it was the expression of her companion that caught the eye. The young woman’s mouth hung open in rapt wonder. Only now did she seem to remember what her hands were for and added to the applause. Luzie saw her turn to the baroness and through the diminishing clamor could hear her ask, “Barbara did you know?”

  She realized who this must be: Margerit Sovitre, the Royal Thaumaturgist and close companion to Baroness Saveze. She seemed so young! From within a halo of chestnut curls, her eyes shone like a girl at her first ball. Before Luzie could think to wonder at the woman’s reaction, the room dissolved into the noisy chaos of the interval between performances.

  There was a pattern to these affairs, as foregone as a musical score. She waited for her hostess to beckon her over to begin introductions, but instead it was Maisetra Sovitre who approached eagerly.

  “I have never seen—never heard a performance like that,” she began. “How did you…why haven’t I…”

  Maisetra Sovitre’s half-formed questions demanded answers that Luzie had no idea how to frame. “You enjoyed the performance?” she asked. Surely the woman was not so unsophisticated as to be this impressed by chamber music?

  “There’s so much I want to know,” Maisetra Sovitre continued. “Is the effect tied to particular strains of music or have you found a way to shape the verses to call the fluctus? Is the power in the performance or in the music itself? Do you—”

  Amusement played across Baroness Saveze’s face and she leaned over her companion’s shoulder. “Margerit, you mustn’t keep Maisetra Valorin all to yourself. My other guests would like a word.”

  “Mesnera Lumbeirt,” Luzie said, turning to her patron with a curtsey and a touch of relief. “I hope the work met your expectations.”

  The baroness nodded in a crisp, businesslike manner. “I would say it more than met them, although my expectations were quite high after our first meeting. And now that you’ve met my friend Maisetra Sovitre, may I make a few more introductions?”

  The thaumaturgist stepped back to let them pass, saying, “Maisetra Valorin, might I call on you tomorrow?”

  Luzie hesitated. “I give lessons for most of the morning tomorrow, but I could move some of them later if you like.” It had been ten years and more since she’d had the leisure to be at home for visitors.

  “Oh, no need for that. I could come whenever it’s convenient for you. Would mid-afternoon be free?”

  Luzie nodded, wondering what she had stepped into.

  “Expect me then.” Maisetra Sovitre smiled so warmly that any concerns dissolved.

  The baroness took her arm and led her slowly through the crowd, offering names at every turn. Luzie tucked them away in memory as she nodded to acknowledge the compliments. This was a different circle entirely than the comfortable burfroi families that had formed Henirik’s friends and supplied her students. Though that last, it seemed, might change.

  Mesnera Estapez paused in her praise to ask, “I understand that you teach. My daughter—she’s learned everything her governess is capable of teaching her on the clavichord and I was hoping…Well, now is not the time but perhaps you might let me know if you would be available.”

  Luzie hastily assured her that something could be arranged. This was success indeed. The commission had brought a little money, but connections for students in the upper town were even more valuable.

  As the crowd began returning to their seats, Luzie found herself brought to the far end of the room where the refreshments were being served. The baroness paused as a dark-haired older woman in an elegant gown of crisp striped taffeta came up to them, offering two glasses of champagne.

  “You may leave her in my hands for now, Barbara,” the woman said, kissing Mesnera Lumbeirt on the cheek. And to Luzie, “I can see we shall have to become very good friends.” She slipped her hand familiarly in the crook of Luzie’s elbow and turned back to the baroness. “Do introduce us properly so I can whisk her away.”

  Luzie had never met the woman in person before, but no one who moved in musical circles would fail to recognize her. “Mesnera de Cherdillac,” she murmured, “I’m honored. I’ve heard so much about you from my friend Iustin.” It had been the vicomtesse who had launched Iustin’s career and introduced the violinist to her future husband. The vicomtesse, too, who had sent Maisetra Talarico her way, which led to this commission. If de Cherdillac took an interest in her…

  She found herself suddenly blushing. There were sordid rumors about what de Cherdillac’s interest could mean—or had meant in the past. But no one could deny that the vicomtesse had an unerring instinct for talent. And yet…Luzie carefully disengaged her arm from the woman’s grasp as she led her to a row of seats and they settled in to await the next performance. Ever so carefully. One wouldn’t want to give offense.

  “So,” the vicomtesse said. “What did you think of DaNapoli for the baritone? Barbara thought he wouldn’t do, but she has a silly prejudice that no foreigner should sing Pertulif.”

  “I was pleased with his performance,” Luzie answered. “I hadn’t realized that he’d been your suggestion.”

  “Oh, it’s what I do, you know. I put this person with that person.” She moved her forefingers together and crooked them around each other. “And voila! Wondrous things happen. So when will your next performance be?”

  “I…I don’t know,” Luzie said. Her thoughts were beginning to spin at the possibilities. Could there be another commission here? But no, she knew de Cherdillac wasn’t wealthy enough to serve as a patron herself. As she’d said, she put people together and stood back to let matters
progress. Putting people together. Luzie looked over to the front row of chairs where her patron had settled in once more with her friend. “Do you…Maisetra Sovitre asked me something very strange about the performance. I don’t remember the word she used. Do you know what she might be talking about?”

  De Cherdillac’s eyes sparkled with hidden secrets. “I wondered about that. It might have been just the ordinary power of music, but—Hush now, Zarne is about to begin his recitation!”

  * * *

  The evening had dissolved into a blur of congratulations and a dizzying whirl of faces with no chance for a further word with Maisetra Sovitre. And now, the next morning, it might have seemed a dream except for a card, left with Gerta at the door, reminding her that the thaumaturgist would call later that day.

  Maisetra Talarico knew something. Luzie was certain of it. She wanted to question her, but their paths rarely crossed, not even at meals. She fidgeted through the morning, shooed her students out promptly, and barely restrained herself from bothering Silli one more time about the refreshments. Then, just as a knock sounded at the door, Maisetra Talarico came down the stairs. It couldn’t have been by chance. Had she been watching for the carriage from her window?

  Luzie gave one last look around the parlor, far too late to tidy anything further. The covers were growing shabby. Could she spare enough to refinish the sofa? Why hadn’t she asked Mag to give the grate an extra polish this morning? She took a deep breath, then opened the door herself to invite Maisetra Sovitre in. She didn’t look as young in the daylight. A bonnet covered the tumbled curls and her dark blue merino walking dress was the sort a woman might wear to signal acknowledgement that she was nearly on the shelf. Though why an heiress as fabled as Margerit Sovitre should suffer that fate was a puzzle.

  Maisetra Talarico settled herself on one of the chairs without waiting for an invitation while the tea was being poured and asked, “So Margerit, what do you think now about the place of music in the mysteries?”

  It was clearly a conversation the two of them had begun some time ago, for Maisetra Sovitre frowned at her. “That was quite a trick to play on me without warning. Perhaps Barbara didn’t know, but you can’t say the same.”

  A trick. Luzie’s heart sank and she said stiffly, “If I’m to be the subject of a jest, perhaps you could explain it to me.”

  They looked discomfited.

  “Maisetra Valorin,” her guest began abruptly. “Do you see visions during the mysteries of the saints?”

  Luzie blinked in surprise. “Visions? No.”

  “Or hear…strange things? Things other people don’t hear? It would be no wonder if your talent was as an auditor instead.”

  There was no humor in the other two women’s expressions now. Both of them watched her expectantly.

  “I am a faithful daughter of the church. I make my confession and go to Mass and celebrate the mysteries like any other. But I’m no mystic.”

  Maisetra Sovitre nodded as if a different question had been answered. “I see visions,” she said simply. “It’s how I became a thaumaturgist. During the mysteries, sometimes during ordinary worship, I can see whose prayers are answered and how. I can see charis—how divine grace is granted during services. Serafina has the same sensitivity.” She nodded toward Maisetra Talarico who now sat quietly, sipping her tea. “That’s why she came to study with me. And you—” She set her own cup down and began gesturing, painting images in the air. “Your music brings visions. I can see—they look much like the fluctus that is shaped by the mysteries, but without the divine presence.”

  “How do you know?” Maisetra Talarico interrupted. “They have power. I could see it blazing like a star right here in this room. Anyone with the slightest sensitivity should have felt it last night. If not divine presence, then what would you call it?”

  “Power without prayer? Without ritual? I don’t think so. Don’t you think one of the mystery guilds would have taken note of it before this, if that were the case? I’ll grant that half the room felt something. Perhaps only the power of music itself, and that’s nothing to be dismissed, but—”

  Luzie rose to her feet, not caring how rude she might seem. “What are you saying? What is it you think I’m doing?” She stared down at her hands. How could she do this and not know?

  “Would you play for me?” Maisetra Sovitre asked.

  Was she to be shown off as at a student recital? At least she would feel on solid ground with her fingers on the keys. She crossed to the fortepiano and asked, “What would you like to hear?”

  Maisetra Talarico took the director’s role. “Play her some Beethoven—that piece I heard the first night I was here.”

  She had no idea which piece it had been, but she found a score and began the familiar strains. When Maisetra Talarico touched her shoulder, she stopped in mid-phrase.

  “Nothing,” Maisetra Sovitre said. There was surprise, but no disappointment in her voice.

  “Now something of your own,” Maisetra Talarico asked. “The beginning of Pertulif’s ‘Spring’.”

  She closed her eyes. There was no need for a written score this time. The introduction poured from her fingers. There was a sharp intake of breath behind her and she stumbled on the keys before continuing.

  “If you’ll pardon me,” Maisetra Talarico interrupted again. “Can you sing the line, without the accompaniment?”

  “My voice isn’t much,” Luzie said doubtfully, but she found her note on the keyboard and did her best. “Dawn lights the hills, a rose blooms in the vale.”

  “Much fainter,” came the response when she paused for breath. “Curious. And if you only recite the words?”

  She turned in irritation. “Surely you’ve heard Pertulif recited before.” Royal Thaumaturgist or not, she was growing impatient with being ordered about.

  “Please?” Maisetra Talarico asked.

  Luzie shrugged and declaimed the first stanza of the poem until Maisetra Sovitre shook her head.

  “It’s the composition,” Maisetra Talarico said. “Though I don’t doubt good lyrics make it stronger.”

  They were talking past her again. Luzie left the fortepiano and returned to her chair. Her tea was cold. She tipped it into the bowl and poured a new cup. “When you have come to some agreement about my performance, perhaps you could share it with me.”

  “I don’t think we’re likely to agree soon,” Maisetra Talarico said, following her lead and accepting a fresh cup of tea. “Margerit is used to being the only person she knows who can create new mysteries. And yet here you are.”

  “Are you saying that I am creating miracles?” Luzie asked hesitantly.

  Maisetra Talarico answered, “Yes.”

  At the same instant came Maisetra Sovitre’s, “No.”

  The other two stared at each other for a long moment. Maisetra Talarico waved one long-fingered hand in surrender. “How should I know? You’re the philosopher.”

  The rehearsal of a long-running argument spun out around her and Luzie tried to follow the talk of prayers and rituals, charis and something about stained glass windows.

  Maisetra Sovitre threw up her hands. “I have never seen the choir or the organ raise anything more than what ordinary worship might.”

  “And is that the fault of the music, or only the lack of talent in the composer?” Maisetra Talarico asked sharply. “If your tradition doesn’t use music, then there would be no reason to seek out composers with the proper talent. But in Palermo I felt it once. There was a service—” Her voice trailed off and she bit her lip to keep some emotion inside. “I don’t know who the composer had been. No one could tell me. But he had power. The same power and talent we have here in this room.”

  Luzie found it frightening to hear them speak about her like that. “I have no power,” she whispered. “The only power my little tunes have is to give my students the confidence to play well.”

  Maisetra Sovitre looked at her curiously. “What did you say?”

  �
��It’s nothing. I write little études for my students. They play better when they know it was written for them. I think they practice harder knowing that.”

  “Could you play one of those?”

  Luzie groaned inwardly. No doubt Maisetra Sovitre would explain it all in good time. And for all the woman’s youth, she mustn’t forget that the Royal Thaumaturgist had connections that could serve her in good stead—though how this talk of visions and colors would attract new students escaped her at the moment. She opened her folder of music and found the manuscript for “The Nightingale.” She scarcely needed the notes herself, but the ritual helped her settle her mind.

  She had barely begun the opening measures when Maisetra Talarico’s excited voice came, “Yes! You see how it moves? The Pertulif piece reached out to listeners, but this one—see how it enfolds the player? The intent shapes the fluctus just as for an effective mystery.”

  Maisetra Sovitre was there at her elbow. “May I? I’m not a skilled player. My Aunt Honurat gave up on my lessons when she found me with my philosophy book propped up on the clavichord while playing scales. But I can read the notes.”

  Luzie gave over her place at the bench and stepped back to listen. It was true: the woman would have embarrassed herself at even the most intimate family gathering.

  As Maisetra Sovitre hesitantly picked out the notes, her eyes darted back and forth around her and her mouth fell open in a little “O.” She paused and returned to the beginning again, this time concentrating on the page before her. She frowned slightly and began yet again, more slowly and changing a figure here and there. Luzie could tell that this time it was deliberate and not mere fumbling.

  “So it is in the music, and not just the performer.” Maisetra Talarico sounded like a teacher as she urged, “Still faint. But crisper this time. Could you bring out the…the blue waves a bit more?”