Circle of Shadows

by Imogen Robertson

  Harriet turned to the plate in front of her. It was silver-gilt, with the arms of Maulberg emblazoned on it. She saw the shadow of her face reflected there among the fragments of rich food and wondered again how she could possibly come to an understanding of those people. She felt, heavily, that Rachel’s trust in her was misplaced.

  Pegel had not been able to get any more details of the secret society. Instead, Florian instructed him on the glories of Rousseau till Pegel felt like throwing himself into the fire. It was deep in the night when Florian finally let himself lie down on the couch, but if the drink hadn’t exhausted him, his own rhetoric had. He was snoring lightly even before Pegel had thrown a blanket over him. Pegel himself had no intention of sleeping. It only took a moment to go through Frenzel’s satchel and he now sat cross-legged on the floor and considered. Three volumes lay on the boards in front of him, and in front of each was a sheet of paper with a crease to show it had been folded once and placed into the book. On each was a nonsense stream of letters, grouped into little islands of five. There was also a small medallion with an owl embossed on one side. With its claws it held open a book with PMCV stamped across the pages.

  With a sigh Pegel got to his feet. The bag, with its less interesting content returned to it, and the medallion slid once more into its lining, he placed by Frenzel’s head. The books and codes he took to the desk by the window and lit a candle. Having sniffed and shaken each sheet, and held it up to the light, he set about making his copies, carefully noting the titles of each book and the page where the note was hidden. The copies made, the books and their contents were returned to the satchel.

  Frenzel still snored, and Jacob smiled at him, then reached down and smoothed one lock of blond hair away from his face. A very promising beginning, and now dawn had become day.

  PART III

  III.1

  3 May 1784, Ulrichsberg

  HARRIET WOKE EARLY. It seemed to take her a strangely long time to remember where she was and why. Then the impressions of the previous day rushed over her and she lay back down in her bed with a groan.

  Her maid arrived to help her dress.

  ‘You are being looked after, Dido?’ Harriet asked as the little maid smoothed her petticoats down.

  ‘Yes, bless you, ma’am,’ she said. ‘We have a little trouble understanding each other, but they are helpful enough and everything is to hand. Couple of them have enough English to chat.’ She paused to pull Harriet’s laces tight at her back. ‘Everyone speaks nicely of Mrs Clode. Seems they’ve taken quite a liking to her below stairs, as far as I can tell.’

  Harriet felt Dido’s quick fingers at the ties. ‘Have you ever left England before, Dido?’

  ‘Never, ma’am. Though I am glad to have had the chance now! William is so full of stories of the time he served with your husband. Now I shall have some stories of my own.’ She pursed her lips and went to gather Harriet’s riding dress in her arms. The heavy green fabric dwarfed her. ‘Now, I understand this will do nicely during the day.’ Harriet allowed herself to be pinned and smoothed into the folds. It was more comfortable than court dress, at any rate. ‘They are a superstitious lot though.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Yes, full of all sorts of ghost stories. If I believed half of it, I swear I wouldn’t sleep at night. Not enough work to do, I believe. Can you imagine Mrs Heathcote’s face if she found me and Cook trying to talk to spirits and paying our wages to folks who claimed powers in that way? Lord, they’d hear the shrieks in Thornleigh Hall.’ Harriet grinned. ‘There, ma’am. If you will just tidy your hair a little while I fetch your coffee, you will do us credit.’

  Florian groaned and Pegel saw his arms stretching from his perch by the window.

  ‘What is the time?’

  Pegel glanced out at the clock in the market square. ‘Something after ten. Are you hungry? Shall we eat?’

  Florian pulled himself into a sitting position and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘No, no. I have … I have business I must attend to. How is your jaw?’

  ‘Stiff, but it still works. What of your ribs?’

  Florian got to his feet and pressed his hand gingerly to his side. ‘Sore, but I am whole, I think. Will you attend lectures today?’

  Pegel shook his head. ‘No, my head is too swollen with your talk to deal with the Professor. I will work here.’

  Florian buttoned his waistcoat, wincing, then picked up his coat. ‘Will you be here this afternoon? I still have questions about your formula, if I may call on you?’ There was a slight, awkward formality in his tone.

  ‘Just as you wish. I shall probably be here. Throw a rock at the window, if you want to save yourself the climb. If I’m here, I shall hear it and call down to you.’

  ‘Very well.’ Florian picked up his satchel and fitted it over his shoulder. ‘Jacob …?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Pegel said, already apparently engrossed by the papers on his desk.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Pegel raised his hand in a lazy farewell, and Florian left the room. Jacob heard his steps disappearing down the stairs, then went to the side of his window and looked out. Charles emerged into the square, hesitated and then headed north.

  ‘Home rather than the lecture hall, hey?’ Pegel said to himself, then grabbed up his coat and tripped off in pursuit.

  It was not that Pegel went in disguise, but rather he had the talent to assume a shape in the air that seemed to take up no room in it. He waited in the shadows opposite Florian’s lodgings, a straw in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, and no one paid any mind to him. He might have been one of the paintings on the Town Hall watching the people move about him and no one ever looking up and across. Florian’s rooms were in a far nicer corner of Leuchtenstadt than Pegel’s. But then Florian was nobility, and though he might not seem to like the system of nobility, he took the money, it seemed, and spent it. It was almost half an hour before the door opened again and a young woman stepped out into the road. She wore the neat linen and slightly harried expression of a maid asked to abandon her duties when she had not time enough as it was to complete them. She looked up and down the street. Still with his straw and his slouch, Pegel emerged from the shadows and joined the stream of people passing, just glancing up as he got close to her.

  ‘You there!’

  He paused and touched the brim of his hat. ‘All right there, miss? Cold again, ain’t it?’

  ‘Can you read?’

  ‘My name and numbers.’

  She put a folded note into his hand. ‘Now this is to go to Mr Wilhelm Grey, he’s a lawyer at the university. You’re to take it to him and wait for a reply. Bring it straight back and there’ll be a fair reward for it.’

  Pegel considered telling her he’d do it for a kiss. But she’d start looking at him then whether she’d pay the price or no. Better to resist the temptation to make conversation for now. Wilhelm Grey, was it? He’d seen him around. A wizened-faced old bird who had a fondness for folding lavender into his worn cloak and a liking for his more fresh-faced young students. Pegel touched his hat and pocketed the note. It was time to summon his irregular little army of urchins. If this went the way he thought it might, he’d need extra feet and extra hands to track the little rabbits home. As soon as he turned the corner he pulled the note out of his pocket and looked at it more closely. Sealed. Well, Florian was not a complete fool.

  III.2

  KRALL RETURNED TO THE PALACE, cold from his early ride but content, and made his way at once to Chancellor Swann with Clode’s carnival mask wrapped in linen in his hands. He found the Chancellor with the Duke and a mass of papers. There was a harpsichord in the room, and as was his custom, the Duke was signing his papers to its accompaniment. In the other corner of the room the Countess Dieth sat at a small table, amusing herself, it seemed, playing games of Patience. Krall made his bow and readied himself to wait until business was concluded, but the Duke had seen the package in his hands and, it appeared, wanted distraction.
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br />   ‘What do you have there, Krall?’ It was a point of pride among his people that their Duke spoke the local dialect as fluently as they. He used it now.

  ‘Mr Clode’s carnival mask, sire,’ he replied.

  The Duke put down his pen and beckoned Krall over. Krall approached, and as he unwrapped the mask explained the theory that it had been used to drug Mr Clode in some way, as suggested in Mrs Westerman’s note.

  The Duke smiled broadly. ‘Fascinating! How do you propose to test the theory?’

  ‘I thought to ask for a volunteer from among the servants, and observe the results, sire.’

  The Duke sat back in his chair. ‘Oh, what an excellent idea! I should like to see that. May we try it at once?’

  The music stopped and Krall glanced towards the musician. Turning from the keyboard was an extremely handsome man Krall did not recognise.

  ‘With your permission, sire,’ the man said in precise German.

  ‘What is it, Manzerotti?’

  ‘If the mask were drugged, its effects may have weakened over time. It might be better to experiment on a child. I think I know where one might be found at this time.’

  The Duke crossed his legs. ‘Thank you, Manzerotti. Fetch it at once. Countess Dieth? Would you be so kind as to gather our English friends? It was Mrs Westerman’s suggestion, after all. She should see it tried.’

  The lady stood up. ‘It is nonsense. You should have executed that monstrous Englishman a month ago.’

  ‘Now, now, my dear,’ the Duke said very softly. ‘Indulge me.’

  From the moment they were introduced, Harriet realised Krall was cut of a very different cloth to the other people she had met at court so far. He looked, Harriet realised, a little like Michaels, though he was clean-shaven. His face was deeply lined, a granite escarpment weathered and harried by the elements, and his coat was far more workaday than any others worn at court. She could hardly imagine him moving among them. He was a charcoal sketch among the heavy oils around him. She found she was being studied in her turn, though with a friendly eye.

  The Countess Dieth had hardly shared a word with them on their walk through the mirrored and shining corridors of the palace. She had simply told them to come with her. Rachel had shaken her head, saying she needed to rest, but Graves, Crowther and Harriet had followed in her silken wake, though Harriet saw signs of irritation on both their faces. Chancellor Swann was standing by the desk when they entered and bowed politely to them. Countess Dieth immediately retook her seat at the card-table and turned away from them all.

  The Duke sat on a small daybed and indicated the area of carpet in front of the marble fireplace with a jewelled hand. He had his spaniel on his lap again. ‘If you would just stand there … excellent. Now we shall all have a perfect view. Continue, Krall.’

  Krall bowed a little awkwardly, as if the movement did not come naturally to him. The Duke began to feed his dog sweetmeats from between his own lips. Harriet looked about her. After the Great Hall, this room seemed almost domestic. Classical drapery, but it had some lightness to it. If Harriet had chosen to fill the ceiling of the Long Salon in Caveley with putti and fill the walls with oil paintings, it might look something like this.

  ‘By your leave, sire.’ Krall pushed open a door just behind him, and from the antechamber beyond entered a young woman, fashionably if not richly dressed, who led by the hand a little girl of some seven or eight years of age.

  ‘Perfect,’ the Duke said. The Countess looked up briefly from her cards, shuddered and turned away. Krall led the little girl into the middle of the room then turned to a side-table and picked up a small bundle. He folded back the material and Harriet saw the fixed open grin of the carnival mask for the first time. She started forward, but felt Crowther’s hand on her arm.

  ‘But Crowther – a child!’ she whispered.

  He shook his head.

  Krall spoke; his French was not as fluent as his English – he sounded awkward, like a bad actor. ‘Sire, this young lady is Elizabeta, daughter to one of Monsieur Rapinat’s dancers in the corps de ballet.’

  The Duke peered at the child for a moment. ‘Probably the fruit of Mr Rapinat’s loins. Continue.’

  The Duke’s French was perfect, of course, and the mother flushed, and Krall frowned very briefly, but he addressed the child. ‘Elizabeta, we will play a game. You will put on this mask. It is magic and you will see … fairies and many, many wonderful things. You may feel a little unusual, but don’t worry. There’s a good girl.’

  ‘Sire …’ Harriet said. ‘Surely there is some other way—’

  ‘Shush, now, Mrs Westerman,’ the Duke said, raising a finger. ‘We have considered the matter and will not be questioned further.’ His voice was a deliberate singsong.

  The mask was far too big for Elizabeta’s face. Krall helped her tie the ribbons behind her head, but she still had to hold it in place with one small hand on the chin. It was an unsettling sight, the little body of the child in her pretty, gauzy pink dress, her feet turned out neatly at right angles to each other as if she were a dancer herself, then that huge mask with its wide knowing grin. It seemed almost obscene.

  ‘It smells funny!’ Her voice was high and nervous, muffled behind the wide wooden grin.

  Krall laid one hand on her shoulder, watching her very closely. ‘That is part of the magic.’

  ‘I cannot see very well.’

  ‘Be patient, my child.’

  The Duke shrugged and began to play with his dog again. Then the little girl’s chest began to rise and fall more quickly. ‘Oh, my heart is thumping so!’

  Krall swiftly undid the ribbons, and, touching only the edges of the mask, he laid it carefully to one side. Harriet heard Graves exclaim under his breath. The child’s eyes seemed to have swollen in her head and her face was flushed.

  ‘How are you now, Elizabeta?’ Krall asked.

  She tilted her head on one side and blinked repeatedly. She seemed to be breathing through her mouth. Her lips were parted. Something in the air in the empty centre of the room seemed to fascinate her. Harriet was reminded of her housekeeper’s cat chasing shadows in the salon at Caveley. Elizabeta lifted her right hand and tried, apparently, to catch at whatever she saw. It seemed to evade her grasp and she laughed. Whatever the girl was watching fell to the floor and she pounced on it, landing lightly on her knees. The rug was woven with tendrils and flowers. Elizabeta followed them with her fingers, then gasped and lifted her head.

  ‘What do you see?’ Krall asked.

  ‘The flowers are growing, of course!’ she said, without looking at him. ‘See, sir, they are climbing right up to the ceiling. Maman, Maman, do you see?’ Her mother covered her mouth. ‘I never saw flowers grow so fast before! How I wish they were always like this!’

  Harriet noticed out of the corner of her eye that the Countess was watching now. The Duke looked greatly amused.

  ‘Do you see the fairies approach, Elizabeta?’ Krall said.

  She turned her head this way and that, then a sudden understanding came over her features. ‘Why, they are everywhere!’

  ‘I think the Fairy King wishes to dance with you,’ Krall said.

  Elizabeta suddenly blushed, then stood and took a number of light steps towards Graves and with a deep curtsey held out her hand.

  Graves looked at his companions. Crowther gave a tiny nod of his head, and Graves took the little girl’s fingers between his own and bowed.

  ‘How does the Fairy King look, Elizabeta?’ Krall asked.

  ‘He is handsome and has a golden crown!’ Graves lifted the girl’s hand and she skipped forward, lifting and dropping her arms, then returning and taking his hand again, they moved forward together. She spun again and returned to him. Graves tried to mirror her steps, but having none of her natural grace, and not the advantage of hearing whatever orchestra was playing to the child he was stiff and unnatural.

  ‘I thought the King of the Fairies would dance beautifully!’ the
child said and the Duke laughed. Graves frowned and the child saw it. ‘Oh, I have made him angry! His eyes are all red. Oh, they glow like the devil’s!’ Graves smiled and bowed. ‘He shall eat me!’

  The Duke began to laugh, but the child looked terrified. Her mother made a whimpering noise and tried to move forward, but Krall put out his hand to stop her. Graves looked up at Harriet desperately. Harriet thought for a moment then undid the ribbon at her neck and handed it to him. From it hung a paste flower of brilliants. She had worn it at Rachel’s wedding. Graves took it and handed it at once to the little girl with a bow. She stopped crying at once and stared at it open-mouthed. ‘He has forgiven me.’ She dropped to her knees again and taking Graves’s hand, kissed his knuckles with absolute reverence.

  The Duke was still shaking with amusement. The little girl dropped Graves’s hand and became quiet. Graves backed away a little.

  ‘Elizabeta?’

  She was tracing the flowers in and above the carpet once more. The Fairy King seemed forgotten.

  ‘I’m dizzy,’ she said, her voice a little slurred. ‘I would like to go to sleep now.’

  Krall dropped his hold on the mother’s wrist and the young woman swept forward, gathered the child up in her arms, and throwing a dark look at Krall, left the room. The Duke managed to control his laughter.

  ‘Well, whatever the effect of that mask, it did not mask her judgement of the dancing of milord Graves! Swanny, a purse for the mother and child, with our sincere thanks.’

  ‘Of course, Your Highness.’

  ‘I almost wish to see the fairies myself. Interesting. So Krall, is the mask a trap for Djinns? Is it engraved with the Seal of Solomon?’

  ‘It seems it is drugged, sire, as Mrs Westerman suggested.’

  The Countess Dieth had got to her feet. ‘The child was coached! It is a lie to make you release Clode, sire!’

  The Duke had hold of his spaniel’s forepaws and was making her dance back and forth on his lap. ‘Would you like to try the mask yourself, Countess? No?’ The Countess was silent. ‘I thought not. No, I do not think the child was coached. Poor Mr Clode.’ He set the dog onto the floor and its claws skittered on the parquet as it retreated beneath the day-bed. ‘Do you think someone might have wished to play a joke on Mr Clode? Then perhaps the drug sent him mad, he killed Lady Martesen and in horror at what he had done, tried to do away with himself. There. I have it.’