The conversation turned to lighter matters: gossip of the court, the latest sensational novel, the news from France. Jeanne handled the reins without thought, drawing him out, bringing Antuniet out of her habitual taciturnity, allowing Anna her shy silence as she watched the conversation move back and forth, like viewing a play on the stage.
And then, without giving any hint of impatience, Efriturik rose and Anna was sent off to fetch the set of gems. He tucked the case inside the breast of his waistcoat and took his leave with a broad compliment and a wink that encompassed all three of them.
It was all no more than a matter of habit for him. In the last year, the attractions that arose from being personable and well-fashioned and a likely heir to the throne had been augmented by leaving behind the brashness of youth and by the cultivation of wit and charm. Efriturik was developing quite a reputation for the careful and gentle breaking of hearts. Some day a bride would be chosen for him, but for now any girl he smiled at could dream. And even a middle-aged widow with no interest in young men could enjoy the game.
It would soon be time to clear away the remains of the tea, but they sat for a while yet after their guest had gone, enjoying the birdsong. Jeanne saw a pensive look settle over Anna’s face. Something softer than the usual moodiness of youth. “What do you want to learn next?” Jeanne asked her.
The question seemed to startle her. “I want—” She glanced over at Antuniet, looking for permission.
Without need for explanation, Antuniet nodded in assent. Yes, she understood what it was to wonder if you were allowed to want things.
“Mesnera de Cherdillac, I want to learn to be like you.” Into the startled silence, Anna hurried to add, “I love the alchemy. I want to master it like Mesnera Antuniet has. But I wish…you know how to talk to anyone about anything. You’re always so…so graceful. That’s not the right word. But you can always tie the threads together, to move from one thing to the next and weave them all into one fabric.”
Like a dam breaking, Anna continued, “When Papa has visitors, I always feel so clumsy. Entertaining always seemed to come naturally to Iudiz and Lenur—my older sisters. They’ve tried to teach me, but…”
It was easy to guess that an older sister’s guidance might not always be welcome.
“I’ve studied so many things,” Anna continued. “Science, and what I learn at Maisetra Sovitre’s lectures, even books and music. All of this.” She waved her hand in a way that indicated far more than the palace grounds. “But when I try to talk to people it feels like I’m tripping over stones and…and like they’re all staring at me.”
Her eyes turned toward the ground and she raised a hand to brush the scar that traced from the corner of her eye toward her chin. “It’s not just this. But I sometimes think, if I could just talk to people, they wouldn’t notice it as much.”
Jeanne pursed her lips in understanding. In the workshop, Anna had self-possession and confidence, but outside that sphere? “It is training, as for any other profession,” she said gently. “A different training than you’ve needed. When I was a girl, I was a protégée of the famous Mesnera Esmerzul. At one time, I might have become a salonnière myself, but…” She made a dismissive gesture. Those years weren’t stories for an innocent girl. “It isn’t as hard as you might think. Read everything, not just what you need for alchemy. Listen to everyone. Good conversation lies more in what you draw from the other person than what you say yourself. It’s simply a matter of good manners. Learn and watch and listen, that’s what you do to begin. The rest is practice.”
Anna shook her head. “When would I have the chance?”
It wasn’t a matter of opportunity. Maistir Monterrez was well respected and his eldest daughter served ably as his hostess, though Jeanne knew that only from repute. But she could easily envision how shy Anna would be overshadowed by her married sisters. So often, girls her age were admonished to be seen and not heard until they were safely betrothed. That wouldn’t do for Anna! When she forgot to be self-conscious, she was witty and brilliant.
Antuniet rose to clear away the tea things, to give them a private space to talk.
The alchemy apprenticeship had opened an unexpected path in Anna’s life. Perhaps that path could be widened a little. Maistir Monterrez considered her and Antuniet to be suitable chaperones for Anna’s ventures into the world. Desirable even, despite the rumor of their irregular relationship. Perhaps he could be coaxed into agreeing to a new venture.
“Perhaps—I don’t promise anything—but perhaps I might begin holding a few little gatherings at my house,” Jeanne began. She would need to secure Antuniet’s permission. They’d begun to entertain more this autumn, finding the meeting point between her own desire for company and Antuniet’s distaste for crowds.
“Just a few people,” she continued. “My house isn’t large enough for more than that. And no one who wouldn’t be welcome in your father’s house. Perhaps—” And now her imagination was spinning out threads of its own. That fascinating composer Barbara had discovered. And perhaps Mesnera Farin. Margerit had failed to entice her to give a lecture—Mesnera Farin had never been easy among crowds—but in a smaller group? It could be just the right challenge to see if Anna could draw her out. “Yes, perhaps we can see to a different side of your training.”
It was a new thought: to envision Anna Monterrez as something more than Antuniet’s assistant. A woman of society? No, nothing like that. She was only a girl still—barely sixteen. Not quite old enough to be out yet. And Anna could scarcely play hostess on her own until she was married.
But a salon in a private home was a different matter. It had become easy to think of Anna as something in the way of an adopted daughter. Certainly a protégée in the old sense. Jeanne cast her mind back again to her own girlhood. The family—it wouldn’t be a bar for what she had in mind. She wasn’t asking her friends to invite the girl to balls. The virtue of the salon had always been in how it set birth at naught. All that mattered was that a person be clever or entertaining. The fashion had faded for a time during the war, and then when Princess Elisebet had led the court. But there were signs that the power of the salons was returning. And perhaps it was time to test whether her own place in Rotenek had been completely ruined by the gossip about Antuniet. Yes, this might be just the thing.
* * *
Having made the decision, it was a matter of a few days to bring it about. Maistir Monterrez’s agreement had been surprisingly prompt and he had rehearsed her own arguments before she’d needed to present them. This wasn’t a grand ball that required months of planning. Anything too elaborate would give the wrong appearance. I would enjoy your company for conversation on the evening of the fifteenth. Nothing more than that. The guests had been carefully selected, but to indicate why would break the illusion of spontaneity.
Jeanne watched Anna run her fingers over the keys of the spinet they’d brought in for the evening. Her gown would do for now, but perhaps—
“It will only be Maisetra Valorin playing, won’t it?” It was hard to tell whether she was longing or afraid to be asked to play.
“No one will play who doesn’t wish to,” Jeanne reassured her. “I don’t think Oltir is musical, but I don’t know about Farin.” She paused in directing Tomric in the arrangements of the room and crossed over to give Anna a brief embrace. “Don’t worry, you’ll do well. Remember what I told you: listen to each person as if they were the most fascinating person in the room and they will forgive you anything you might say! And both Antuniet and I will see that all goes well.”
On cue, Antuniet came down the stairs, dressed in a sober gown of wine-colored silk. She’d taken the intrusion into their home in good part. “Remind me again who you’ve invited tonight,” she said. As their eyes met, Antuniet briefly touched the irregular red pendant at her throat. Always so circumspect! But the gesture took the place of a kiss.
Jeanne felt the familiar thread of warmth run through her from the mystic connection of
the alchemical heart-stone. “Luzie Valorin, that wonderful new composer that Barbara found. I think I may make a project of her. And Maistir Oltir. He’s been working on some rather interesting poetry. I was thinking on a theme of measures. And thus Mesnera Farin. There was a time when she was quite the prodigy in mathematics and I’ve been trying to coax her to do a lecture for Margerit. Anna, you should ask her about better ways to do astronomical calculations. Music and mathematics go well together, don’t you think?”
Antuniet shrugged.
“And Ermilint Belais to bring a touch of levity. She may not be very learned but her conversation is exquisite. And then Rikerd—Anna, you haven’t met Count Chanturi before—just for a touch of wit.” She had settled on a total of eight as the number that would fit comfortably in the cozy parlor. Not too many for a single conversation, nor too few should they break out into smaller groups.
“Count Chanturi?” Antuniet quizzed, with a fleeting glance at Anna.
Jeanne had thought twice about Rikerd. His ideas of humor could tread on the edges of what was seemly in the presence of a young woman. But above all, he knew the game, and he would provide safe practice dealing with that sort of badinage before Anna found herself flustered in the face of someone less kind.
At the sound of a carriage pausing in the street Jeanne signaled to Tomric and they all took their seats in readiness.
Jeanne tried not to watch Anna too closely as the guests arrived. At first she had only the task of bringing drinks and refreshments as they took their places. When all had settled in, Jeanne caught Anna’s eye and gave her an encouraging nod.
Anna turned to Maisetra Valorin and said, “We were wondering if you might be willing to play something for us.”
The composer looked curiously in Jeanne’s direction, uncertain that this followed the plan for the evening. Jeanne nodded and smiled.
After the performance there was no need to put spurs to the conversation as Antuniet began quizzing Maisetra Valorin on the relationship between music and mysticism, while the poet and mathematician debated the merits of formal structure and intuition.
Anna’s shyness made it easy for her to follow instructions. Have more questions than opinions, Jeanne had advised her. Look to the balance. Being a good hostess is like arranging flowers. Not too much of any one blossom. A contrast here; an accent there. Anna had studiously read through Oltir’s verses and mastered the basics of Mesnera Farin’s theories and then drawn up lists of questions to have ready for any pause. She was too earnestly studied, though Antuniet was little better at times, with her sharp, probing queries and a habit of pursuing her own curiosity beyond the rules of conversation.
In a spirit of mischief, Jeanne suggested, “But surely in the realm of music, the romantic spirit must be raised above mere formalism. How can one capture the delights of Pertulif’s verse unless one appeals first of all to the heart, not the head?”
“Indeed,” Ermilint agreed. “Pertulif was an excellent choice for your work, Maisetra Valorin. The ancient authors evoke such feeling!”
“I’d take your praise,” Maisetra Valorin said. “But that was Baroness Saveze’s choice. I was only lucky that I was the one she chose to set them.”
Mesnera Farin commented, “It seems odd to praise Pertulif as a rejection of formalism when his meter is flawless! Now if you were to do settings of Zarne…”
“I don’t think Zarne would be in your style,” Rikerd countered. “But I could see you tackling Eskambrend’s Quest. Historic works are all the rage now. Jeanne, did I tell you about that delightful roman gothique that Helen Peniluk lent me? That’s just what I’m thinking of: all ancient castles and mysterious secrets and missing heirs. The French wars are long enough past that deeds of arms have become romantic again, as long as there are flashing blades involved.”
Antuniet gave a little laugh. “Don’t let Barbara hear you say that. She thinks sword play is the least romantic thing in the world.”
An amused smile played on Rikerd’s lips. “No doubt she would. It’s a shame, for she’d make a delightful romantic heroine herself. Perhaps she already has.”
By the time the guests took their leave, Jeanne had crowned the venture a success and was planning ahead to the next gathering. Perhaps a more frivolous theme—Anna had never entirely lost her stiffness.
Count Chanturi lingered after the others had gone. Even Anna had been packed away in a fiacre for the ride home. Jeanne smiled as Rikerd lifted her hand to his lips in salute and she said to him, “I hope we didn’t bore you to tears!”
“No, no, I understand your purpose. You test your little protégée on the lowest jumps before setting her on a steeplechase. I’ve been curious what project you would turn your hand to next. What do you intend for her, I wonder?”
“I intend nothing; this was her idea.”
Rikerd raised his brows at that. She could see the doubt passing through his mind. But then he shrugged. “If you don’t overmatch her at the fences she may do well. But Jeanne, I meant to remember, do you recall that new roman gothique I mentioned earlier?”
“I shouldn’t think that sort of novel was in your style,” Jeanne said.
“Oh, not in the usual way. It’s well enough done, mind you, but…tongues are wagging about who lies behind it.”
“Not Lady Ruten, then? She’s turned out entire libraries of those stories. I don’t know why she bothers to be coy about it, everyone knows she’s the author.”
He shook his head. “Not this time, I think. This is a different voice—fresher. But I wasn’t thinking so much of the author as the subjects.”
“Ah,” Jeanne said. “A roman à clef! No wonder people are talking. Everyone loves a good puzzle. Do you have the key?”
He pressed his lips together, hesitant to say more. “Jeanne, I think perhaps you should read it for yourself.”
* * *
It took no more than one chapter for Jeanne to understand Rikerd’s concern. It was a wonder she hadn’t heard the gossip before this. Perhaps no one had dared mention the book, knowing of her particular friendships. And if no one had thought to mention it to her yet… She read the novel through twice, to be certain, then sent a note to Tiporsel House inquiring when both Barbara and Margerit would be at home.
The tone of the missive did its work and the next morning, in the privacy of the library that Margerit preferred to the parlor, Jeanne drew out two small volumes with matching bindings, tied together with a green silk ribbon. “I know it’s not the season for gift giving yet, but I think you should read this.”
Margerit laughed. “You know books are always my favorite gift! What have you found for me?”
Barbara untied the ribbon and opened the cover of the first volume. She raised an eyebrow. “A novel? The Lost Heir of Lautencourt. It sounds a trifle frivolous for our scholar.”
“Frivolous, yes,” Jeanne said. “Though quite well written, I must say. But no, it’s only that I think you should know it exists and that people are talking about it.”
Barbara shrugged as she leafed through the first few pages. “You sound very serious.”
Jeanne took the book from her hand and held it up. “The Duke of Lautencourt dies and leaves his fortune to a poor relation. A young woman. The heir to the duke’s title, a scheming villain, kidnaps her for a forced marriage but she is rescued by a mysterious young man who begs to take service as her armin. She becomes the toast of society in Rotenek with the loyal and dedicated armin always at her side. But when the villain attempts to entangle her in a satanic cult, the armin reveals himself as the duke’s long-lost son. He defeats the villain, claims the title and marries the young woman. They have, of course, fallen deeply in love.”
A silence fell over the room. Margerit looked frightened and Barbara’s lips had thinned to a grim line. Despite the outrageous flourishes, the story was close enough to their own that it was impossible to be an accident.
Barbara broke the hush at last, asking, “Who wrote it?”
Jeanne shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. Chanturi brought it to my attention. No one else has said a thing.”
“Who would want to stir up gossip like this about us?” Margerit asked. “Are you sure it’s meant to be us? There’s no mistake?”
“It isn’t clumsily done,” Jeanne answered. “And there seems to be no malice in it. The characters are noble and virtuous and loyal. I think you can laugh it off if you’re careful. But I didn’t want you to be surprised.”
Margerit held out her hand for the books. “Thank you. I suppose it’s best to ignore it.” She gave Barbara a meaningful glance. “No hunting down the author! That would only make things worse.”
Chapter Seven
Serafina
Late October, 1823
A river shaped the lives of the people around it in unexpected ways. The Tiber had been vaster and less intimate, more a presence than a person. Here, people spoke of the Rotein as they might of a beloved aunt, a wayward cousin, an estranged lover. Especially in the west and south of the city, the narrow chanulezes, like the one that passed by Maisetra Valorin’s house, threaded the water and its traffic deeply into people’s lives. Morning woke to the splash of an oar and the cry of a milk delivery.
Serafina found the differences in the rivers made Rotenek feel more alien than differences in the people, more than the sound of a different tongue. Rome was vaster. It felt more crowded regardless of the number of people in immediate view. The nearness of the wharf district added some variety to the faces in the neighborhood around the Nikuleplaiz, but nothing like what one saw in Rome. The curious stares that followed her as she passed down the street—those were the same. Here she always knew she didn’t belong. In Rome, those stares had rubbed at her soul. In Rome, the familiarity of the streets made it easy to forget that she would always be a stranger.
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