Clara’s foot snagged a tree root and before pain hit her, she tumbled down a shallow ravine and settled to a stop at a riverbank of ice.
Cold and frozen and unable to pull herself again to her feet, Clara brought her knees to her chest and closed her eyes tight. Tears pressed from her lashes. When I open my eyes, she thought, I’ll awaken and be back in the drawing room. I’ll stop throbbing all over. Any moment, I’ll wake up. Any moment now.
Clara opened her eyes. Dark pines pierced the misty black sky.
It could have been moments. It could have been hours. Clara’s cheeks had turned to ice from the tears she had valiantly tried to keep back. It began to snow fat, merry flakes. Clara knew she should find some kind of shelter or warmth, but all sensible thought had frozen too. She closed her eyes again.
At last, when she opened them, it was to brilliant light. She cringed, her eyes adjusting to condense the light to a bright glow, perched on her knee. Hardly three inches from Clara’s nose.
Clara quickly wiped her eyes, focusing on the tiny white figure, which curiously peered back at her, its lovely little face looking her up and down, its dragonfly wings shimmering in the wind.
A fairy. Clara knew it now. It stood on her knee, its light creating a fire of warmth, and oh! How beautiful it was! This one wore a dress of white feathers and vine, glittering as though caught in sunlight. The only color to the creature was the rose of her cheeks and her brilliant red hair, which tumbled over her shoulders. She reached forward with a delicate white arm, and touched Clara’s cheek. When she withdrew her hand, a tear sparkled in it. She looked sadly at the tear, then at Clara.
For a moment, Clara forgot how lost and cold and confused she was and realized what she already knew: this wasn’t a dream. She hadn’t been caught up in a storybook. This was real. Real as the stinging peppermint snow that swirled around her. Awakened, sensible thoughts returned to her. She had to get somewhere warm before she froze. And what had happened to the nutcracker? Was he still fighting rats?
Smiling at Clara, the fairy dropped the tear in a glint, and flew off in the streak.
“Wait!” Clara lurched to her feet, and stumbled after it.
The fairy didn’t quite oblige, but she lit on a pine bough in the distance, illuminating the shadows of needles. Clara staggered to the tree, and the fairy’s light immediately extinguished, drenching Clara in the shadows of the forest.
“No!” Clara cried. “Please come back! I—I need to get home—what do I do?”
Far ahead, at the edge of another large pine, a light sparked. Another fairy. Clara pushed upward through the snow after it. And when she reached it, it faded—but another prick of light shone ahead. Determined, Clara slogged after it, up the ravine. Another, and another, each step giving Clara more hope and warmth, until she reached an open meadow.
She took one tremulous step into the untouched snow and dozens of fairies rose up around her. A gasp caught in Clara’s throat as they fluttered about her, their wings brushing her cheeks, her fingertips, her hair. They swirled like glowing snowflakes. They danced with the grace of prima ballerinas, touching her hair, her outstretched fingers, glittering over the midnight landscape. Clara was lost in a beautiful dream.
“Miss Clara!”
In a moment, the fairies had scattered, faded into the storm, which had suddenly lost its amiability and stung in gales of wind. A figure appeared through the sheets of snow, forming as it drew nearer, and looming above Clara in a tall painted uniform and great black hat, rat-scratched paint all over him. The snow did not seem to affect him, although the sight of Clara did.
“Miss Clara!” he said, loping with wooden awkwardness to her side. “You’re all right! I’m so glad. I’ve driven the rats off for now, but they’ll be back and we’ve got to find shelter. Not to worry—do you know what I just saw? A fairy! They’re good luck, you know.”
“Are they?” said Clara, and her strength gave away as she collapsed into the nutcracker’s hard, giant arms.
Krystallgrad stood a city of unusual symphonies. Gone were the regular sounds of early morning: the rumble of the after-midnight trains coursing through the numerous tracks of the city, the Christmas mass church bells. The trundle and creaks of milk carts, the last rush of those buying Christmas gifts, solicitors and clerks leaving work late so they could take Christmas with their families. The carolers out too late and a little tipsy from their wassail, singing Fie fie fie fie fie fie fie fie fie fie fie fie fie fie fie...
Instead a sostenuto of gloom had settled over the city like a whispered frost. The rush of the Starii river legatoed, always there but now heard in the newfound silence. In the distance, the bassline of snarling rats wove at the walls, searching for a way in. At times, gunshots staccatoed, then echoed away. And all throughout the city, telegraph offices clackety clack clacked into the morning hours with messages of: What do we do? What do we do????
One sound remained the same—the rising melodies of the Krystallgradian Symphony Hall. No musician ever missed rehearsal, not even when the Empire was in a state of emergency.
Across the prospekt, Polichinelle’s glowed, its multi-colored onion domes glittering in the winter night, its windows all shapes of light. Inside the main lobby, a vast entrance hall with vaulted ceiling, spiral staircases, checkered floor and a giant hanging clock, a group of Polichinelle’s customers and attendants argued with hushed voices. Several of the men had rifles slung over their backs, left over from their soldiering days. They feverishly spoke of hopeless battle plans. This was the entirety of the Krystallgradian makeshift militia.
Alexei Polichinelle stood behind the group, sometimes pacing, his face fixed in a dark frown. He, too, wore his army rifle. It had been over a year since he’d graduated from the army, but he retained enough sense to know that every battle plan they thought of wouldn’t work. Without soldiers, rats were breeching the walls, and there wasn’t enough men or ammunition to keep them at bay. And worst of all: how did someone fight magic? This was beyond him.
“Master Polichinelle?”
Alexei turned, and found Zizi peeking her head in from the backroom door. Her brown-gold eyes were lit with hope. Alexei’s stiff soldier demeanor softened—a little.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered after Alexei had bowed himself from the group and greeted her at the door. “Master Polichinelle, I know this is terribly beyond the pale, but may I leave my shift early?”
How had it happened? Zizi wasn’t quite sure. Alexei had said of course if she pleased, but why? And Zizi had told him that she wished to go to the border wall at the end of the prospekt because she needed to find rats, and that had really made Alexei question things and somehow, here she was, seated next to the Alexei Polichinelle on a Polichinelle’s troika waggon, and he was now leading the team of three horses through the quiet city to the border wall.
It rose up before them in just an hour’s time, a great structure of stone and brick several stories high. One or two older men, part of the makeshift militia, stood grim-faced at the top. They saluted to Alexei below.
Though muffled, the sound of rats on the other side gave the ground a low rumble. The city was safe—for now—but even on this side of the wall, the Polichinelle horses bayed and refused to go further.
Zizi quickly dismounted and ran up the stairs along the wall, gripping a sack of Polichinelle peppermints.
“Miss Kaminzki!” said Alexei, shouldering his rifle and leaping up after her. He caught up at the top of the wall, on the walkway between the two towers overlooking the North Forest. Little nutcracker toys—the entirety of the Krystallgradian Border Guard Number Seven (East Division)—lay piled by the south tower. Here, atop the wall, the sound of rats rose from below in sharp, focused snarls. There were maybe ten of them at the base, clawing away at the stone. The two militia men gripped their bulletless rifles and gritted their teeth down at the commotion. Several of the rats climbed atop each other, and topped backwards to the snow again. How long until more ra
ts came and they managed to reach the top?
In a smooth movement, Zizi opened the drawstring on the bag of Polichinelle peppermints and withdrew a handful. Beside her, Alexei’s eyes watered. These were not regular peppermints; they were Polichinelle nevermints. The Strongest Peppermint The Empire Has To Offer™. They exceeded the realm of anise teas and triple-horseradish chews and could clear the sinuses by just looking at them.
Zizi bit her lip, and cast a quick glance at Alexei. I was cleaning the mint jars in the kitchen, she had breathlessly told him on the way, and the smell was so strong it occurred to me that since rats have a stupendous sense of smell...
Alexei hadn’t said anything, only looked at her with those dark stormcloud eyes.
Now, with a swift hurl, Zizi tossed the handful of nevermints over the wall. They fell in a white-speckled rainfall to the rats below...
...Who screeched and scattered.
The base of the wall cleared as the rats retreated at a run into the cover of the forest, clawing their noses and hissing.
Atop the wall, the two militia men stared at the paw prints in the snow, then at Zizi.
“I think this may actually be better than bullets or rifles,” said Zizi, flushed, “because it drives the rats away, you see. We could have every Polichinelle cook stop what they’re doing and just make these. Ah,” she added, flushing deeper, “if you approve, of course.”
Alexei stared at her, and his stormy demeanor brightened only a little...but enough that Zizi knew: He approved.
The Abbey of the Indomitable Sisters stood at the edge of the North Forest, a conclave of large brown walls and turrets, expanses of garden and fruit trees. It looked very much like a gingerbread castle, encased within a gate of iron and vines. Misty mountain air wove through the branches and the juts of the building, and the falling snow muffled the scrape of the gate entrance as the magician—panting, lips blue, and frosted all over—pushed his way into the front garden. He quietly shut the gate behind him, and found his way through the snow path to the back kitchen entrance.
He moved with such surety around the Abbey, as though he knew the place. And he did. It had changed very little in the past ten years.
He slipped inside with ease, his muddy cloak trailing after him, his blue eyes taking in the room of hanging pans and herbs and hearth fire. He’d left the prince in the North Forest, had meant to go back to Krystallgrad, but his flute keys had frozen in the frigid cold, landing him near the Abbey Station. He made a mental note to compose a song of warmth for the future. One of flickering runs, like a merry fireplace. In the key of F or B flat. Flats just felt warmer than sharps. It would be like his Illumination Sonatina, but with heat instead of light. Then, if he were out in the cold too long, he wouldn’t get stuck in places like these.
Erik Zolokov warmed himself in front of the fire flute-first, checking the pads of the keys and rubbing the wood dry. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth heat his face.
And then he hurriedly pulled out his music from his vest, leafing numbly through the pages until he found it: The Imperial Palace Prelude. He seemed to be in a hurry, as though the Abbey kitchen were paining him. Erik Zolokov quickly reviewed the music, stuffed it back into his vest, and remembering the handwritten notes, and brought the flute to his lips. He began the music: a song of crescendos, grand halls, and glittering chandeliers.
He vanished from the little kitchen as though he had never been there at all. It left a gust of air with his parting.
In his hurry, what he had not seen was a piece of music slip from the pages and in the vanishing wind, flutter to rest beneath the wood table.
But someone else did. Pyotr, who couldn’t sleep (the lone orphan among the rows of empty beds), had heard velvet steps in the kitchen. He had made his way down the hall, taking care to keep his crutch from going clock clock clock against the floors. Tucked behind the kitchen door, he had watched with fascination as the man played, and then disappeared.
Pyotr then knew: this was the magician that all the telegrams and the nuns were talking about. The same one who had turned all his friends into toys.
Pyotr counted to twenty after the magician had gone, then carefully clock thunked to the sheet music on the floor, and examined the handwritten script. He couldn’t read it, but he knew it was important. Important enough to take to the Krystallgrad militia.
And, by the saints, he also knew that there had to be a reason he had woken up instead of the nuns, and that he had been the one to see the magician. And there was a train waiting at the Abbey Station, wasn’t there? It was clear to Pyotr: he had been meant to find this music. Face flushed, the orphan tucked the music beneath his arm and hobbled to get his coat.
For the past two years, when Clara practiced Johann Kahler’s Sonata, she would imagine her first kiss. She folded the dream around herself like a blanket, warming her when the sun set and her fingers ached, practicing the piano as the room grew dark and the keys hard to see underneath her fingers.
After the Christmas concert, when the gas lights on the stage had been turned down, and the audience had left the theater empty, and Clara’s family would be out in the lobby speaking to Professor Schonemann, and Clara...Clara would still be onstage, sitting at the piano, touching her fingers to the keys. Not actually playing, but just thinking. Mostly about the performance, how she had played, how Johann Kahler’s Sonata had brought the audience to their feet and how they had begged him for an encore, applause echoing to the ceiling.
But in the dark aftermath of the concert, all would be silent. Except for the click of shoes across the stage. A click that Clara knew. Clara would turn, and Johann would be there, framed against the yellow light of the stage door.
“Miss...Clara Stahlbaum,” he would say, the name new on his lips.
“Master Johann,” Clara would say, with a smile.
His black shoes would click click click to her side, and she would feel the radiance of his perfect form, the surety of his hand touching the side of the piano.
“You played quite well,” he would say. “I daresay you won’t have any difficulty gaining acceptance to the Conservatory.”
“Well,” Clara would say, knowing she couldn’t afford it. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps? You are much too good for a perhaps. You have other plans?”
Clara would only smile. Johann Kahler would return it...and what a smile! It would light up the dark theater, and his bass voice would resonate:
“Come. There is a little time still; let us play a duet!”
A duet with Johann Kahler! Clara could only dream—and she did—of playing side-by-side with such a master. His music, so close, would balm her aching soul, reminding her of her father and returning to a lifetime of song. Clara would move aside on the bench for him, feeling his aura against her side. And they would begin in unison, playing by ear. Johann would get cheeky with the music, veering into additional harmonies, sweeping arpeggios that would hop over her hands, his gloved fingers brushing her own, sending leaps into her heart with each touch. Flitting, teasing, whorling into a concerto that only the empty seats and catwalks could witness.
And then Johann would pause. His hand would be placed on a chord over her own. Gently, gently, his fingers would fold around her hand, and the song would stop, suddenly rendered breathless.
Clara’s heart would be leaping in a mess of beats. She wouldn’t dare raise her eyes, but would keep them focused on the keys, breathing in Johann’s scent, feeling his warmth on her face as he drew near. Terribly, wonderfully near.
“I hope, Miss Clara,” he would whisper, “that I could be a part of these plans you have.”
His chin would touch her cheek, both rough and soft, and she would turn her head, and...
Clara always became too blushy to think of what happened next, other than it would be stupendous. It had to be. Everyone made such a fuss over kissing, she couldn’t imagine it anything less than spectacular. For two years, the thought of that first kiss sped he
r fingers across the piano keys and kept her practicing until night faded and the dawn’s light brightened the piano in the drawing room once more.
Clara did not know how long she leaned on the arm of the giant nutcracker, stumbling with him through the snow and trees until he lifted her into his cold, hard arms and carried her as though she weighed nothing. The frosted beard down his chest brushed her cheek. Clara hardly felt it. When he spoke, Clara hardly heard it. When she said nothing, he jostled her in his hard arms.
“Say something, Clara, go on,” he said. “You’re not freezing to death on me, are you? I’m made of wood and can’t feel if you are.” Jostle, jostle.
“Yes, I’m still alive,” Clara murmured.
“Oh, good! I’m so glad. Here is news: my regiment was stationed near here, and there’s a bunker nearby. A small one, but every bunker has a stove and some wood. We can rest a moment there. That’s good, isn’t it? Clara?” Jostle.
“Yes,” Clara murmured.
She had almost slipped into a heavy sleep when she tumbled onto a bed that felt like it had been made of burlap sacks and stuffed with bushes. The nutcracker, with stiff, wooden movements, clumsily wrapped her in a scratchy blanket and set to work lighting a fire in a little black stove.
Clara gathered presence of mind and took in her surroundings. She huddled in the center of a small militia bunker. There were several bunk beds, boxes of supplies, and a card table, all the color of overwashed laundry. Plank walls didn’t quite keep the draft out. It all smelled thickly of Man, which was: Not Soap. Still, the place had some semblance of civility: a map was pinned to the wall. Old military greatcoats and furry hats hung on nails beside it. Clara’s eyes were drawn to the most colorful bit of the bunker—three twelve-inch nutcrackers piled underneath the card table, unmoving. Former soldiers, Clara guessed.
The Enchanted Sonata Page 7
