The Enchanted Sonata

by Heather Dixon Wallwork

  “Ah, Clara!” he said, setting the shovel down and wiping his hands together in a futile attempt to brush off the coal dust. “We’re doing well. We’ll most likely be to Krystallgrad in an hour. A little over.” He nodded to the engine window, a blur of pine and golden birch. “There are markers every six miles, and we’ve taken, I estimate, eight minutes between each. That means we’re racing at seventy-five to eighty miles per hour. An hour and twenty minutes. I could give a more accurate estimate if I had a pocket watch, of course.”

  “You’re awfully good at counting, sir!” Clara teased.

  Nutcracker laughed heartily.

  “Very useful skill for an emperor to know,” he said. “I unite the Assembly and stave off rats with my impressive arithmetic.”

  And now Clara was laughing along with him.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Once we get to Krystallgrad, we need to set up a command center. Probably the Palace. There’s a giant table there where we can map out everything, take notes, give orders, that kind of thing. There’s a telegraph office nearby so it’s ideal. What do you think?”

  “I think we should eat something,” said Clara.

  And Nutcracker heartily agreed, though he actually couldn’t eat anything. They sat next to each other on the engine floor, Clara gulping down tea, and Nutcracker smiling as he watched her. She wolfed down the entire package of cakes, then paused and slowly unwrapped the chocolate.

  “I love chocolates,” she said, a little shyly. “Whenever I wasn’t well, or I’d done poorly at one of my lessons, my father would always bring home a chocolate for me to help me feel better. It always seemed to work.” Clara closed her eyes and placed the chocolate in her mouth. It melted over her tongue and back of her throat in warm velvet sweetness. She missed that taste.

  “Er,” said Nutcracker, as though dreading to speak. “Your father is, ah…?”

  “He passed away. Two years ago. Just got sick, that’s all.”

  “Oh,” said Nutcracker. “I’m sorry.”

  Clara smiled a closed-mouth smile at him, because of the chocolate, and because she didn’t want to get teary. Nutcracker put his paddle-hand on her shoulder, and they didn’t say anything for a long while. They didn’t need to. Clara knew he understood.

  As the trees blurred by, Clara tugged the fairy book from her greatcoat and opened it, impressed to discover that more words had been added.

  It narrated Nutcracker defending Pyotr, and their moment in the Abbey, Mother Svetlana, and even now, as they raced down the North Forest Line to Krystallgrad. Clara turned the page and smiled in surprise, seeing that an image print had been added to the book—a map! IMPERIA, read the words in the center of the spread.

  Such a lovely country. It was ringed with mountain forests and an ocean, networked with railways, dotted with cities that had names like Krasno-Les and Derevo and Lode. In the corner, in a box, was a large island labeled Belamore. The northernmost city, marked with a star, had an image of a palace with onion dome towers, and the word Krystallgrad. Clara studied the rail line from the Abbey station to Krystallgrad.

  After several shovels, Nutcracker folded up to sit down next to her, pulling his knees to his chest. Even sitting, his head and hat towered over Clara. He pointed out how far they had gone, and where they were on the rail right now, the tip of his finger tracing the little inked lines. He showed her where the Koroleva railyards were—a delicate tangle of tracks on the bottom part of the map. He pointed out Zerkalo Lake on the east side of the map, where he would spend a week every summer as a boy. He showed Clara the Derevo rail line, southeast of Krystallgrad, where he spent his first six months as a Train Guard soldier, fighting off the rats that ran next to the train. He talked of Belamore, of Krasno-Les, of the old cathedrals and St. Ana; got up to shovel more coal into the firebox; then sat down next to Clara again and talked about the Starii river, the Imperian western seaside, and the beauty of the Midnight Forest in the south. Clara heard the fondness of it all in his deep voice, and felt a tug of fondness for it in her own heart.

  “And Krystallgrad,” said Clara, as Nutcracker got up again to shovel more coal. “Tell me about Krystallgrad.”

  “See it for yourself,” said Nutcracker, nodding to the window.

  Clara got to her feet and joined him at the engine window, looking out through the gaps of trees and haze of streaming smoke. They were rounding a crest of the mountainside, and Clara caught glimpses of the city below, white and gold and all colors extending for miles, all of it sparkling in the sun. It was like a fairy tale.

  “Oh!” said breathed. “You’re emperor of all that?”

  “For my sins,” said Nutcracker, beaming.

  “What building is that?” said Clara, pointing to colored spires in the distance.

  “That’s the cathedral. Very pretty, more stained glass than stone. When the sun rises, there are colors all around it, inside and out.”

  “And that?” said Clara, pointing to a distant white dome.

  “That’s the Krystallgradian Symphony Hall. The symphony orchestra rehearses there. Their music can be heard leaking from the building. Everyone walks along Shokolad Prospekt and stops by the river to listen. You’d like it, I think. A lot of people walk the prospekt to listen, and the air smells like chocolate—”

  “Chocolate?” Clara laughed.

  “Because of Polichinelle’s,” said Nutcracker, eagerly pointing the wooden tip of his hand at brilliantly colored onion domes next to the theater—checked, spotted, swirled. “Don’t get me started on Polichinelle’s, Clara. I won’t stop!”

  “Get started,” said Clara, grinning. “And don’t stop.”

  He got started, and didn’t stop. If Krystallgrad was the jewel of the Empire, he said, Polichinelle’s Candy Emporium was the star of light inside, and the sun too, for it was open every hour of the day. A great library of candies, jars and jars stacked up to the sky along the walls, every candy you could dream. Attendants in red-and-white striped skirts fetched the candies with little shovels, rolling long ladders across the walls.

  And oh, what candies! Braided licorice whips the size of actual whips, giant sugar balls that actually bounced, and oh so many great games were played, bouncing the balls and catching them in one’s mouth. Fudge came in all rainbows of flavors, decorated with rare nuts and berries harvested from the Midnight Forest. And the chocolates! They had chocolates that melted over your tongue, the sweetness lasting in your mouth all day. And chocolates that were so spicy, the soldiers dared each other to eat them. There was even a ceremony that came along with it: The attendant would light the chocolate on fire, the poor soldier would take a deep breath, pop the chocolate in his mouth...and start to cry.

  It wasn’t just candies and chocolates—Polichinelle’s made teas (they had an entire room dedicated to teas and cakes), soups (they catered the finest events), pastries (everyone wanted a Polichinelle pastry for Christmas breakfast), and every other delicate and delicious food. Polichinelle’s Emporium took up an entire city block, and the mere mention of the word Polichinelle would make an Imperian’s mouth water.

  “Everyone goes to Polichinelle’s,” Nutcracker said. “Even Drosselmeyer. Everyone has chocolate drink and reads books and newspapers and talks about business, or the Assembly, or upcoming events. Polichinelle’s is the city.”

  Nutcracker sighed wistfully. He added:

  “We’re having them cater for the coronation. Chocolate pastries and those little sandwiches that even my human hands can’t hold without squashing.” Nutcracker paused, and continued with a lot less enthusiasm: “Well. If there is a coronation.”

  Clara surprised herself by touching Nutcracker on the arm. It was smooth and warm from the engine firebox. Nutcracker’s eyebrows rose.

  “When,” said Clara firmly. “When you are coronated, Nikolai Volkonsky. You are a prince now. And you will become Emperor. Never forget that.”

  Nutcracker’s eyes softened at Clara, and he placed his hand o
n his arm, over hers. Something inside Clara leapt. It surprised her so much, she turned a merry pink, quickly extracted her hand, gathered the tea tray and empty cake wrappings, and made to leave.

  “Clara,” said Nutcracker.

  Clara turned, the engine door’s wind tousling the end of her braid.

  “Would you like to come to my coronation?” he said. “I promise it isn’t too long and boring. Ah. That is, ah, of course, if you, ah, happen to be in town. You’re invited.”

  He smiled hopefully.

  Clara’s hand impulsively went to her coat just below her collarbone, where she felt the lump of the locket pressed against her chest. It thumped with her heartbeat.

  “Ah. Yes. Right,” said Nutcracker hurriedly. “You have plans. I remember, of course. Let’s hurry this train up, shall we?”

  He smiled, but his eyes did not twinkle, and he turned back to shoveling coal with a fevered vigor.

  Clara left the engine and progressed through the train cars—warmth, whipping cold air as she passed between them, warmth again, then cold air—until she reached the last car, where she washed the teacups, over and over and over in the sink. She blushed as she scrubbed, trying to untangle how she felt.

  Well. She wanted to go to his coronation, of course she did. Could you imagine an event like that, in a place like Imperia? Glittering brocade dresses, Polichinelle’s chocolates in sculpted masterpieces centered on long white-draped tables. And Nikolai, no longer wooden with great tufts of white hair, but human again, clean-shaven, dressed in uniform, his large gloved hands clasped behind his back. Shorter than eight feet, certainly. He wouldn’t look at all like himself, Clara considered. But the brightness of his eyes and smile—that would be the same.

  “I do have plans,” said Clara stubbornly, pushing coronation thoughts away. She wiped her hands on the rail car’s silk cloth, retrieved the locket from around her neck, and opened it.

  The tumble in the snow had not been good for poor Newspaper Johann. He lay in the silver casing, puckered and wrinkled from getting wet and drying again. The warp made him look like he was scowling.

  Clara’s heart still squeezed. It always did when she thought of him, every day for nearly two years, and the reflection of future years, a life of beautiful music. She put the necklace back on, tucking it underneath her collar, her fingers twitching to play the Johann Kahler’s Sonata. She ached, thinking of how much she needed to practice before the concert, and wished the train could go faster.

  Thump.

  Either the train had jumped the track for a split moment...or something had hit the end of the railcar. Clara’s brows furrowed.

  Thump. Thump. Thump-thump.

  Foreboding filled Clara. She hurried to the back window and looked out—

  —And found herself face-to-face with a giant rat.

  Clara squeaked and fell back, and so did the rat, and immediately Clara threw open the rail car door and was rushing to the front of the train. At her feet, black bushes of fur with teeth snapped at her, then fell back, the train leaving them behind in the distance. Pinpricks of yellow eyes, in the blackness of the trees in the distance, looked ready to pounce.

  “Oh, rats!” said Clara, shoving the rail car door open. She wasn’t afraid so much as she was angry. So angry, her face went hot. The last thing she needed was yet another delay. She threw herself into the engine car. “Nutcracker, rats are attacking the train!”

  Nutcracker looked at her blankly.

  “Rats?” he echoed. “But we’re going nearly eighty.”

  Clara pushed him to the window, where he got full view of the blacks and greys bristling up ahead, and throwing themselves against the train as it passed.

  “Oh, it looks like they’re waiting up ahead to leap onto the train,” said Nutcracker. “Yes, I suppose that would make sense, then. The Train Guard usually has marksmen to take care of rat ambushes...right.” Nutcracker picked up a shovel and began shoveling again like mad. Black dust kicked up in the cabin. “We’re going to beat them to Krystallgrad. We’ll go so fast it will strip them from the train and plow through them all.”

  The city ahead came faster and faster. A great wall of stone and brick and spiked iron surrounded it.

  A scrabbling sounded at the engine door, and Clara turned quickly at the sight of a rat clawing at the coupler, its tail whipping behind it. Anger flared through Clara, and she attacked it at running speed, throwing herself boot-first at its head. It was like kicking a sack of wheat, but it did the job. It knocked the rat from the coupler, and with a screech the rat fell back into a poof of snow, ricocheting off the next railcar. Clara nearly slipped herself, grabbing at the icy railing just in time.

  The train shuddered and clanked over the tracks, flying. The trees blurred to black smears, and then parted to reveal the wall growing closer, the gated arch growing larger and larger as the train neared. Clara stared in fascination as the machinery beside the gate whirred to life, clacking and creaking, massive gears turning. The iron gate began to rise. Above it, set in the wall, stood an ornate clock with the time: one-fifteen.

  I have less than seven hours to get home, Clara’s fevered thoughts whirled.

  Above her, rats thumped from the trees above and onto the top of the railcar, clawing to get a grasp. Clara turned her attention to behind her, where the train was covered in so many rats it looked furry. A rat rose up in front of Clara from the coupler, and opened its jaws and leapt at her—

  A flash of silver, then spatter of red, and the rat fell to the snow on both sides of the train.

  “Inside, Clara!” said Nutcracker, pulling her to her feet and pushing her into the engine. Rat blood stained Nutcracker’s sword, and he was covered in soot, but he was immediately diving into the fight, his sword flashing and bringing down the rats that grappled their way to the front of the train, teeth bared hungrily at Clara.

  The train screamed under the arched gate, and the gate pistons whirred and steamed, and the gate fell shut just as the last railcar streaked through, smashing the rats who’d had the misfortune to run under it at the wrong time.

  Still covered in rats, their tails and ears whipping in the wind, the train streaked through the city, past brick factories of numerous windows and brick and then through the Palace Station. The arched glass ceiling sent light over the train in squares. And then they passed it in an eye blink, the gleaming towers of the Imperial Palace were behind them, growing smaller.

  “We’ve passed the Palace!” Clara cried, grabbing a stick that jutted up from the floor, guessing it was the brake. “I’ll—I’ll stop the train!”

  “Not on your life!” Nutcracker yelled, still fighting on the platform outside. “Get your hand off the brake, Clara! We stop and you get eaten!” Nutcracker swiped his sword at the rats scrabbling forward to get past him. Several lost their balance and fell off, tumbling into the gravel and riverbanks as they streaked past. Nutcracker began counting: twenty points. Forty-five. Fifty. Eighty. Factories and homes blurred past the windows. The train flew over a river, and rats splashed into the water below. The engine filled with steam, drenching Clara in bitter hot. The hiss of the steam distracted Nutcracker for just a moment.

  “That’s the boiler,” he said. “Clara, release the pressure! There—there should be a wheel you can turn!”

  Clara stared at the network of pipes that rose up to the ceiling. There were at least a dozen little gauges and wheels and meters nestled among them, glass fogging up with steam. None of them were labeled. Of course.

  “Which wheel?” Clara called, but the cacophony drowned her voice. Panic rising, Clara grabbed one of the wheels and tried to turn it. It burned her hands. Clara cried aloud and kicked the pipe, anger surging in her again. She was a pianist! She didn’t know anything about trains or rats or pressure gauges! She grasped the wheel with her greatcoat sleeves and twisted with all her might, and it did not budge. Behind her, Nutcracker felled rats in flashes of silver, red, and fur, and they leapt on him until he was
a furry pillar and—

  A low-pitched howl sounded from the engine.

  Immediately every rat on the train, grasping onto the sides, the coupler, the engine platform, and on Nutcracker, froze. They lifted their noses, their eyes wide, their dinnerplate ears pricked. The clattering train harmonized with the howl, which rose in octaves.

  In a moment, the rats had flung themselves from the moving train and disappeared into the blurred landscape. The locomotive left a trail of furry masses tumbling to the Krystallgradian gravel. Nutcracker loped into the engine cab and swept Clara to her feet.

  “Nutcracker,” Clara cried as the howl crescendoed. “That sound—”

  “Is not good!” Nutcracker yelled. “Rats flee a sinking ship! Hold tight, Clara!”

  Without another word, Nutcracker wrapped his hard wooden arms around her, forcing her to curl up in a ball as he folded himself around her. Clara had a moment to feel the press of his beard and teeth over her head, her spine smarting from his solid arms before—

  The world exploded, and the sky caught fire.

  It rained rat.

  It could have been worse. It could have rained whole rats.

  Steaming bits of train pierced the Krystallgradian streets, not far from Konfetti station, turning the Shokolad Prospekt into a landscape of spotted gray, silver, black, red. Fur floated from the sky. The windows near the train tracks had been broken, and one could still hear glass falling like windchimes. Across the city, the explosion echoed, drawing everyone to their windows or into the street.

  Closer to the prospekt, Krystallgradians hurried from their homes, shops, and gathered in groups, whispering rumors, running to the telegraph station, whispering about the explosion and the rats. Those closest to the railway found their way to the mess of what used to be a train. They hurriedly picked their way through the debris, deciphering what had used to be railcars from the jumble of metal. The engine looked as though it had been silver cheese pushed through a grater. It steamed, sending plumes of smoke into the Imperian sky.