Mother of Souls: A novel of Alpennia

by Jones, Heather Rose

  Serafina ducked into the shelter of a wall as a light rain began falling and wrestled her umbrella open. Foot traffic along the road that overlooked the river took on a more hurried pace. In gaps between the houses, she could see drifts of falling water turning the smooth surface of the Rotein into crepe. In good weather, the walk from Maisetra Valorin’s house up through the Nikuleplaiz and along the curve below the palace was pleasant. Modest neighborhoods and shops gave way to the venerable stone mews and courtyards along the Vezenaf where Margerit lived.

  Across the far side of the river one could see like a distorted mirror the transition from the warehouse district that she’d been warned to avoid, to a squalid clutter of taverns and tenements that gave way slowly to the homes and shops of respectable merchants and craftsmen. Such a short distance and yet such a vast gulf in the rank or the wealth required to live on one side or the other.

  When the weather turned sour as it did more often now, the walk was less pleasant. The steep climb of the northern bank left one exposed to winds sweeping off the river, but a more sheltered street would add many more steps. Cutting across the bend on the southern bank led through rough neighborhoods. Shelter could be had on the water itself. The rivermen plying their trade in goods and passengers rigged canvas tents against the rain but her allowance wouldn’t stretch that far too often.

  Paolo’s bank in Rome had confirmed her funds for the quarter once more. That meant Paolo was still in France and thought her still in Rome. She closed her mind from considering what would happen when he returned and found her gone. Or when his agent wrote something that would betray her absence, thinking it no secret. If he could go haring off, then so could she. But some day that reckoning would come.

  Serafina reached the warmth of Tiporsel House before the downfall began in earnest. “This storm should settle the complaints about the river,” she said to the footman who took her parasol, bonnet and coat. The first few phrases she had mastered in Alpennian had included the most popular comments on the weather.

  He shook his head gloomily, treating her with the familiarity of a frequent visitor. “It can rain and rain, maisetra, but why is the water so low? It’s not the storm here that matters,” he intoned. “It’s what goes on in the mountains. And those canals. They suck the water out. Has to come from somewhere, stands to reason.”

  “Ah, I see,” Serafina said, though she had yet to comprehend the Alpennian preoccupation with the Rotein’s flow. It was not the ancient chanulezes in Rotenek he meant, but the new channels being dug out in the provinces.

  The footman’s voice returned to formality. “The Maisetra said to tell you that she stepped out on an errand. That if you please you could wait for her in the library. Tea will be sent in.”

  The library, it seemed, was already occupied. The boy, Brandel, leapt up from a book-strewn table as she entered.

  “Don’t let me disturb your studies, Maistir Chamering,” she said.

  Serafina heard a maid enter behind her with the rattle of a tray. Margerit’s household was endlessly efficient. Back in Rome, Paolo had never cared to spend for more than one hard-pressed maid of all work.

  There was no need to sit idle while waiting. The cases along every wall held a wealth of books. She selected a thin volume at random and settled herself in one of the overstuffed chairs by the hearth, rather than crowding the round table.

  Rather than being disturbed, the boy seemed glad of the interruption. He closed the covers of the object of his study and began, “Maisetra Talarico? Might I ask you a question?”

  “Hmm?” she answered.

  Brandel had arrived in Rotenek much the same time she had the year before and they both were still finding their place. But though their paths crossed regularly, she had never spoken with him at length.

  “I was wondering,” he began. “That is…Cousin Barbara tells me I should learn everything I can about the world and the people in it. Could you tell me something about the land of your birth?”

  He didn’t mean Rome. She rose to cross the room and find the atlas, then spread the folio out over the top of everything else on the table.

  “My parents traveled to Rome when my older brother Michele was a baby. Before I was born. They came from here,” she said, tracing a finger from the tip of Italy’s boot across the Mediterranean and then down along the Red Sea. Her father had shown her on a map much like this one. “Here, somewhere. I know the name, but it isn’t written here. My mother was the daughter of an important man who fell from power. In the usual way of things, they would have lost their land, perhaps their freedom. But my father had made a pilgrimage to Rome in his youth, to pray and study.”

  Brandel seemed surprised. “They were Christians?”

  Did he think them all heathens? The boy was unlikely to be familiar with the tangle of faiths and peoples that crowded the Horn of Africa. “Yes, but of a different sort. Like…like the Greeks, who don’t look to Rome. But to Rome he went, as a scholar. And when trouble came, he had friends there still. And so they packed up what they could carry and paid every coin they had to the captain of a ship and traveled here to Alexandria in Egypt.” She traced her finger across the map. “And from there to Rome. But I was born in Rome. I have no memory of anything else.”

  And then Margerit arrived, with Antuniet trailing in her wake, and Brandel was shooed away.

  The last month’s study had revolved entirely around Margerit’s All Saints’ Castellum, the complex protective ritual she had designed while still a girl. Now it was part of the ceremonies of the Royal Guild. Last year when Serafina was still so newly come to Rotenek that she didn’t know up from down, mentioning the name of Margerit Sovitre to the innkeeper had brought an immediate response. If she wanted to view the Royal Thaumaturgist, she could do worse than try to find a space in the cathedral on All Saints’ Day.

  She had risen at dawn and waited in the Plaiz with a growing crowd until they were allowed in to bear witness. The castellum itself had been fascinating, with its inventive intricacies and its raw, though ragged power. But through all the patterns and movements of the fluctus around her, Serafina’s eyes had been fixed on Margerit where she sat in a corner of the choir, a sketchbook perched on her lap, her eyes darting here and there as she scribbled notes and directions. It had taken two weeks and all her courage to find a chance to introduce herself. The concert she chose had not been a public event—not exactly—but she had imagined what Costanza would have done in the absence of an invitation, and had charmed and bluffed her way through the door. Since then, she had only needed to be swept along in Margerit’s wake.

  “I took our ideas to Princess Annek,” Margerit said, clearing a space on the central table for her working notebooks. “The castellum should be protecting against things like that shaking of the earth in the south, and the plague of rats in Amituz. Those are exactly the type of hazard we designed it for. But Her Grace thinks it would be best to continue with the form we used last year for now.” She made a wry face and imitated an imposing voice. “Too many changes! We can’t ask the Guild to learn new lines every year!”

  Antuniet made a noise halfway between a cough and a laugh. “Not everyone is an enthusiast like you!”

  Margerit continued, treating it as an old joke between them. “So what we need to do is gather more observations and try to tune the ceremony more closely based on theory alone before we present the revised expositulum. It all takes so long!”

  Now there was a frustration Serafina could understand. “Can the ritual only be performed on that specific day?”

  The other two began speaking at once and Margerit waved her hand to let Antuniet continue.

  “No, not entirely. When we first began drafting it, we rehearsed the individual parts regardless of time or date. Someone as perceptive as Margerit can see the echoes of the response even without the full setting. But the parts don’t work together in the same way. The saints respond best when the ceremony has a…a doorway to invoke them directly
. It could be a feast day, or a dedicated chapel, or the use of a relic. With so many different saints involved, it seemed best to set it on All Saints’ Day. It could be worse; there’s an alchemical recipe I want to try that requires a conjunction that won’t happen for another five years.”

  “It’s not the same as alchemy at all, of course,” Margerit added hurriedly. “We’ll do what we can. For now I’m hoping the both of you can add your vision to the analysis. Serafina, your observations will be particularly valuable. Do you know? I told Princess Annek what you said about the stained glass window and you were right. She said it came from the workshop of the great Perandulfus and there was a tradition that their glass captured mysteries, and Alpennia would stand only so long as some part of that window was in place. It’s just a legend, but someone thought it important enough to keep those fragments.”

  Serafina thought back to the visions she’d seen playing around the light from the window. Whatever power remained was barely perceptible.

  “And that reminds me,” Margerit said, taking two envelopes out from between the covers of her notebook. “I was asked to give these to the two of you.”

  The crisp white square gave no hint of its contents except for the script “AA” on the seal. Serafina glanced over at Antuniet for a clue, but she simply nodded and tucked the envelope away among her other papers. Yet Margerit was watching her expectantly, so she slipped a finger under the seal to break it and scanned the contents, her lips moving to follow the unfamiliar Alpennian phrases. Her heart began pounding.

  “No, I can’t.” Serafina held out the invitation with shaking fingers. “I don’t belong there.”

  Margerit stared at her in confusion. “Don’t be silly. If you’ve been invited, then you belong. The dinner’s not just for the Royal Guild. Princess Annek has taken to inviting all the ambassadors and notable foreigners in Rotenek. And she wants to acknowledge those who make the mystery possible.”

  No, that was almost worse. Couldn’t she see? Margerit was too polite to comment on her awkward manners, but Giuletta hadn’t been. Paolo had only shown irritation; he hadn’t cared enough to correct her. How Costanza had laughed the first time they had dined together! She’d turned it to an endearment, mia cara selvaggia—my darling savage—watching her pick over the silverware and guess at how to manage each dish. The easy informality of Margerit’s table was more forgiving, but they could tell she hadn’t been raised in an elegant household. She hadn’t needed to refuse an invitation outright before. But a dinner at the palace…no. It was impossible. She couldn’t pass her ignorance off as foreign charm in such a setting. “I can’t,” she repeated. “I…,” she seized on a safer excuse. “I haven’t anything proper to wear.”

  “I thought of that and—” Margerit began.

  But before she could make an embarrassing offer, Antuniet shook her head sharply and an odd look passed between them.

  “Let me set Jeanne on the problem,” Antuniet said. “She can work miracles, and I’m sure she can find a dressmaker to set you up properly for whatever you can afford. Trust Jeanne to take care of you.” The reassurance had hidden layers. “After all, she’s turned me respectable and that’s something my mother never managed.”

  * * *

  Jeanne came, as promised, late the next morning, setting Gerta all aflutter when she came upstairs to announce the visitor.

  “Vicomtesse de Cherdillac to see you, maisetra,” she said with a touch of awe that was normally absent from her speech. “She said to tell you to bring a wrap.”

  They’d be going out? Serafina had thought Jeanne meant to examine her sparse wardrobe and identify which item might best be made over into something presentable. She buttoned the blue pelisse over her day dress and traded her cap for a bonnet. Gerta continued standing by. She should let the maid assist in the details of dressing. It was part of her duties. Serafina knew that, too, betrayed her origins. But she kept remembering that first encounter—the deliberate way Gerta had rubbed against her arm—and tensed every time the maid touched her.

  The hesitant sound of music from beyond the closed parlor door told her that lessons were in progress and Serafina laid a finger to her lips when Jeanne greeted her.

  Out on the street, Jeanne said, “I hope you don’t mind walking, it looked to be fair and we aren’t going very far.”

  “I walk most places,” Serafina answered. “Antuniet told you…” It was easier talking to Jeanne than it would have been to the others. She had the knack of setting one at ease, and somehow that made it possible to confess unease. “I’m terrified,” she blurted out. “I’m going to embarrass Margerit. I don’t know what she was thinking asking for me to be invited.”

  They had crossed the little arching bridge over the chanulez and continued in the direction of the Nikuleplaiz. Jeanne took her hand and tucked it in the crook of her arm as if they were bosom friends taking the air. “I know what you’re thinking,” Jeanne said, “but I rather doubt Margerit did anything beyond singing your praises. She isn’t in the habit of telling Princess Annek whom to invite to her own banquets! I won’t tell you you’re worried about nothing. You’re worried, and that’s enough. Would you believe me if I tell you I’ve never seen you be anything but charming in company?”

  “It’s all playacting,” Serafina said quietly. “And I’m not charming, I’m impudent and ignorant and shocking. I always say and do the wrong thing. I still remember how horrified Margerit was when I was new to Rotenek and didn’t know better than to speak openly of my past lovers!”

  “Yes, that,” Jeanne acknowledged. “But we’re all playacting, you know. You only need to learn the right lines. How is dear Marianniz? I haven’t seen her recently.”

  Serafina felt her face burning, though perhaps Jeanne wouldn’t be able to notice. “I haven’t seen her since before the summer. I…she gave me a nice string of pearls.”

  “Ah,” Jeanne said.

  That and no more. It had been Jeanne, after all, who had explained to her the little rituals of affairs in Rotenek. A more extravagant present would have signaled a desire to turn their pleasant interlude into a more formal arrangement, a nominal gift would have invited her to continue as they were after the summer’s separation. But pearls: that acknowledged the pleasure while putting an end to it. It was a civilized system if you knew the key.

  “Are you looking?” Jeanne asked casually.

  Serafina shook her head. Marianniz showed a sour face to the world but she had been a kind and attentive lover. For those few months she had provided a refuge—a sheltering nest. “I’m lonely, but I’m not looking. It’s all too…complicated.” For a brief moment, she wondered if a long enough stay in Rotenek would lead her through every bed in Jeanne’s circle.

  Jeanne laughed. “Yes, indeed. Complicated. So I shall not suggest any male lovers!”

  There was no need to reply. Despite Paolo’s indifference, that was a betrayal she had not yet committed.

  Jeanne’s voice dropped conspiratorially. “There was a time I would have been happy to fill your loneliness. Instead I’m belatedly learning the joys of constancy! But this is nothing to the point. You will go to the guild banquet and you will be charmingly exotic and no one will notice if you use the wrong fork.”

  Serafina pulled away from her with a scowl. “I don’t want to be ‘charmingly exotic,’ I want…”

  The mask dropped briefly from Jeanne’s face to reveal sympathy and understanding. “What do you want?”

  “I want to be comfortable. I want to belong.” There, she’d said it. She grew so tired of pretending all the time among Margerit’s close circle of friends. Pretending that she had the right to address a vicomtesse by her Christian name. Pretending that she didn’t see the startled change in people’s faces when she was introduced to them as maisetra. Pretending that it was only chance that she wasn’t hungry when Maisetra Valorin’s other tenants were dining, so that she needn’t test their acceptance.

  She felt Jeanne’s
hand tuck itself through her elbow again. “That’s an unlucky thing for a woman like you to want. But more of us want it than you might think.” And then as they continued down the narrow cobbled street, Jeanne’s voice grew brighter. “Here we are! Mefro Dominique will provide just the thing to give you confidence.”

  The shop had a tidy little face with a bow window on which neat gilded letters proclaimed “Madame Dominique, Modiste.” The simplicity of the display was an obvious testament to the quality of the custom she expected.

  Once more Serafina hung back. “Jeanne, I don’t think…”

  “You needn’t worry too much about the price. I won’t insult you by making a present of it—Antuniet scolded me on that point! But I’ve brought her a great deal of business and she will return me the favor by charging only what you can afford.”

  “No, but Jeanne…a society dressmaker! She won’t want—” How tiresome to need to explain.

  But Jeanne had already opened the door, setting the bell above it jangling.

  The girl who came out of the back room to greet them wore the sort of neatly elegant dress that advertised the proprietor’s skills in even the simplest fashion. But Serafina scarcely glanced at her clothing, instead matching gazes with the bold eyes looking out from a brown face, framed by a lace-edged linen cap.

  The girl dipped a curtsey, saying, “Good day, Mesnera de Cherdillac.”

  “Celeste, I do hope your mother has time to do something for Maisetra Talarico,” Jeanne said. “I sent a note this morning but there was no time to wait for a reply.”

  She disappeared with a nod.

  “Her mother?” Serafina began, a different question on the tip of her tongue.

  “Dominique studied dressmaking in Paris as a girl—she came here with a group of French émigrés back during the war—but I think she was born somewhere in the Antilles. I think you’ll like her. She has a knack for choosing exactly the right style. God knows she’s done wonders for Antuniet!”