Mother of Souls: A novel of Alpennia

by Jones, Heather Rose

  “I think so,” Anna replied. “Maisetra Sovitre said she would speak to Papa. Oh! And he asked me to give you this.” She opened her reticule and drew out a folded note. “Perhaps that’s what it’s about.”

  Antuniet took the letter from her and looked to them for permission, but when she had read it she only folded it again and set it aside saying, “Tell your father I’ll come speak to him tomorrow.”

  Only when Anna had gone did she hand over the note for Jeanne’s perusal, saying, “Maistir Monterrez is calling in a debt.”

  “Is there some trouble?” Jeanne frowned over the lines.

  “The task itself will be easy enough to perform. When Monterrez made the setting for this—” Antuniet raised her hand to the irregular crimson stone that lay always against her throat. “—he gave it as a gift. No, not a gift, an exchange, with the price to be claimed in Anna’s name at a later date. He wants me to make a special amulet for her that will overcome the disadvantage of her face.”

  It took Jeanne a moment to realize what he meant. There were long stretches when she forgot entirely the corded mark that traced down the side of Anna’s cheek. Only now and again, caught in a reflection or an odd angle that stripped away familiarity, did it still catch at her vision.

  “What does he want?” Jeanne asked.

  Antuniet shrugged. “He leaves that to me.” She gestured at the letter. “I suspect he has in mind some sort of illusion. I’m more concerned with why he’s chosen to make the request at this time. She’s a young woman now.”

  Jeanne nodded. If Anna had been born into the upper town, she would be looking forward to the beginning of her dancing season. There was one obvious reason for Maistir Monterrez to turn his mind to how others saw her.

  A thoughtful look crossed Antuniet’s face. “Do you recall that formula in DeBoodt’s book that you once suggested that we try? ‘To ensure that the true worth and beauty of the bearer is seen.’ I think that one might answer Monterrez’s request.”

  * * *

  With the season not yet started, the rules for visiting were more haphazard than they would be later. Given Margerit’s schedule, Jeanne thought the best time to visit Tiporsel House might be earlier than would ordinarily be polite. Even so she almost missed the opportunity. As she stepped down from the fiacre outside Tiporsel’s gates, she could see Margerit’s town carriage standing waiting at the door.

  From the midst of the small party that bustled out the front door, Margerit stopped in surprise crying, “Jeanne, I hadn’t heard you were back!”

  As they embraced, Jeanne said, “I see I’ve caught you at a poor time.”

  “Yes,” Margerit said. “And Barbara’s out for the morning, I’m afraid. Frances and I were just leaving for Urmai. The first copies of her book have been bound! But…would you like to go with us? Or have you other visits to make? I can’t wait for you to see what the place looks like now! We need to pick up Serafina as well. She and I are working on some new mysteries. But I could find someone to show you around the grounds. I’m counting on you to help make my Tanfrit Academy popular!”

  Jeanne quickly weighed the options. There was no particular guarantee that any of her other calls would be more successful. She hadn’t yet sorted out who had stayed in town for the summer or who might have returned early. “I’d be delighted.”

  The summer’s travel had often meant long stretches of companionable silence. The ride to Urmai was quite a change—as full of chatter as a ballroom in high season! For all that, there was a brittle, almost frantic tension within the carriage. Nothing like the usual excitement of the start of the season. One might expect Margerit to be on edge with the debut of her academy, but it went beyond anticipation. Mesnera Collfield recounted in detail her disappointing attempts to collect samples in Piedmont. The lingering snow had baffled all her efforts. Serafina was uncharacteristically quiet until Margerit continued an earlier conversation with, “…and I hope you’ll take notes during the Feast of Saint Mauriz this year. There’s nothing more I can say about it, and Archbishop Fereir is unlikely to change his mind about my analysis. But at the least we can record the continuing fractures.”

  And then the conversation slipped off into the mechanics of mysteries again. Jeanne pulled the curtains aside to look out the carriage window as they approached their goal. The college grounds had truly undergone a transformation. Jeanne had visited the old Chasteld place when Margerit first bought it, of course. A dreary edifice of patched roofs and ivy-encrusted walls, the gardens overgrown with neglect and the air of ruin about it. Nothing at all like it had been when she was young before Chasteld became a recluse. The difference was as night to day. Now the stone gleamed, the windows glittered like polished crystal, and what had once been the ballroom was transformed into a temple of learning with new furnishings and warm draperies.

  When they went through to the dining hall, Mesnera Collfield gave a sudden cry of delight at the sight of two bound volumes carefully laid out beside the bundles of folded pages. The rest of them watched in amusement as she brushed fingers over the embossed cover. The black leather had been tooled to look like stone, with the botanist’s beloved lichens growing in the crevices.

  Akezze Mainus came in from the back of the house, saying, “I thought I saw you arrive. What do you think?”

  “I didn’t realize they’d be beautiful!” Mesnera Collfield breathed. She opened the cover reverently and began leafing through the pages.

  “I know we’d planned to do plain covers,” Akezze said. “But the women decided to make a few in special bindings. By way of advertisement, you might say, to show off their skill.”

  The crowd increased by the addition of an older woman in a religious habit. Jeanne searched her memory. This must be the Sister Petrunel that Margerit had spoken of, the headmistress.

  The newcomer said briskly, “I hope this means that we can clear this mess out of the college buildings.”

  “There’s plenty of time yet,” Margerit answered. “Though we’ll need to find some other solution before we start on the next project.”

  “And what will that be?” Jeanne asked. Her curiosity was idle but the tension in the room begged to be broken.

  “What I want to do,” Margerit replied slowly, “is an edition of Gaudericus. It’s a crime that in this modern age one can’t find a printed edition of such an important work. But I don’t think we’re quite ready for that. Someone will need to compare all the copies we can get access to so we can draw up a corrected text.”

  “Gaudericus!” Sister Petrunel said. “Wouldn’t it be better to begin with something a trifle more orthodox?”

  Jeanne looked from her to Margerit, who seemed to have missed the edge of criticism.

  “All the more orthodox books have had recent editions,” Margerit pointed out. “I can easily get enough copies of Fortunatus and the important parts of Chizelek for the students to study. And of course all the standard classical works like Bartholomeus and Aukustin and Atelpirt. But it would be awkward indeed to try to teach from Gaudericus with only the single copy.”

  “Teach?” This time the dismay was impossible to miss. “You weren’t planning to teach the Mechanists were you?”

  “Oh Petra,” Margerit said. “I know Gaudericus is difficult, but he’s the best foundation for theoretical thaumaturgy that we have. Everyone agrees on that. If we’re going to take a modern approach to mysteries, there’s really no substitute.”

  Without knowing anything of what might have passed during the summer, Jeanne could tell the precise moment when disaster was inevitable. The only other person in the room who seemed to sense it was Serafina, whose face turned to a guarded mask.

  “Maisetra Sovitre,” the nun said, bringing Margerit’s explanation to a halt. “This will not do. This will not do at all. You appointed me to oversee your curriculum, and at every turn you have dismissed or ignored my advice with regard to this subject. The order of the Orisules cannot—cannot be involved in a projec
t so cavalier about the mystery traditions. You of all people should see the dangers of amateurs meddling in the mysteries. You may view writers like Gaudericus as ordinary grist for your mill. That only shows the flaws of self-education. I blame myself. I can see now I made a grave mistake in choosing not to teach you better as a child. But this will not do. It simply will not do.”

  Now Margerit realized the depth of the disagreement between them. “But, Petra, you knew I meant to teach thaumaturgy.”

  “I knew that thaumaturgy would be taught,” the nun said, “but you had given me the misapprehension that the curriculum would be in my hands to guide. If you wish to turn this institution into a salon of dilettantes, radicals and heretics, that is your choice. I’m sorry, but I cannot give my countenance to it any longer.”

  “What are you saying?” Margerit asked in dismay.

  “I’m saying that you need to find a new headmistress. I will pack my things and be gone as soon as transportation can be arranged.”

  “But I…” Margerit didn’t complete the thought.

  It was clear that the decision was final. Jeanne could tell it had been some time in coming, but Margerit, it seemed, had been blind. She had always expected those around her to share in her enthusiasms. Jeanne wondered that Barbara hadn’t seen the looming conflict and warned her.

  “I’m sorry,” Sister Petrunel repeated with finality. And then she left the room to a stunned silence.

  Margerit sat heavily on a nearby chair, her mouth still hanging open in shock.

  “What will I do?” she asked in a small, lost voice. “Classes begin in a little over two weeks. What will I do?”

  Jeanne pulled a chair over and sat beside Margerit, taking her hand and asking softly, “She hasn’t left yet. Would it help to apologize? To ask her to reconsider? It does sound like you’ve been contradicting her decisions.”

  “Contradicting?” Margerit said. “But that’s not…I was only explaining what I wanted. I hired her to run my college, not her own. Not to run an Orisul school.”

  Margerit had started out bewildered and doubtful, but her resolve strengthened as she continued, “She didn’t want us to teach thaumaturgy. She thought she should have control over the printing house as well, or at least to have authority over them. For heaven’s sake, she wanted to approve every servant that Ionkil and Montekler hired! She wanted to say who might and might not teach.” This last was said with a quick glance at Frances Collfield.

  “It would be reasonable,” Jeanne suggested, “for a headmistress to have authority over the choice of teachers.”

  Margerit turned to her. “She thought we shouldn’t accept Jewish students.”

  Taken each by each, they were small matters. Someone else might have backed away, step by step, deferring to what seemed a reasonable expectation, until the field had been abandoned in defeat. But not Margerit. Margerit always had that naive confidence in her own vision. That certainty that the things she wanted were right and reasonable to want.

  “Well,” Akezze said briskly. “I don’t see that there’s any help for it. We’ll just have to go forward on our own. The curriculum is mostly settled. I assume we may lose the Orisul teachers as well. We’ll need to make plans against that. Draw up some lists and identify the crucial positions. We can muddle through the first term and that will give you time to find another headmistress.”

  “Why not you?” Serafina had been standing quietly to one side, clearly trying to be invisible among the currents of tension.

  “Me?” Akezze asked.

  “You said you wanted to start your own school. You told me you’d been helping at that orphanage to gain experience.”

  Akezze glanced over at Margerit who had a desperate hope suffusing her face.

  “Would you be willing to take on the duties?” Margerit asked. “It’s a lot to ask. Just for the first term or so, until I can find someone else. You’ve been here since the beginning. You know everything we’ve been planning.”

  Akezze was silent for a few minutes as if working through a calculation. Then she said, “It’s an offer that might be better made after the heat of the moment.”

  Margerit shook her head. “I have every confidence in you. There’s no time to waste. Will you do it?”

  Akezze nodded. “Since you ask. Just for the first year, as you say. Eventually you’ll need someone that your upper-town parents will respect as an equal. But for now, I can take up the reins.”

  While the two of them settled to discussing details and sent for Maisetra Ionkil to inform her of the change, Jeanne found herself led away by Serafina to tour the grounds. The rest of the property had been as transformed as the main building and Serafina’s voice fell into what seemed a rote speech at each building.

  As they entered what was clearly Margerit’s mystery workshop, with its long tables and scattered papers, Jeanne observed, “You’ve served in this function before.”

  Serafina smiled. “I don’t know how it is, but I end up leading all the tours. I suppose it’s because I’m so useless at anything else.”

  “Who’s telling you you’re useless?” Jeanne chided. She looked around at the makings of the mystery that Serafina had just been explaining. “A few years and you could be quite as proficient as Margerit in devising all this.”

  Serafina shrugged. “But not in performing them. That’s a weakness. I always need someone else to test the structures for me. Theory is one thing, but without the skill to invoke the saints, there’s no way to work on my own. It’s like Luzie’s music, Maisetra Valorin’s that is. I can tell her where it calls up power and which parts falter, but I can’t even play the pieces myself much less compose them. And what I can play is only sound.”

  “And how is that nothing at all?” Jeanne asked. “That’s more than most could do. How is that different from a composer who writes the music for others to play?” She tucked her hand under the crook of Serafina’s elbow in a companionable way and urged her out into the main hall again. “And how is your friend, Maisetra Valorin? What is she composing?”

  There was the faintest hint of embarrassment in Serafina’s reaction. Jeanne’s curiosity stirred. Was there an intrigue to pursue? Maisetra Valorin hadn’t seemed the type, but one never knew. Her curiosity would lie unsatisfied unless Serafina gave encouragement. There were rules of delicacy. She had played by them herself all her life: things one might know, but could never ask. The precise nature of Serafina’s relationship with her landlady fell into that category unless she were given an invitation.

  “She’s been working on a…on some songs about Tanfrit,” Serafina explained, and hurriedly added, “They aren’t ready for performance yet. I never knew that music was so complicated to create. It’s like…” She reached for a comparison. “It’s like that point when the dressmaker has taken all your measurements and cut the cloth, but the gown hasn’t been assembled and trimmed yet.”

  Jeanne laughed. “Then I will wait patiently and not peek into the fitting room!”

  By the time they had hunted down the others again, Margerit had left behind her initial dismay. They were gathered in the offices where Margerit, Akezze and Maisetra Ionkil were huddled over the account books and records. Sister Petrunel was nowhere to be seen but everything was in tidy enough shape that her participation in the transition wouldn’t be needed.

  “Margerit dear,” Jeanne said. “Serafina says she must abandon me for her mystery work, and it’s clear you’ll be sorting things out for the rest of the day. Do you suppose I might borrow your carriage and driver to return home? He’ll be back long before you’re finished here.”

  Margerit looked up briefly, just long enough to take in the request. “Oh, yes, of course.” And then her attention was lost again.

  * * *

  When Antuniet disappeared into the palace workshop for the next few days, Jeanne was glad she had stored up the summer’s long stretches of close company. Now they barely saw each other between breakfast and bed. In addition
to Maistir Monterrez’s commission, Princess Annek had delivered a long market list of small projects that had accumulated over the summer. Small, but of troubling import. Efriturik had returned from his service in Paris with several of his amulets chipped or cracked. It might have been only the rough life of a cavalry officer, but Antuniet was troubled and spent late hours poring over DeBoodt’s annotations in preparation for examining them. Replacing those stones would be a priority, not only in obedience to the princess his mother, but for the friendship that had grown in the year his services had been lent to Antuniet’s work.

  The new demands would take careful thought. Annek’s first set of commissions had challenged Antuniet’s skills to the limit. She had been provided no more than a list of names—cabinet officers and members of the court—and the traits to be strengthened or countered. The challenge went beyond simple alchemy. Antuniet had finally bent her pride and called on Barbara’s knowledge of the court to chart a path. It had been a collaboration they both came to enjoy—a place where the skills of the two cousins could complement each other. Now they took up that partnership again and it was one more demand on Antuniet’s time that took her away from home. Jeanne schooled herself to patience and turned to her own neglected tasks.

  Then over breakfast one morning, Antuniet asked, “Would you like to do some alchemy again? I’m starting to work on Anna’s jewel. I thought you might…”

  In the early days, alchemy had been the excuse to spend time in Toneke’s company. And that first commission from Princess Annek had required as many hands as could be scraped together for the ceremonial roles. Jeanne had no nostalgia for the tedium of grinding materiae or picking the fired stones out of the matrix, but the ceremonial processes themselves—those had an attraction for her dramatic soul. And as it was for Anna’s sake…

  “When would you need me? How long will it take?” It was another week or so before the true start of the season, but it wouldn’t matter if the project spilled over a little.