Perhaps that was part of the reason she knew she loved Johann. He understood music; the both spoke the same language. When Clara heard him play, she would tuck herself a little behind the Conservatory hall curtains and just listen, letting the music wash over her.
Nutcracker threw Clara, Pyotr, and himself through the Abbey gate. Clara rolled over iced twigs as Nutcracker pirouetted around and slammed the gate shut with a clang.
Clara helped Pyotr up from the snow, her eyes still burning with the image of distant rats running in lines down the snowy ravine, fifteen at least, and more coming. She had wrapped her arms tightly around Nutcracker’s head, her fingers digging into the tufts of his hair, and he’d said, muffled into her shoulder, Your hair is in my eyes, Miss Clara. Even now, in the distance, Clara could hear the rats snarling. She shook.
Nutcracker seemed affected as well, the spots on his cheeks a rosy pink. Pyotr, on the other hand, was beaming and hopping on one foot around them, chattering on about how marvelous it was and how fast Nutcracker had run and how he wished he could run that fast.
“Eeeee!!”
The nuns had found them. In a beige-colored gaggle, they scampered from the Abbey doors, snatched Pyotr up, then fled back inside and slammed the doors shut with a bang.
“They seem nice,” said Nutcracker.
The doors opened again and, in an instant, Clara and Nutcracker were surrounded with nun brandishing pruning shears, kitchen knives, and pitchforks.
Nutcracker shut him mouth a clack. The distant rat snarls grew closer.
Clara and Nutcracker were escorted into the Abbey at pitchfork-point. The nuns seemed extremely wary of this giant toy clacking through their halls, and, Clara admitted, she couldn’t blame them. How often did you see an eight-foot tall walking, talking nutcracker? She also felt self-conscious next to the crisp, clean nuns, too aware of how awful she probably looked with her stringy hair and oversized soggy coat. She made an effort to comb her fingers through her hair as they were led through the sacred reclusion, which smelled like marigolds. The wood floors shone blue with morning windowlight, and the halls were arches upon arches.
The walk ended at the Abbey chapel, where they were instructed to wait for the mother of the Abbey, Mother Svetlana, who would be in soon for midday Mass. Clara dared walk down the aisle, looking at the pews, upon which rows of toys were seated. The orphans. They must have been. Drums, hoops, music boxes, stuffed dolls and animals, all placed there in neat little rows by the nuns.
Clara picked up a small wooden music box and opened it; and a jingly little hymn played. She became wistful. Perhaps it was because this had once been a breathing, live little girl, hoping for her own parents the same way Pyotr had. Perhaps it was because Clara was homesick for her own mother and for Fritz, who was so much like Pyotr. Perhaps she was growing fond of the glittering Imperian world of diamond starlight. Or perhaps she was just tired and hungry. Probably it was that. Whatever it was, it made Clara forget about the rush to get back to the concert and Johann for more than a few minutes, which had not happened in a long time.
“Miss!”
Clara started, surprised to see Pyotr’s head pop up in the pew in front of her, his eyes shining. His dirt-streaked face had already been scrubbed clean, he had a new crutch, and he was breathless.
“Pyotr!” Clara whispered.
“It’s lessons, miss, but I skived off,” said Pyotr, in a deeply conspiratorial tone. He looked around quickly and ducked lower so the nuns wouldn’t see him. “I told them I needed much to say a prayer of gratitude, and I will. But, miss,” he continued. “I remember you were wanting a piano. We haven’t got one but here in this chapel is an organ.”
An organ! Clara glanced up at the front of the chapel, and there was the organ console, the wall behind the Virgin reamed with organ pipes. A smiled touched Clara’s face.
“I go now,” Pyotr squeaked. “Saints be with you!”
In an instant, before the nuns could grab him, he was out of the pew and skittering three-legged out of the chapel. Clara marveled. For his bad foot and crutch, he really could get around.
Seconds later, when the large nun dressed in robes of beige and white swept in, Clara immediately knew it was Mother Svetlana. She filled the arched ceiling with Presence, starch, and the eye-stinging smell of medical ointment. She wore a wimple so broad it had wings and looked like it could possibly fly off at any moment, and when she spoke, she pronounced her w’s with authority. Clara, filled with godly fear, hurried to Nutcracker’s side. Nutcracker, however, did not seem intimidated in the least, and greeted her boldly.
“Mother—” he began.
“HWHO,” Mother Svetlana boomed, “are YOU?”
“I’m—”
“The boy says you are a soldier?”
“Yes, I’m—”
“But the spell didn’t fully change you?”
“Ah, yes, I—”
“How is this possible?”
“I will tell you if you give me a minute to speak!” said Nutcracker, probably a little louder than he should have. All the nuns in the chapel looked at him reproachfully. Except one, who stifled a giggle.
Mother Svetlana’s eyes narrowed, but she pulled out a pocket watch from her apron pocket, clicked it open, and began timing Nutcracker. It really did look like he was only going to have a minute.
With a deep breath, Nutcracker began telling the story as quickly as he could. From meeting the magician at the Palace, his musical spells, the fairies taking him to Clara’s world, the magician bringing them back again, and bringing Clara into the story with words like fairy-blessed and music. He told them everything, except who he was, or why the magician had only made him partly toy. But he didn’t need to worry about those details, as Mother Svetlana shut the pocket watch with a snap, abruptly ending his story. Nutcracker’s time was up.
He recklessly finished:
“We really need to get to the Abbey station and get the word out on the wires. And then catch the next train to the city so we can form a militia and—”
Mother Svetlana barred their exit by filling the whole doorway, which she could do.
“Impossible!” she boomed. “You hwill stay here!”
“That would be a very bad idea,” said Nutcracker diplomatically. “I believe the next train is coming—ah—if it leaves the Derevo station at seven AM it should be here—ah, that’s three hundred miles—at the standard speed of fifty-five miles per hour—in about—a little over half-past-twelve. We really must go. Miss Clara—”
“Impossible!” Mother Svetlana boomed, even more resolute. “God has informed us that none of the trains are running.”
There was a pause.
“Did He?” said Nutcracker. “That was nice of Him.”
“Hwe also regulate the telegraph hwires. Sisters Lizaveta and Olga can interpret the unholy hwrit and intercede on behalf of the Abbey.”
“Intercede?” Nutcracker echoed.
“None of the trains have been running since last night. The hwhole Empire is in a state of emergency.”
Clara was only half-listening. She was looking at the Illumination Sonatina piece of music, and glancing at the organ.
“Um,” said Nutcracker. “Are you telling me that you’ve been listening in on the telegraph wires? You know wiretapping is illegal, yes?”
Mother Svetlana crossed her arms and inhaled, broadening their lack of exit.
“God gives us clearance to do His hwork,” she boomed.
“Right, right,” said Nutcracker, smiling with annoyance. “But you can’t have unregistered technicians on the lines, there’s laws about that—”
“God is the Higher Law!” Mother Svetlana seemed to be inflating.
“No, no, it’s illegal for everyone.” Nutcracker was obliviously barreling on. “Even the emperor. I should know. I spent hours practically at gunpoint memorizing all fifteen-hundred pages of the Imperian Lawbook and wiretapping restrictions and regulations begin on page seven h
undred fifteen and end on seven hundred forty-two, and listening in on the messages is, most certainly, illegal,” he finished. And then he added: “And I feel certain God would agree with me on this.”
Mother Svetlana had gone cherry red. She looked to be in danger of exploding. She opened her mouth—
—and the hard, strong blare of an organ chord filled the chapel.
* * *
Clara was a pianist, which isn’t to say that she couldn’t play the organ. After all, it had keys and they were black and white, too. True, there were four times as many and your feet had to play them as well and there were dozens of stops you had to pull, which each individually made the organ sound like a banshee. It was similar to handing a pianist an accordion, believing they could play it because it had a keyboard on the side.
But Clara did know the organ; a little. Sweat prickled on her forehead as she fumbled, her right hand above her left on the swell and great keys. Her booted feet fumbled with the bass keys, sometimes hitting two notes at once, other times the wrong notes, sending sour notes rumbling inside the chapel. The organ groaned and cried like it was in pain. Clara gritted her teeth and continued sight reading the Illumination Sonatina in front of her. It went badly. The unfamiliarity of the piece and the instrument. Clara felt the nuns behind her wincing. The last chord screamed like a broken firework.
Nothing magical at all had happened.
Clara dared glance into the pews. The nuns were covering their ears. Nutcracker stood aside, his mouth dropped open. Mother Svetlana was next to him, inflating.
“HWHAT do you think you are—” she began.
“I am trying this again!” Clara commanded in a voice stronger than Mother Svetlana’s. Without looking at Mother Svetlana’s face, she yanked on the stops and pushed others in, removing the reed stops and adding the flutes. She had to see if this would work. Before Mother Svetlana could say anything, Clara began again.
This time her fingers seemed to catch the melody, playing the rhythm and fingering the keys so they weren’t disjointed, and Clara felt a flicker within her sputter to life. Each chord weakly shone like a ray of light across the keys. But her feet fumbled. The organ shuddered, and the notes did not shine.
“Once more,” said Clara. She pulled another stop, adding a bright octave to the great. She tucked her feet underneath her, and brought both hands to the same line of keys. This time, she wouldn’t play it like an organ. She’d play it like a piano.
With the first chord, something...happened.
The music didn’t play just to her ears, it played inside her. It gripped her stomach and glowed to her lungs, and then rayed to her limbs. It reverberated all through her, heart beating with every chord she played. And the light she felt inside her grew and expanded outside of her. Dim at first, then brightening more in shades. It filled the dark corners of the chapel and turned the shadows pink. It gave halos to the statues and made the candles blaze. And the stained glass windows! They lit like the sun, casting thousands of colored shards over the nuns, the toys, and Nutcracker.
* * *
Across the country, rats paused in their assault on the wall, lifting their heads and squinting at the sky.
In Krystallgrad, the sun glinted brightly off the snowy rooftops.
Inside Polichinelle’s, Zizi was in the kitchens, helping with the peppermint making. Light filtered down from the windows high above, and seemed to make the silver bowls gleam. Zizi looked up, shielding her eyes.
“Master Alexei?” she began.
Alexei, on the other side of the kitchen, retooling the gumdrop machine to drop peppermints instead, looked up from the group that crowded around the machine.
“Never mind,” said Zizi quickly. Master Alexei Polichinelle had enough to worry about, he didn’t need more worries from her. Anyway, when the sun came out while snow still fell, it could get that bright. Zizi quickly went back to checking the candy thermometers. Alexei kept looking at her, as though hoping she would say something more. But when she didn’t, he turned his attention back to the machine.
* * *
At the Abbey, the nuns’ faces glowed. Several nuns crossed themselves.
Nutcracker took in the world of broken colors around him and breathed: “By the stars...”
Clara finished the song, sweat dripping down her neck, the chords echoing sunshine. Dust sworled in the beams of light around her. Everything in the room lit from an unseen source. Mother Svetlana gripped her jeweled rosary with white knuckles, agape. Clara swallowed, stunned and thrilled both.
“Can you imagine,” she whispered, “how bright it would be if—if I was a real organist? Or tried it on a piano? How much brighter it would be if it were played perfectly?”
“Clara!” said Nutcracker. “You—you can play the magic!”
A giddiness rose through Clara.
“I—I suppose I can!” she stammered. “I suppose anyone could—”
“Could, yes, if they were as good as you!” said Nutcracker.
“That means,” said Clara, getting more excited, “we don’t need the magician to break the spell! We just need the right music and I could play it could break it! Didn’t the magician say in the fairy book that he could turn the children back?”
“By the stars!” said Nutcracker.
“So I bet he has the music that can restore them!” said Clara. “It’s probably with his other music, in his vest! I remember, from the fairy book!”
“By the stars, Clara, you’re right!”
“All we need to do—”
“—Is find him and get his music—”
“—And surely there’s one—”
“—One that can—”
“Break the spell!”
“Break the spell!”
“And send me home!”
“And save the Empire!”
“Yes!”
“Yes!”
“Yes!”
“Very!”
Clara and Nutcracker beamed at each other, brighter than the room. The dust between them swirled with a charged energy, and the emerald green of Nutcracker’s eyes had a softness to them.
“I see now, Clara,” he said, “why the fairies sent me to you.”
Clara blushed so deeply her ears burned, and she wasn’t quite sure why. One of the nuns—the giggly one—stifled another giggle. The awkwardness was broken, however, a half moment later when a breathless nun burst into the chapel. Her face was deathly pale.
“Mother!” she said hoarsely. “Rats are at the gate! They’re breaking through!”
* * *
Nutcracker loped across the Abbey with a clack clack clack, scattering nuns before him. Clara hurried after him, and then they stood at the mullioned window, taking in the snow-covered gardens below. Clara examined the trellises and pleached tree branches jutting up from the blanket of white, and the twenty—no, thirty—moving grey bushes. Clara recognized them immediately as rats, leaping in through the gate, which hung limply on its hinges.
Nutcracker’s beard brushed Clara’s head.
“Right,” he said, above her. “Getting out of here and finding our way to a telegraph station and the city is going to be a little harder now. I was hoping for a back entrance or something we could escape out of—oh, no, they’re surrounding the back way, wonderful. You know, I bet there’s a cellar door—oh, no, they’re around that too. Right, Clara. We fight our way through!”
He pulled his sword out with a shing!
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Clara, panicked.
“I know the odds don’t look good,” Nutcracker admitted.
“You’ll be scratched to sawdust!” a passing nun crowed.
A voice startled them both by booming right behind them—
“YOU HWILL COME HWITH ME!”
Mother Svetlana filled the hall behind them.
“Mother—” Nutcracker began.
“Your charge, soldier, is to help this girl break the spell!”
; “Yes, I—”
“You hwill not stay here!”
“Naturally, I—”
“Enough!”
“I—”
“You hwill follow me!”
You did not disobey someone who added h’s to their w’s. Clara and Nutcracker hurried after Mother Svetlana, who could glide down the hall with extreme grace for someone her size. Nuns rushed past them in frocks of beige, their starched wimples brushing Clara. Mother Svetlana parted them like the Red Sea. Something flashed in one of their hands—a butcher knife?
“How dare these ungodly creatures assault a house of the Lord!” Mother Svetlana’s voice filled to the arches. “Hwe are hwomen of peace!”
“Yes…” Nutcracker eyed a short nun who scampered past with an ax. She looked positively gleeful.
“Hwe hwill hold the rats off, with God’s help,” Mother Svetlana continued. Down the hall, gunshots sounded, echoing through the gardens. A nun rushed past, carrying an eye-stinging bucket of lye. Another feeble old woman scuttled past with a huge rifle, gleefully squeaking: Lawks, lawks, I’m just a little old nun!
Mother Svetlana turned back into the chapel where the children toys were still seated, and they hurried across the floor patched with stained-glass light, now back to its regular hues. Hundreds of candle flames flickered in their wake. They drew up at a marble Virgin Mary, her hands clasped over a broad white altar.
“God hwill deliver you to the train station,” said Mother Svetlana, with finality.
“Um,” said Nutcracker. “Did we come here to pray? Ah. Prayers are very nice, of course, but given the situation—”
Mother Svetlana twisted her large jeweled rosary. It split into two crosses, and a key dropped out from the hollowed-out cross and into her palm. Clara gasped.
With effort, the nun knelt and unlocked a panel at the back of the altar. It slid to the side. A cold gust of air blew over them. Clara craned to see into the square of darkness: an old stone staircase that led downward.
The Enchanted Sonata Page 10
