Coronets and Steel (22 page)

And here she was again, framed in gold, and below, a brass plate reading:

 

MARIA SOFIA ALEXANDRIA ELISABETH VASA DSARET 1721-1811

I
RUBBED MY EYES, then my temples, as I grasped for logic, for the calm of facts. The woman in the picture had to have been a Vasa from Sweden—a minor cousin of the Swedish royal family, packed off to central Europe to make a dynastic marriage. I glared up at her, willing her to be somebody else. There were the honey-brown eyes, a roguish smile—with two dimples. Her snowy wig was piled high under the charming flat hat with its ribbons and plumes.

A scrape of a shoe made me jump and look guiltily around.

The entire tour had halted at the other end of the gallery, and they were all staring at me. Some at the portrait and then back at me, others at the tour guide and then back at me, the rest goggling just at me.

My neck burned. I slunk past the eternal gazes of the remaining royal portraits and took my place at the end of the tour line, my attention firmly on my dusty toes in my sandals.

The tour guide cleared his throat and resumed his patter. The feet began shuffling again, and I slunk after them, determined to draw no more attention as I tried to figure out what had just happened.

Either someone was masquerading all around Vienna as this woman, or she had a common face. Or . . . could she be Ruli tripping around Vienna in a costume for some weird reason?

Except that traipsing around Vienna in costume didn’t sound at all like the Ruli that Alec had described. He’d been definite about that—her only interest in the past being whose jewels she would inherit. Not that she’d ever sell them; it was a status thing.

As I struggled to make sense of something that I was afraid would never make sense, our tour group passed out of the portrait gallery and into a sunlit curved hall lined with windows down both sides. This hall formed the spine of the E—it lay above the state rooms.

Through the windows on my right, the tidy eighteenth-century maze abutted the grand front gate and beyond it the great square; the windows on my left overlooked the back garden, which opened onto sloping lawns with scattered chestnut and linden trees.

We reached the other main wing, and the tour guide said, “At this end is the chapel, the kitchens, and service rooms, and upstairs is the royal nursery.”

The tour dutifully snaked its way through the suite of wide, sunny-windowed, plain rooms . . . and this time the zap hit me right in the heart.

The furniture was from the days of the twin princesses, gaily painted tables and chairs and a cradle, all somewhat battered. The curtains had butterflies embroidered on them. Later I’d find out that all these things had been smuggled into hiding, along with all the moveable furnishings and decorations of the palace, ahead of the German blitzkrieg. The furnishings had been restored by grandchildren of those servants, after the Soviet Empire fell.

But that wasn’t what zapped me. The lightning bolt was the mural painted across the entirety of one broad wall, a stylized late-Victorian mural of flowers with fairies and folktale figures parading toward a castle built of shells.

I stared at that mural, recognizing in every single figure some story from my childhood.

From the time I was barely able to talk, every night Gran had told me stories about Fyadar and Xanpia, his female companion, and their band of orphans and special animals, including a werewolf, having adventures on the mysterious mountains that had spirits of their own. Stories she had stopped telling me when, at age eight, I started asking all kinds of questions about where the stories had come from and why couldn’t I find any books in the library about Fyadar and his friends. After that she read classics to me, but I never forgot those tales—and in every library I encountered afterward, I’d looked for them. I’d even decided recently to change majors back to German, so I could do research and find where those stories had been recorded, because Gran was not the sort to make things up.

My nerves tingled as I gazed at the flaking, faded mural in that long-empty room. Gran’s having been born and raised here was no longer hypothetical. Nothing—my resemblance to this missing cousin—the portrait of Maria Sofia—the coinciding dates and names,
nothing
was as real as that mural.

I saw her, as clear as if I could reach and touch her tousled blond curls as she rocked on the wooden horse under streaming sunlight so strong she faded to shadow . . .

And vanished.

The tightness in my throat threatened to thaw into tears, and I turned away quickly.

I have always hated tears. I grew up believing them a sign of weakness, of defeat. If something hurts you, you either learn from it, fight it, or negotiate with it, and finally you move on. You never cry.

But here I was with stinging eyes and a lump the size of a basketball in my throat. I backed away from the wooden horse until I stumbled against a small chair wooden chair with flowers painted on it as the tour vanished down the stairs.

I rubbed my eyes fiercely and hustled to rejoin the crowd, pretending not to notice when everyone, including the guard, swiveled to stare at me, then turned away hastily.

In a self-conscious voice the tour guide told us that the last inside site would be the family chapel, then the tour would proceed outdoors to the stables, gardens, and fountain.

I was so overwhelmed I did not even question why I now understood everything he said, even though a lot of those words I would swear I never hunted down in the dictionary: seeing the mural had unlocked something in my brain. Maybe it was only memory. The language was there, though simple in vocabulary: a child’s vocabulary.

I stepped inside the chapel and took in the cool, diffuse light over the smooth-carved marble that had been stripped of anything even remotely valuable. The altar had been swept clean, leaving only the walls, floor, and the high-backed benches on which the royal family had sat; even the gilding from the carvings of the royal crest had been scraped away, and the gold-embroidered velvet cushions taken. The guide’s tone was affronted, as if the vandalism had happened a week ago instead of more than half a century.

The others followed the guide out and into the bright, revealing light of day. Sinking onto a centuries-old marble bench, I pressed my thumbs against my eyelids.

A rustle of silk, a whiff of vanilla and musk reminded me of the most expensive shops in Paris.

I opened my eyes. A tall, slim female silhouette stood framed in the doorway. “My dear, why haven’t you contacted me—” She began in mellifluous French, then she gave a gasp, raised a thin hand to her lips, and stepped into the dim chapel.

And I stared witlessly into the face of my Aunt Sisi.

S
HE LOOKED SO much like my mother it was as if Mom walked in wearing a raw silk skirt and jacket expensive and tasteful enough for calling on a queen. Much as they looked alike, my mother and this woman could not have been more different. Mom, practically the poster girl for the flower child, did not walk with this deliberate straight-backed, governess-trained poise.

My mother’s familiar round, sweetly smiling face on the duchess was refined into smooth, well-bred composure; my mother’s serene eyebrows on this woman were groomed into arched sophistication. The resemblances and contrasts were so jarring on top of the headache and the giddiness and above all the emotional whammy that my brain went on strike, leaving me staring mutely.

She said with breathless graciousness, “I am not dreaming. You are not my daughter.”

“No,” I squeaked.

“Is it possible? You must be my—my missing cousin’s child . . . are you?”

A diamond flashed with sun-fire as she pressed trembling fingers to her temple. Her blond hair, the same shade as my own, was drawn up into a perfect chignon that showed off a perfect hairline.

Your missing cousin? Try your missing half-sister’s child.
“I believe I am,” I said after drawing my own trembling breath. “My name is Kim.”

“My dear child—I,
hein!,
I—I hardly know what to say. To do. So Tante Lily did not die in Paris?”

“No.”

“Does she live still?”

“Yes,” I whispered, thinking of Gran sitting in her rocker facing east, the light from the window reflecting in her eyes with all the expression of glass. “With my parents.”

“Your mother.” Her voice was even lower, barely a breath as she stared at me in wonderment. “You are quite young,” she observed, and I felt . . . not suspicion, more like a question.

Question as in doubt. She didn’t believe me? Maybe it was fair. Wouldn’t I feel the same if someone came up to me at UCLA or somewhere and claimed to be my long-lost whatever?

So I smiled determinedly and said, “My mother didn’t marry until she turned forty. I came along a couple of years later.”

She made a visible effort to collect her thoughts and said, “No one knew. We heard nothing. You were in Paris all this time, until you came here?”

“How did you know that?” It was out before I could stop it, and she turned her thin fingers out toward me in a gesture of plea.

“My dear, I received a message this morning that my daughter had been found. Did you know she had been missing? Did you know I have a daughter? You were seen at an inn not far from here, and it was discovered that you were registered under what was thought an assumed name, that you represented yourself as a French citizen. You look so much like my daughter, you must realize. For the Vigilzhi to have seen a young woman they thought was my daughter Aurelia—”

“Vigilzhi?”

Her hands made a Gallic gesture of helplessness. “The police and army combined. They maintain order in our little country.”

“And they did not think to come up and ask me? They stalked me, thinking that was preferable?”

“You must realize that some of the old ways prevail here. No one would want to interfere if for some reason you did not want to become known. But you were always safe. You must not be angry with the Vigilzhi, who merely do their duty. They did not disturb you, but summoned me.” She smiled, eyes wide.

I made an effort to pull my own thoughts together, to banish the curly haired girl from my imagination and to respond to this woman—the first blood relative I met—who was obviously shaken herself. The hand with the ring pressed tightly against the other.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “This is a total shock.”

“Yes. For us both,
hein?
” She breathed out in a well-bred, soundless sigh. “Come. Out into the sunlight. May I have a look at you? Can you tell me what brought you to Dobrenica?”

She led the way outside, into the neatly trimmed flower maze. My tour group was nowhere in sight.

“I came to see my grandmother’s birthplace,” I said. “I’ll be gone again in a few days.”

“You’re not thinking of leaving, now that we’ve found you again?”

“I can’t afford a long visit,” I countered, trying to sort through my emotional whirlwind. Too many things too fast, too hard-hitting.

“But my dear! I thought it would be immediately evident. Please, you must come to me at once. To my house here in the city. It’s close by. And there’s a charming guest room next to my daughter’s suite.” The offer was instant, and gracious—so instant and gracious that my discomfort spiked.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” I hedged, laboring to avoid being rude. I just needed a few minutes to take everything in. “I’m okay where I am. I already paid for a week,” I said inanely as her chin lifted fractionally, though her smile never faltered. I added even more inanely, “Really. I really like it there.”

“But a public inn? It cannot be
convenable.
You would be no trouble at all, three permanent servants in the house, plus my own staff, and I am so seldom there! I’d be delighted to have you come.”

She had used the French word,
convenable,
which not only meant adequate, but connoted respectable or appropriate, and when I thought of Madam Waleska’s scrupulously clean rooms, her bright, handmade curtains and quilts, Theresa’s earnest face and shy enthusiasm, I felt a spurt of irritation, though I knew it was not fair. Aunt Sisi was not deliberately insulting these people—she didn’t even know them. To her, a proper hotel probably had to be at least three hundred years old, staffed with an army of haughty liveried servants used to the ways of royalty, where meals were served on porcelain and the bathroom fixtures were real gold. It was the way she’d been raised.