“For love, of course. Don’t look at me like that! It’s a tragedy; it has to be for love.” Even as she said it, Luzie knew it for the wrong answer. “Or perhaps that’s only part of it. There’s the bargain with the devil.”
Serafina threw up her hands in exasperation. “That’s no better. And I won’t have you turning either of them into heretics. Not if you want my help. It’s bad enough that Tanfrit’s writings are all lost and that no one has dared to publish Gaudericus for nearly two centuries. Did you know that Margerit is planning to print an edition of his works? I don’t want feelings stirred up against it.”
They went through the different stories again. Perhaps not fallen, only tempted?
“We need a villain,” Luzie suggested. “A rival scholar who wants…I know! He’s in love with Tanfrit and jealous of Gaudericus. He offers Tanfrit the secrets of forbidden mysteries…or perhaps he offers Gaudericus the secrets but on the condition that he foreswear all other love than the love of learning.” She looked over at Serafina to see if the idea were acceptable.
“I don’t know…” Serafina said slowly. “It might fit. If the rival carried false tales between them that each had taken the devil’s bargain?”
Luzie nodded slowly. “Gaudericus will be the heroic tenor of the work, so he can’t be entirely unredeemable. But perhaps he doesn’t repent of his path until after Tanfrit dies?” Her mind leapt to the next scene. “Yes, and then the final aria will be his repentance.”
“And the university giving up entirely on women scholars,” Serafina added sourly.
She’d meant it as a poor joke, but Luzie seized on the idea. “Yes, that gives the opportunity for a chorus to join at the close.”
“A chorus,” Serafina said. “Where will you get this chorus? I thought you were only planning a few voices.”
Luzie laughed and set a finger to her forehead. “In here. The same place I can get the scenery and the costumes and a soprano who can do justice to the role. If I thought about that, I’d never dare to set pen to paper.”
“So it will be an opera after all?”
“I…perhaps.” It was as far as she was willing to go. “Now the first act, that will be when Tanfrit returns to Rotenek, having been invited to teach. She’ll meet Gaudericus after a long separation. I think they must have been childhood friends. That would work. There should be another female role. A confidante, someone she can sing her secrets to.”
“What about the sister? The one who had the gravestone made—Susanna.”
“That might work,” Luzie said thoughtfully. She took up her pen and between them the ideas followed one after the other.
* * *
Serafina’s teasing question haunted her. Where will you get a chorus? When the audaciousness of the project overwhelmed her, Luzie set Tanfrit aside until the doubts had faded. Or, not faded, but they could be ignored once more. To attempt an opera without a book—no libretto, not even a script from the stage to adapt—she was mad. She was no poet, and borrowing the scraps of Tanfrit’s own words wouldn’t go far. But the inspiration always came back when she returned to the music. Let the waters rise up and wash away my sorrow. That brought a shiver every time she played it. Endings were easy, beginnings, more difficult.
The commissions were all finished for the moment. The impatience to be done with them was replaced by the worry that there would be no more. But it meant that evenings could be spent on Tanfrit.
Serafina had become an essential part of the project, sitting beside her at the fortepiano and turning through the pages of notes, then urging her on with demands and suggestions. It was a partnership like none she’d ever known. It wasn’t only that Serafina was more familiar with the scholar’s history—able to pull out the quotations from ancient books that might inspire a scrap of tune—she also kept the story more true to the woman Tanfrit might have been.
“Here in the first act, when Tanfrit returns to Rotenek, it should be triumphant,” Serafina pointed out. “What you have sounds more melancholy. This is a woman whose name is on everyone’s lips, at the peak of her fame. Perhaps a bit self-satisfied and overproud. That would fit with the later story.”
Luzie tried to summon up the mood Serafina described. Perhaps her own experiences were the wrong model; she still found success hard to believe. “How do you see her?”
Serafina looked into the distance with an impish grin. “A bit like Margerit Sovitre, I think. Very…intense and sure of herself. Taking for granted that everyone will see the world the way she does.”
The memory returned of the Royal Thaumaturgist sitting her in her parlor, calmly discussing the theological implications of a mystery in music. Yes, she might do something with that. “And then, when the offer comes to her—of the forbidden learning—it doesn’t occur to her that Gaudericus might view the matter differently.”
“Exactly!” Serafina nodded vigorously. “But here—” She returned to the notes for the second act. “I think the romance doesn’t make sense the way you present it.”
Serafina had argued against the romance from the beginning, but there was no help for it. What else could drive the tragedy to its proper end?
“I think,” Luzie suggested slowly, “they must have been childhood sweethearts. Before Tanfrit left for her schooling. Then the duet in the first act can suggest the stirrings of love as well as Gaudericus welcoming her home as a colleague.”
“Hmm,” Serafina said doubtfully. “Is there truly such a thing as childhood sweethearts? Did you have one?”
“There were one or two boys I liked…my father’s students. I don’t think they ever knew. I was much too well-behaved for that! I didn’t meet my husband until I was twenty.” She thought back to that meeting. Henirik’s face was indistinct and all she could recall was the awkwardness of speaking to a near stranger who asked if she would allow him to court her. They’d become easier together later, much later, not knowing how short the time would be. An unexpected wave of loneliness washed over her. A hungry memory of touch. She shook it off. “And you?”
Serafina turned her face away and Luzie couldn’t tell if she were staring into the past or unwilling to share her thoughts beyond a shake of her head.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Luzie continued. “It’s what the audience will expect. No one would believe they fell in love over philosophy!”
“Sometimes—” Serafina’s voice was wistful. “Sometimes it might happen that two people might meet mind to mind, but that the only way they know how to speak of it is in the language of the heart—of the body. Philosophy does not teach one how to speak of love.”
She looked back, and Luzie felt the weight of a question between them.
“Is that…” she began. “Is that what it was between you and Olimpia?” She’d never asked Serafina about the painter since that evening.
“No, Olimpia was loneliness, and needing someone to hold me.”
Luzie felt her face grow warm from hearing her own thoughts echoed back to her.
Serafina bit her lip, steeling herself to continue. “But it’s how it is with you. Sometimes…sometimes the heart wants something so deeply, so desperately, and yet the only thing you have to offer is your body.”
Luzie’s heart beat faster. The waiting silence between them drew out painfully. She reached out and took Serafina’s hand. It was trembling even more than her own.
Serafina brought their linked hands to her lips and left a kiss where their fingers entwined, dark and light together like the keys of the fortepiano, then lifted her eyes, with a frightened look.
“Serafina, I…”
“Shh, don’t worry. I won’t—”
“No, wait. Serafina, I need to think about this. But…but thank you.” Her stomach was fluttering like a baby bird. What did it mean? She wasn’t…she didn’t…
“Don’t worry,” Serafina repeated and rose from the bench, allowing their fingers to slip slowly apart. She gave a hesitant smile, then left the room.
&nb
sp; Luzie twisted her hands together until the shaking stopped, then she picked out the beginnings of the theme she had begun to associate with Gaudericus and alternated it with Tanfrit’s triumphant return. The latter shifted and slowed and the two phrases twined together.
Chapter Fourteen
Margerit
April, 1824
Margerit read through the letter to Sister Petrunel again, then reached for a pen to add her signature at the end. Though the Orisules had given permission to approach Petra, her former governess might well consider her current position at the Orisul school in Eskor a pleasant retirement compared to becoming headmistress of a fledgling college. But Petra could be a bridge to the Order as a whole. There were teaching positions still to be filled. And Margerit trusted her experience. It would be one fewer worry.
Would Petra agree? Margerit hadn’t seen her governess since the day she’d left Uncle Fulpi’s house in Chalanz to return to the convent school. So much had happened since then! And what had Petra heard about her? Not so much about…other things, but about the mysteries? Surely Petra had recognized her visio at some point during their years together. Why had it never been part of their lessons? Looking back, she saw that her governess had deliberately discouraged her from those paths of thought.
Margerit held up the letter to shake off the sand and check that the ink was dry then held it out to the thin, gray-haired woman who stood waiting.
“Thank you, Maisetra Ionkil. That’s the last of them for now. I’ll write the letter to my cousin myself and you can include it in the package to the Fulpis. When you come tomorrow, bring the college accounts to review.”
“Not tomorrow,” Maisetra Ionkil reminded her. “I need to secure the lumber for the new roof. It’s contracted, but I won’t rest easy until we have it on site. And I don’t care to leave the builders unsupervised at the moment.”
A flutter of panic was stilled by the woman’s calm certainty. “Was there any trouble?” Three warehouse fires on the south side of the river. Only the last had damaged goods, but that damage had included half the cured lumber in the city.
“No trouble you need to concern yourself with.”
Margerit set aside further inquiry. Necessity was forcing her to leave much in other hands. “Then we’ll meet again the next day. I’ll see to the letters to the Fulpis myself. That will be all for now.”
It wasn’t entirely true that the builders needed Ionkil’s personal supervision. The architect LeFevre had recommended was a solid man for the job. He’d focused on returning the structures to good shape without adding too many decorative touches, though she’d had to promise him a chance to redesign the gardens later before he would accept the contract. He’d been the one who suggested Maisetra Ionkil’s name when she’d mentioned her search for a business agent.
“Ionkil’s widow is who you want,” he’d said. “She should have inherited the trade but—” No need to finish the thought. No one would believe she’d been his equal partner. And if they believed it, they still wouldn’t hire her.
There had been a tiny worm of distrust that he might be placing a confederate in charge of his own payroll. The first meeting with Marga Ionkil had lessened that concern with her sharp and perceptive questions. The woman’s skill in securing the lumber they’d need before scarcity put the price out of reach set the seal on Margerit’s approval. LeFevre’s vote of confidence was scarcely necessary. Future plans hadn’t been discussed, but for now Margerit saw no reason to look elsewhere when the repairs were finished and it was time to find a manager for the college itself. Assuming the widow was willing to trade her current rooms for an apartment in Urmai. An apartment at the academy. Margerit kept reminding herself to call it that. The Tanfrit Academy. An ambitious name for an ambitious project. If not for the gravesite, she might not have had the impudence to claim it.
Maisetra Ionkil had slipped just as easily into place as secretary for Margerit’s ever-increasing correspondence. For a brief time it looked like Frances might fill that role. The botanist had been at loose ends and underfoot all winter, impatient with the delays in the printing of her book. But Frances was hopeless at everyday details. An unwritten letter had lost them the chance of a lecture from a scholar traveling through to Barcelona. She’d quietly stopped asking for that type of help.
Margerit sighed at the memory, comforting herself that Frances would soon be off collecting specimens for the summer and by the time the college opened, there was some hope that her treatise on lichens would be bound, and copies shipped off to satisfy her English subscribers.
And now there was no putting off the letter to Iuli.
My dearest cousin, I hope you and your parents are well. I greatly enjoyed the verses you sent with your last letter and I have taken the liberty of having them set to music by the talented Luzie Valorin, whom you might have heard of even in far-off Chalanz. I enclose the music with these letters and hope to hear you perform the song someday.
It pains me to tell you I will not have that opportunity this summer, even though you learn it in time for your coming-out ball. As you know, I have decided my college must be ready in time for the fall term, and I will have no chance for travel this summer, neither to Chalanz nor to Saveze. I would very much have loved to host your ball at Fonten House as I did your sister’s, but our lives move on and Fonten House is no longer part of mine.
Margerit paused, chewing on the end of her pen and thinking what more to say. She couldn’t tell Iuli the truth: that Uncle Fulpi had suggested in the strongest terms that her presence would be unnecessary. He hadn’t gone so far as to say unwanted. While she had owned property in Chalanz, the prestige of hosting Sofi’s ball in the mansion on Fonten Street had more than balanced the Fulpis’ concerns for the family reputation. The abstract family pride in an absent relation who was an heiress and the Royal Thaumaturgist was always put in peril by her presence. Her presence brought with it an inconvenient baroness who had a habit of wearing men’s clothing, not to mention an affection between the two of them that couldn’t entirely be excused by the conventions of friendship.
With Fonten House sold, Uncle Fulpi was happy to accept her offer to underwrite the expenses of Iuli’s coming-out, but had expressed his strong preference that only her purse and not her person attend. Iuli would be disappointed, but there was no help for it. Her cousin’s parents had the power to forbid their continued correspondence entirely and Margerit knew how much it meant to Iuli to have at least one person in the world who encouraged her writing and wanted her to continue dreaming beyond the future that Chalanz offered.
Perhaps I will be able to visit next year at floodtide. I know it seems so long to wait! It would have been an eternity when I was your age and I will miss your entire dancing year. Write to me when you have time and make sure to save up all the memories from your ball to tell me.
Your loving cousin, Margerit Sovitre.
* * *
There had, of course, been no expectation that Sister Petrunel would come in person to discuss the offer. Eskor was nearly a week’s travel if one hadn’t the need or the funds for a traveling coach and staged horses. But her answer arrived in little more than the time required for the mail.
My dearest Margerit, if you will still allow me that familiarity,
As you may guess from the promptness of my response, your request has already been discussed by the superiors of my Order and they have granted me leave to accept. Indeed, they have encouraged me to do so in a manner scarcely falling short of instructions, though that removes none of my joy. The guidance of young women’s minds in the paths of knowledge and wisdom has ever been the Orisules’ calling and it would be a heavy responsibility for someone untried without the support and advice of experience.
There were several pages of that advice regarding preparations to be made and a request for thoughts on the curriculum and faculty. Margerit wondered if Sister Petrunel would be relieved or dismayed at how few decisions remained on that end. The cont
racts had not yet been offered, but the maiden term was planned with a light schedule, drawing from those who had participated in the lecture series. Time enough for more formal goals when those first steps were found to be steady.
There was an answer of a more personal nature at the end.
I have, indeed, followed the news of your career with interest and an unbecoming pride, though I cannot claim to have set you on that path. Perhaps I should have suggested to your uncle that you be sent to the convent school, where you might have received better guidance. I could have taught you theory, but that might have been worse than ignorance. A talent such as yours brings dangers as well as joys, as you have learned. But if you have wondered at my silence on that matter, consider the path you faced then. You would not have been allowed a contemplative life. An educated woman can be an ornament to her household and family, but would a mystic be content in that setting? I could not foresee that God would grant you the freedom to spend your days in service to Him. I lacked that faith, and so I thought only of your happiness. I hope that you will forgive,
Your friend Petrunel.
Margerit read through the paragraph again. It made a type of sense if Petra were so certain that delving into the mysteries required a contemplative life, if that were the only model she had for a woman studying thaumaturgy. She sighed and folded the letter in her lap.
Barbara had come into the library while she was reading and took the movement as a cue to come bend over her for a series of kisses, working slowly down from her forehead to her mouth.
“I’ve been missing you,” Barbara said as she straightened again.
Margerit laid her hand over Barbara’s where it rested on her shoulder. “No long lazy mornings.”
“Not when the council sessions have everyone’s blood up. Why did I ever let Lord Marzim talk me into caring about politics? Everything else gets squeezed into the edges of the day. I rarely see Brandel except at Perret’s fencing salle in the morning and at the supper table. Do you know? He managed a touch on me today. I think it surprised him more than it did me. I’m afraid that will ruin my suggestion that he spend more time with the pistol than the sword.” Barbara pulled away to sit in the matching overstuffed chair but stretched her long legs out to put their ankles in contact under the ruffled edge of Margerit’s skirts.
Mother of Souls: A novel of Alpennia Page 23
