“Are you tired?” Margerit asked her, as Antuniet seemed to wilt visibly once they had come out into the porch of the salle.
Antuniet answered with a small grunt, then added, “I’ve grown accustomed to having Jeanne as a shield. But we thought…well, never mind.”
It still seemed strange to hear “we” dropping from Antuniet’s lips so easily. Margerit had feared the partnership wouldn’t last. The start had been rocky enough, but now it seemed stronger with every passing month. Soon they would be setting out on a new journey together.
“When do you leave for Prague?” Margerit asked. “I don’t imagine there’s any point in waiting for floodtide proper, and who knows when that will come.”
“In two weeks,” Antuniet replied. “And still so much to be done. I’ve been meaning to ask you. Would you look after Anna for the summer?”
“Of course,” Margerit answered, trying to calculate how to fit another responsibility into her days.
As if the thought had been voiced aloud, Antuniet waved her hand to brush it away. “She won’t be any trouble, I promise you. It’s only that there’s no work to be done at the palace in my absence and I think she might be glad of the occasional outing. Just give her the freedom of your library and she’ll be happy.”
The Plaiz was never entirely empty except in the hours halfway between midnight and dawn, but this late in the evening it was quieter than usual. Only a few carriages rattled across the cobbles on the far side by the palace. Café Chatuerd was dark, but a few lesser establishments still catered to late diners. The stars were crisp overhead and a thread of mist wound its way across the empty space.
A thread of mist? Margerit looked again. It was a low, pale wisp of fluctus, floating above the ground like the fog that rises off a stream in winter. Margerit’s gaze followed the trace across the open square and down toward the river. Her breath caught.
“What’s wrong?” Antuniet asked.
Her first thought was of another fire in the warehouse district. A small stretch of the Rotein—barely visible between the buildings where the road turned down to meet the Vezenaf—was ablaze with light. It wasn’t the reflection of flames, but a more intense glow like the one threading through the Plaiz.
“Do you see it?” Margerit asked.
Antuniet blinked. “I don’t…”
Margerit grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the waiting carriage. “Come on,” she said.
Marken scrambled to a perch behind and the coachman asked, “To Mesnera de Cherdillac’s?”
“No,” Margerit ordered. “Down toward the river.”
Margerit let down the window and leaned out for a better view as they rumbled over the stones.
Antuniet did the same on her side of the carriage. “What in heaven?” she exclaimed as they came closer to the river’s edge.
Like the strand she’d seen in the Plaiz, the currents of divine power drifted slowly above the surface of the water in streams and eddies that mimicked the waters below, except that the flow—if it could be said to be that—seemed to be moving upstream.
“A new attack?” Antuniet asked.
Margerit’s voice was tight and her heart beat sharply in her chest. “I don’t know. I can’t even tell where it’s coming from.”
The fluctus spread out as far as she could see in either direction, as far as the bends in the river. She turned to Antuniet. “I can’t usually see the workings of a mystery at a distance, but Serafina might know. Line of sight doesn’t seem to matter as much to her.”
She rapped on the roof of the carriage and called up to the driver, giving Maisetra Valorin’s direction.
The river was mostly hidden from view until they rumbled across the Nikuleplaiz. Now she could see that the water was clear further downriver. Then houses blocked their view again. A brighter trace followed one of the chanulezes that led off through Serafina’s neighborhood. No, not just a trace. A bright glow pulsed and dimmed above the brick-walled channel, like the flow from a pump head that tumbled and roiled through a sluice. And the source of that spill was the dark ivy-covered house of Maisetra Valorin.
Chapter Fifteen
Serafina
Late April, 1824
Serafina leaned on the end of the fortepiano and watched Luzie’s hands move over the keyboard. She never tired of watching those hands, of imagining what other tunes they might play. No, that was too soon. Too soon. Issibet was on the sofa with her sewing, constantly in Serafina’s awareness. Even a touch that might once have seemed harmless now burnt like a coal. Guilt magnified everything.
Light filled the room in swirls and eddies. Serafina kept up a quick commentary on what she saw, using the code words they had slowly developed between them. When they spoke of music, they fell into Italian together, in a jumble of dialects that still failed to hold the words needed to describe what they were attempting. They fumbled and stretched to find a meeting point.
“The third time through is weaker,” she said. “It needs…It needs to start from a different place but move toward the same finish. Not like the call and response of a tutela mystery. More like a castellum where the echoes are the same but different each time, and build up layer on layer. Or like a painting.”
She thought of watching Olimpia at work: the sketches, the underlayers, the glazes, the highlights. Each utterly different and yet all shaping the figure on the canvas.
Luzie paused and then tried the strain again with the chords modulated to a wilder, more mournful sound.
“Yes,” Serafina said slowly. “That might work. Now again from the beginning.”
It was a slow, tedious process, this working out of Tanfrit’s aria. And it was only the first of the major songs they’d tackled. The mystic undertones could only be seen in the structure as a whole. With each revision they went back to the beginning—the beginning of that song, at least. Heaven knows how long it would take if they needed to play the entire sequence to see the success of each change!
Luzie was endlessly patient. She might not be able to see the details of the fluctus, but she knew music. Serafina marveled at how Luzie turned her frustrated, incoherent suggestions into exactly the right structure of sound that filled the house with power and made the hairs along her arms stand on end.
The sharp crack of the door knocker cut through the room. Luzie looked up in startlement as the notes and their echoes drifted into corners of the room.
“Who can that be?” Issibet asked.
Charluz had gone up to bed already. Had Elinur lost her key? It was far too late for visitors. Serafina saw a start of fear in Luzie’s eyes.
“Something’s happened!” she said anxiously. “A message?”
They heard the maid’s quick steps from the back passage to the door.
Margerit’s voice was the last thing Serafina had expected to hear.
“Is Maisetra Valorin at home?” The question held a sharp edge.
Serafina hurried out into the entryway. “Margerit, what’s wrong?”
Not only Margerit, but Mesnera Chazillen. They bustled into the front parlor and with no warning Margerit demanded, “What are you doing?”
Serafina exchanged confused glances with Luzie, who rose from the music bench asking, “What do you mean?”
Issibet quietly set her sewing aside and left the room without a word.
Margerit seemed to collect herself and repeated her question in a calmer tone. “Just now—before we knocked on the door—what were you doing?”
Luzie’s confusion was not abated. “Composing,” she said, gesturing toward the manuscript notebook on the instrument.
“We’ve been working on Maisetra Valorin’s new project.” Serafina searched Margerit’s expression for some clue. “You remember—the one about Tanfrit that I’ve been borrowing all those books for.”
Mesnera Chazillen cleared away some of the confusion, by noting dryly, “The entire Rotein has been awash with mystic light tonight, and you seem to be the source.”
<
br /> “The Rotein?” Luzie echoed, bringing her hand to cover her mouth in concern. “Let the waters rise up,” she whispered. “Did anything happen?”
Mesnera Chazillen gave a short laugh. “No, not unless ‘anything’ includes the most startling magical working I’ve seen in years. But it was only the fluctus itself as far as I could see. No concrete miracles.”
Even Margerit’s concern seem to have ebbed. “Then it was only your…your musical effect?” she asked.
She was still unwilling to give it the name of mystery or miracle.
“I hadn’t thought—” Serafina began. “It was quite brilliant in the parlor here. I hadn’t noticed that it spilled outside. But you say there’s no harm done?”
“Well, no,” Margerit said. “No harm.” She seemed more subdued now. “How could there be harm? It’s not as if…”
“No harm, perhaps,” Mesnera Chazillen interrupted. “But anyone with the slightest sensitivity who was within sight of the river tonight will wonder what’s afoot. Some of the more esoteric mystery guilds are paying close attention to unusual workings.”
Margerit was still frowning, but more in puzzlement. “I’ll drop a word in a few ears and let them know what happened. But you might want to see if you could…No. No, there’s no need for that,” almost to herself. Whatever she had intended to say was left unfinished. “We’re so sorry to have disturbed your evening. Maisetra Valorin. Serafina.”
And with the pleasantries completed, they took their leave.
Luzie sat down and stared dazedly in the direction of the door. “I hadn’t realized it would disturb anyone,” she said. And with a little laugh, “I only used to worry about being too loud! Do you think I should—”
Serafina’s mouth twitched. It was just like Margerit to think that anything mystical in the entire city was hers to approve or disapprove. “What you should do is work on that chord in the last section. I know you said there are rules to the progression, but—” Her hands tried so shape her meaning. “It finishes things too simply. Too predictably.”
She sat down on the bench and, as Issibet hadn’t returned, she dared to lift Luzie’s hand to kiss. “Tanfrit has just gone into the waters,” she said. “Nothing will ever be simple after that.”
* * *
Every neighborhood of every city had its own rhythms of conversation as the seasons passed. Serafina could have identified any month and neighborhood in Rome by the talk on the streets. No doubt someone more experienced could do the same in Rotenek from the interplay of the floodtide holiday and the way it danced around the timing of Easter. Every district had its own concerns as the days stretched out with still no sign that the mountains had escaped the hold of winter and let the water flow.
Along the Vezenaf and in the wealthy neighborhoods north of the river, there was an uneasy edge of impatience at this time of year. Serafina brushed against it at Tiporsel House. The social season that dictated Jeanne and Margerit’s lives might end with Easter or with floodtide, whichever came later. Or it might stretch beyond them if both came early. For now, the upper town still concerned itself with balls and concerts, but the talk looked ahead to the summer with the nervous fretfulness of a racehorse at the post. Who would one visit for floodtide? Who would return to the city after that, and who would remove to their country estates? Who had invitations and who still waited for them? What meaning could be read into that lack?
One year past, Serafina had been living on the edges of the university district. There, the talk as the summer term began had all been guessing when the long delayed floodtide holiday would bring a break in studies. Some hoped for sooner, to have done with the uncertainty. Some wished for later, when the time could be put to better use over books. Akezze said every student guild had a mystery to try to influence the river’s rising, but there was no telling whether their petitions canceled each other out or had no influence at all.
Here in the district around the Nikuleplaiz, concerns were more practical. Precious stores were moved to upper levels of buildings in anticipation of rising waters. Gutters and drains were cleared. It might not be necessary, but if it were, there would be no time for preparations.
Easter passed, and the joyous cries of, “Christ has risen!” changed quietly into, “Has the water risen?” In past centuries, some wag had nicknamed the steps leading from the river landing up to the statue of Saint Nikule after the apostles. Instead of saying, “The water has reached the ninth step,” it would be “Iohen has his feet wet today!”
The apostles seemed in little danger of drowning this year. The first hint came as an almost imperceptible muddying of the central channel. Luzie’s cook returned from the market with the news that Tomos and Mazzi were swimming now. But after another week passed, it was clear that the holiday would only be signaled with a bucket.
Elinur and Charluz made plans to travel to Iuten for the week’s holiday. Issibet would join a friend in Urmai for at least the first few days. Luzie began talking eagerly about the return of her sons from school. Serafina hadn’t realized her own plans were in question until supper one evening when Charluz asked, “Which of your rich friends will be hosting you for the summer?”
“None of them.”
Luzie frowned and Issibet said, “Now what is the use of having friends with fine houses if they won’t invite you for a proper holiday? What about that vicomtesse who visits now and then?”
“Mesnera de Cherdillac has left town already,” Serafina explained. “Foreign travel for the summer.” She didn’t bother to add that Jeanne herself depended on the hospitality of others for her holidays. “And Maisetra Sovitre is staying in the city all summer, preparing her college.”
“But Baroness Saveze—” Luzie began.
Serafina shook her head. She’d heard this one rehearsed the last time she’d been at Tiporsel House. “She’s traveling between her estates, but not hosting guests. Too much back and forth, here and there, all summer. And there’s no one else who would think to invite me.” No one she’d be comfortable accepting an invitation from.
Luzie looked surprised and concerned. They hadn’t discussed the summer, or any sort of future for that matter. The conversation they had begun that night in March had never been completed. “I had thought…It’s the boys you see,” Luzie said. “Last year, Iustin was off in Falinz all summer. And the year before Issibet was on tour with the company. There’s usually someone leaving a room empty. I don’t know…”
Serafina saw at once what would be expected. Of course Luzie’s children would come first for her. “You needn’t worry. I’m sure I can make other arrangements for the summer. Soon there should be rooms at the college in a fit state for guests.”
Luzie looked stricken. “I didn’t mean to put you out. We’ll think of something. It’s a pity the boys are too old to just pull out the truckle bed in my room!”
But if something could be arranged, Serafina didn’t see what it would be unless there were a spare room in the attic where the maids and the housekeeper slept. Charluz and Elinur already shared a room. Issibet’s restless nights were legendary and she was jealous of her space. No offers were forthcoming and Serafina passed around another helping of dessert to cover the silence.
* * *
Summer plans still stood undecided when the priest of Saint Nikule’s carried a bucket of muddy river water up the steps to pour over the feet of the saint, setting the city astir like an anthill. Once the exodus had been accomplished, Luzie’s house mirrored the upper parts of the city, empty and echoing.
The half-empty house and the lack of lessons gave an opportunity to clean from top to bottom. Extra hands were hired and Serafina took the strong hint and made herself scarce. The library at Tiporsel might have been a refuge, but Margerit and Barbara had taken a brief private holiday, as credit against the summer’s separation. It would have felt odd to rattle around in their house with just the servants.
On the first day, she simply went walking, up past the Plaiz N
of and around the back side of the palace grounds, through the public part of the gardens, along the poplar-lined paths and past Antuniet’s now-quiet workshop, then down to the front of the palace and the cathedral. Her thoughts turned to Mesner Kreiser and the sessions they had spent trying to trace mysteries. It had been too like Paolo’s teaching at first: maps and verses and small rituals. She had flinched at every failure, expecting scorn. Then Kreiser had placed a small broken stone in her hand, closed her fingers around it and said, “Tell me its story.”
Her vision loosened. She saw a valley…no, a hillside. Both at the same time. Permanence, tumbling, movement.
“What is it—” she began.
He shook his head. “You tell me.”
The slow, cold thoughts of stone. Mist tracing through the mountain valleys. No, not mist. Power. A mindless, formless power—not like the bright crispness of charis in the mysteries. Movement, wakening, fracturing.
“The earthquake?” she asked.
Kreiser nodded. “Where did it come from? What caused it?”
But that was elusive. She could see the trace of fluctus but it was like no ritual she had ever observed. More like a natural, malevolent force, with no beginning and no end.
He took the stone from her hand and replaced it with a small whitened bone. “Tell me its story.”
She could find no sense or pattern in the visions she reported, but Kreiser had seemed pleased and suggested another session. Was he still in town? She wasn’t certain, but it didn’t matter. She could think of no way to approach him that would fit into the rules Jeanne had drilled into her.
On the second day, she went to visit Akezze in her lodgings at the edge of the university district. They went to one of the student cafés, nearly empty for the week, to sit among the worn oak benches, with the shutters thrown open to catch the summer breezes, and drink cheap wine. They talked of everything that had nothing to do with mysteries: the exciting plans for Margerit’s college, Akezze’s own private students, from the ambitious clerks who longed for political office to Aukustin Atilliet himself.
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