The Enchanted Sonata

by Heather Dixon Wallwork

  “Is that possible?” she said.

  Zizi shrugged. “The Palace is massive. It can hold a lot of rats. But we’ll find the magician and get his music before then, though. Don’t you worry.”

  If he has the music, Clara worried.

  Her worry must have been catching, for as the Palace focused into domes and lit windows, the horses jittered and halted. Perhaps they smelled Rat. Nutcracker dismounted from his seat beside Alexei, grabbed the middle horse’s bridle, and pulled it forward, leading the way with long strides. In spite of being led by an eight-foot toy, the horses calmed, and the procession moved on.

  “He’s good with horses,” Zizi whispered admiringly, watching Nutcracker gently rub the horse’s nose and pulling him onward.

  “Yes,” Clara grudgingly agreed.

  Zizi frowned at Clara.

  “Is everything all right?” she said.

  “All right?” said Clara. “You mean, besides throwing ourselves into a Palace full of giant rats?”

  “Yes, besides that,” said Zizi cheekily. “I mean, with you and your nutcracker soldier. You won’t even look at him.”

  “I’m fine,” said Clara, ignoring the your in your nutcracker soldier. “I’m just anxious. I’ll be going back home tonight.”

  “What?” said Zizi, a little too loudly. The militia men on horses beside them glowered. Zizi lowered her voice, her pretty eyes narrowed. “Not back to your world? Tonight?”

  Clara shrugged again.

  “I’m playing in a concert,” she mumbled. “I can’t miss it.”

  “I didn’t realize you could go back,” said Zizi. “Or that you’d even want to. Clara, you can’t leave yet. By the saints, there’s all the work to do of breaking the spell! We need you. And then—after there will be a massive celebration and you haven’t even tried a Polichinelle’s raspberry rose petal swirl truffle! Master Alexei invented it and it’s incredible. You can’t leave Imperia unless you’ve experienced that!”

  “Is getting eaten by rats part of the Imperian experience?” said Clara, warily eyeing the Palace up ahead. A shadow scurried past a window.

  “Well you came on a bad day,” said Zizi.

  They passed over the Triklass Prospekt bridge and neared the Palace gates. Now Clara had a clear look at the Palace: the golden domes that towered above; the sheen of diffused moonlight over the expanse of marble courtyard; the rimlights of marble statues and manicured trees and fountains. Clara shivered. It was exquisite.

  Nutcracker stopped the procession in the courtyard, horse hooves clattering on the marble. The army dismounted; Alexei helped Clara down from the waggon, but his eyes were entirely on Zizi. Clara watched as he took Zizi’s hand and brought it into both of his as she stepped to the marble. There was some sort of spark in his dark eyes when he looked at her, and he didn’t look so discontent. He held Zizi’s hand a moment longer.

  But then Zizi blushed deeply and turned away. Alexei released her hand and his stony expression was back.

  “Apravs,” Nutcracker commanded, and it must have something like Attention! because their militia formed into a straight line and straightened. Clara lifted her chin herself, glancing at their army down the row. There was Alexei, cold and straight and Zizi beside him, her cheeks still pink. There was the old bearded soldier with medals, the one who had snuck in to the militia and refused to be sent back. He couldn’t stand up quite straight (but he tried). Master and Madam Polichinelle, too, had insisted on coming. Madam Polichinelle stood proudly tall among them, her skirts a-glitter, and her husband had the same dark, focused look of Alexei. And the rest of them: Krystallgradians who had made lives of shopkeeping and carriage driving and clerking at offices. Now they stood proudly together in their new army: Nutcracker Regiment Number One.

  Nucracker’s eyes became glossy as he took in each one of the fifty soldiers there, bathed in the glow and shadows of the Palace.

  “My army,” he said. “This won’t be easy. There are several hundred rats inside—possibly even a thousand. The magician could be anywhere, and can disappear quickly if he plays his flute. We may run out of nevermints. If that happens, use your rifles. We’ll know the gunshots mean to retreat back to here. And if you see Erik Zolokov, remove him from his flute and take his music. If there is any justice in the world, he will have the music we need. Clara can play it on the Gallery in the piano, and we’ll have a Palace full of soldiers in no time, if all goes well. This mission, you can see, is quite a gamble.”

  “We’re not afraid!” said the old soldier with the long white beard. His chest glittered with a multitude of old medals, and he shook his fist in the air. “Rah, rah, Regiment One!”

  “We trust you,” said Zizi.

  “At your command, Captain,” said another man, clicking his heels together with the scrape of his boot.

  Nutcracker’s eyes were still glossy. He paused, and placed a wooden hand on the old man’s shoulder.

  “I think,” said Nutcracker, and he hesitated, then continued: “I—I think, if the prince were here, he—he would not only be proud of your bravery and fortitude and fierce loyalty but—he would realize that it isn’t being an Emperor of Imperia, but Imperia itself, that makes an emperor worthy. And he would never forget that.”

  He seemed to want to say more, but couldn’t find the words. Instead he drew his sword, raised it high, and charged across the courtyard and into the Palace, the army at his heels.

  Think about the dress! Think about the dress! Clara thought, panic choking her throat as they poured the servants’ entrance into the kitchens. Dress. Lovely dress, soft blue, lace, exposed collarbone, delicate neck, hem brushing her feet, the polished stage, Johann’s eyes when he saw her—all this Clara shoved into her mind as her eyes adjusted to the dark kitchens of vast aisles and endless stoves. Rats huddled inside cupboards, on countertops, and skittered in the distance. Everything reeked of rat widdle.

  Immediately it rained nevermints, and rats bristled, hissed, and bolted away as the warp of peppermint-air filled the room. They fled, revealing hundreds of toys—the servants, who had been in the kitchen when the magician had come—strewn across the floor. Most were wooden, brightly-painted pots and pans, but there were dolls and windchimes and chess sets, music boxes and zoetrope wheels, too. It looked like a storm had hit a toy shop.

  There was no time to stop and clean up the mess. Nutcracker gathered the army at the far wall, and slid open a panel, revealing a thin hall.

  “The servants’ hall,” he said in a low voice. “Between the walls. We’ll face less rats on the way to the Gallery. If the magician is anywhere, it would be there—near the piano.”

  “You certainly know the Palace well, soldier,” said Alexei darkly.

  “Thank you,” said Nutcracker.

  He ushered the army into the hall, keeping his eyes at the rats tucked in the corners, clawing at their noses. Only when the entire army, including Clara and Zizi, had slipped inside, did he follow after and slide the door shut with a snap.

  Nutcracker led the way, scattering nevermints ahead. Clara heard the scrabble of claws and pained squeaks of rats in the passage, but saw nothing. Many of the light fixtures above them were out of gas. One or two still flickered on, casting weak shadows and revealing more toys among shards of broken dishes. They were gently set to the side as their regiment moved on.

  Clara felt closed-in and scared, and was relieved when Alexei found his way to her side and helped guide her through the dark passage. His attention, however, was focused on Nutcracker, ahead of them.

  “He’s the prince, isn’t he?” he said quietly.

  Clara looked at him quickly and then quickly—too quickly—looked away. She had no idea what to say. Alexei nodded and said in his slow, deep voice:

  “Of course he is. He has the bicephalous fairy on his sleeve. And that speech…”

  Clara bit her lip. It probably wasn’t hard at all to guess. She wouldn’t be surprised if the entire Regiment, all the nuns, and
half of Imperia knew it, too.

  “He’s different than I thought,” Alexei continued. “I’m ashamed to say, I thought our prince was a pancake-head. Assumed he was. General Drosselmeyer was always doing everything. But he’s not, is he? He’s a real soldier.”

  His tone was laced with admiration. They both looked at Nutcracker, his sword drawn, ducking so his head wouldn’t hit the lamp fixtures.

  “Yes,” Clara agreed. “He is.”

  They emerged into a large dining room with overturned tables and scattered bowls and rats the size of bears. A spray of nevermint candies sent them barreling out of the room, while other rats burrowed their noses into jumbled tablecloths, before they squealed and fled.

  “Eleven-hundred points, well done,” said Nutcracker, without breaking a lope. “Well done! Kozlov!”

  A red-headed militia member gave a curt nod, and a group of about ten men detatched from their group and headed through the opposite door, to patrol that wing of the Palace.

  And Nutcracker’s group was off again, through grand halls, throwing nevermints at the rats, who screeched and scurried away. It was the finest rat battle they’d even been in, the old soldier with watery eyes confided to Clara, leaning heavily on her arm, bless these peppermint candies, bless young Master Alexei Polichinelle and Captain Nutcracker and bless Miss Clara and oh yes, how they would make quick work of it!

  Through each wing of the Palace, Nutcracker dispatched a portion of their army to spread out and search. And he knew the names of every single soldier, too, sending them through grand halls. Portrait rooms. Ballrooms. Their numbers dwindled down as they progressed to the center of the Palace. Clara glimpsed their army in the pierglasses as they ran past—flashes of crimson, beige; taut faces, punctuated with flashes of jeweled buttons and hair combs; and the bright red of Polichinelle candy bags against the dim whites and greys of the Palace halls. Toys (mostly nutcrackers) lay piled everywhere. Clara saw a bit of herself; her face flushed, her eyes wide, her lips pursed. Her too-large Polichinelle shoes flapping against her heels. She did not see her heart beating through her Polichinelle’s coat...though it felt like it was.

  Rats fled before them, snorting the darkness, their flashing eyes watering with the nevermint. By the time Nutcracker Regiment Number One reached the hall outside the Gallery, it had been reduced to Clara, Nutcracker, Zizi, and Alexei. This room was completely dark. Clara’s heart thumped in her ears and eyes as she heard the snuffing and smelled the rancid rat stench. It was actually stronger than the peppermint.

  Without a pause, Zizi threw the handful of nevermints, and layers of black scattered before them. Alexei leapt after her, his jaw tight, looking angry. Nutcracker, who seemed to know where every lamp along the wall was, turned up the gas on one, just in time for Clara to trip over a squeaking little rat and tumble across the rug and into a hall table. Baby rats squeaked and ran over shredded bits of rug. The room was a giant rat’s nest.

  A pair of hard, stiff arms picked Clara up, and she found her feet dangling for a moment before she felt the floor beneath them. Nutcracker kept holding her, keeping her from falling over. Clara felt dizzy.

  “Clara!” he said. “Are you all right?”

  Clara nodded, and swallowed. Nutcracker did not release his grip.

  “Are we all right?” he said. His eyes looked at her, pleading.

  Clara blinked, unsure what to say. The fleeing rats around them hissed and squealed. A tail whipped Clara’s ankles.

  “Of—of course,” she said, finding her voice.

  Nutcracker squeezed her hand, then released and bounded at the mess of rats, twirling his sword with a flourish.

  “I’ve run out!” Zizi cried, digging into her empty bag of mints. Behind her, a giant rat rose up, tears streaming down its snout, and it dove at her. A flash of teeth and gaping mouth.

  In a flash, Alexei shouldered his rifle and shot. A puff of gunsmoke, and the rat scrabbled back, howling. Zizi fell to her knees, pale as death. More rats regrouped.

  “Not much time,” said Nutcracker. He grabbed Clara around the waist and practically dragged her at a great lope, throwing open the tall Gallery doors.

  Clara grasped her bearings. She stood just inside a dark, but quietly vast room with an arched glass ceiling, portraits all along the walls. There were no rats here. And there was no Erik Zolokov. Only great piles of toy nutcrackers, all shapes and glimmers. At the far end of the room stood a gold piano, dim in the glow of snowlight. And upon it—sheet music.

  Clara recognized those crumpled, handwritten pages. They were the same she had seen in the fairy book, written in the same hand as the Illumination Sonatina. Clara couldn’t believe their luck.

  “Nutcracker!” she said. “There it is! The music is right there! If—if the right music is there, I could play the soldiers back to life now!”

  “He just left his music there? On the piano?” said Nutcracker.

  “Lots of musicians do that,” said Clara. “I do it all the time.”

  Nutcracker looked dubious. The rat battle outside crescendoed.

  “I’ll be quick,” said Clara.

  “You’d better,” said Nutcracker, “because we don’t have ten minutes to hold off the rats! Good luck, Clara!”

  Nutcracker leapt out, grabbed the latch and slammed the door behind him, drenching Clara in the darkness and silence of the Gallery.

  Clara’s eyes adjusted, a little, taking in the odd shapes of the Gallery. The large War Table. The strange displays of stuffed parrots, ornately curved sofas, great cabinets with books on top. And most of all, the great piles of toys. She tripped over them and accidentally kicked some as she hurried to the piano, whispering, “Sorry—sorry.”

  The music. Clara grabbed the stack of sheet music and leafed through it, squinting to read the titles. It was too dark in the room to see any of the music. Clara began to panic—and then remembered the Illumination Sonatina. She’d brought it with her, folded and tucked inside her Polichinelle coat pocket. Playing it would light up the room. Clara quickly removed it, smoothed it, and recalling the first chord from memory, played it.

  A spark lit within her. Seeing the music a little better, Clara immediately played the next measure, and the spark grew and lit the air around her. The windows lightened, and Clara played on. Music echoed through the hall, and Clara knew why the piano was placed in this room. It reverberated in golden tones, filling the Gallery like chocolate. A shiver ran through her as light poured from the windows and ceiling and illuminated everything: the cabinets, the War Table, the sofas, the nutcrackers strewn around her. There lay one at her feet—it had an eyepatch, white hair, and a frown—and Clara recognized him as General Drosselmeyer.

  Bright enough now, Clara leafed through the other music, reading the calligraphic titles:

  Illumination Sonatina

  Far Away Fantastique

  Imperial Palace Prelude

  A Child’s Dream

  March of the Toys

  Illumination Sonatina. She knew what that one did: it made things brighter. And Far Away Fantastique—that one must be the one that brought the magician to every city, and even to her world and back. Imperial Palace Prelude, a sheet music with notes that dripped like chandeliers, ah! It was so like the Palace, with stately arpeggios and broad chords, that the notes almost glittered off the page. Perhaps that one brought the magician here to the Palace. A Child’s Dream—the music that must have caused all the children to see visions; the song their parents couldn’t hear. And March of the Toys. Clara knew full well what that one did.

  But that was all the music there was. Clara leafed through the pieces again, Illumination Sonatina to March of the Toys. There was no music titled Humanesque or even The Everything Is Right Again Song. The rat shrieks outside the doors grew louder. Clara’s throat was tight and panicked. She rubbed each sheet between her fingers to see if any of the papers had stuck together.

  “If you are looking for more music,” said a voice behind he
r, “that is all I have composed. They really are quite time-consuming to create.”

  Clara sharply turned. Erik Zolokov was standing behind her.

  She yelped and fell back against the piano. The keys went Pfo-o-ng. The music scattered. Erik continued to keep his eyes unblinkingly fixed on her, unmoving. Clara scrambled to the back of the piano, as though the instrument would protect her. A hint of a smile graced the magician’s lips as he watched her.

  Clara swallowed, and watched him back. She hadn’t gotten a fully clear look at him before, in the night forest, full of rats and ice and panic. Now, she saw that he was older than she, and a good head taller, with broad shoulders, golden curls, and unflinchingly bright blue eyes. He wore boring clothes, but he himself was fantastically handsome, so handsome in fact that Clara couldn’t manage to pull up an image of Johann, who she compared every man to.

  And yet, something was...off about him. The coldness of his eyes. The...aura to him. He emanated the emotion of a perfectly-sculpted marble statue. He looked at Clara with an unreadable expression. Was it curiosity? It certainly wasn’t surprise. It occurred to Clara, in that heart-sinking moment, that this had been a trap. Erik had lured them in, and she was completely at his mercy. She stepped back, warily eyeing the exit.

  “So,” said Erik Zolokov, gracefully taking a seat at the piano. “Hello again. It turns out that you are the girl all the wires are clacking about. The one who can create my same magic.”

  A crash sounded outside the Gallery. Rats snarled.

  “You told the prince you could turn the children back,” said Clara. “How?”

  “And you played this,” said Erik Zolokov, as though he didn’t hear her. He looked upward, where the Sonatina light still weakly streamed through the glass ceiling. “You are very good. You don’t just play music, you understand it. That is uncommon rare. No wonder the fairies sent him to you.”

  Erik Zolokov’s eyes had an odd glint when they looked at her. It was almost warm, and it made Clara uncomfortable.

  “You have the music?” she nervously asked. “The music that can turn the children back? Don’t you?”