Flight Into Darkness (20 page)

“Welcome to Swanholm, Demoiselle,” Astasia said, smiling warmly.

“I am so sorry to hear of your stepdaughter's indisposition, highness. Would you prefer to cancel the recital?”

“After you have taken the trouble to alter your schedule to travel all this way? No, I won't hear of it.” Astasia turned to her lady-in-waiting. “You can leave us now, Countess,” she said pointedly.

As soon as they were alone, Astasia hurried over to Celestine. “You said you had something to impart to me,” she said softly. “Something of personal significance.”

Celestine nodded.

“I have little skill at the keyboard,” said Astasia, “but if I were to attempt to accompany you, perhaps you could tell me the news you bring between verses?”

This was going better than Celestine could have hoped; her message must have piqued the young empress's curiosity. “An ingenious conceit, highness.” She lifted a book of songs from the top of the fortepiano and began to leaf through the pages. “Do you know ‘The Waterfall’?”

Astasia settled herself on the seat and took a look at the music. She pulled a wry face. “Too hard.”

“This one is just right. ‘Summer Evenings.’ A beautiful melody, a deceptively simple accompaniment. And in my native tongue, which is not so familiar to the Tielens, I believe,” Celestine added mischievously.

“I've never played this one before,” Astasia stared at the notes, biting her lower lip as she concentrated, “so not too fast, Demoiselle, I beg you.”

“
In summer… when the swallows swoop overhead…”
Celestine began.
“Empress,”
she sang, fitting the words to the melody,
“your brother is alive.
”

Astasia stopped playing abruptly. “Alive?” Celestine saw her violet eyes brimming with tears. “Where is he? In Francia? How is he?” She clutched Celestine's hands in her own. “And how do you know?”

“He is in remarkably good health, all things considered,” Celestine said, touched by Astasia's response. “After his ship was wrecked, he was washed ashore nearly dead and was nursed back to health by an old fisherman.”

“My poor Andrei.” Astasia let Celestine's hands drop. “He must think that we abandoned him.” She looked utterly stricken at the thought.

Celestine could not help but feel sorry for her. “Your brother finds himself in a very difficult situation. Your husband has taken the
throne of Muscobar that was rightly his. If he were to come forward now, what would the Emperor do?”

“I'm sure Eugene would welcome him to court,” Astasia said, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “For my sake.”

“Think again, imperial highness. Some dissident elements might see your brother as a significant rival to your husband's authority.” With Andrei and Jagu, Celestine had very carefully rehearsed what she should say. “His reappearance could cause considerable damage to the stability of the empire.”

“But Andrei would never do anything to hurt me,” protested Astasia.

“The consequences could be disastrous,” said Celestine firmly. “He was very reluctant to have me tell you the news—let alone your parents—for fear it would place you all in an impossible situation.”

“So where will he go?”

“His wish,” Celestine said, “is to see you once more, then to begin a new life. Far away from Muscobar.”

“H-how far?” Astasia stammered.

“I have a letter for you.” Celestine slid finger and thumb into her décolletage and discreetly extracted a thin sliver of folded paper from beneath her lace fichu.

Astasia opened the letter and read it; Celestine saw her wipe away a stray tear as she handed it back. “I daren't keep this, in case anyone was to find it. Especially Countess Lovisa.”

Celestine nodded and swiftly slipped the paper back beneath her fichu.

“I want to see him so much.” Astasia seemed to be talking to herself. “If only I could leave the palace. But I'm watched, day and night. It's just that I can't bear to think he's so close by and yet I can't, I daren't risk—” She broke off suddenly, looking directly at Celestine. “I have an idea, Demoiselle. There is to be a masked ball here at Swanholm for Dievona's Night—a Tielen tradition, I'm told. If I could arrange for you and your accompanist to be invited…”

“For Dievona's Night?” Celestine considered the proposition, wondering what plan Astasia was hatching. “Well, my next recital is to be given in Bel'Esstar. The weather is clement and the seas are calm. If we delay our departure to attend the ball, I think we shall still make Allegonde in good time.”

“Would you say that we are about the same height?” Astasia asked. “And the same build?”

“Well, yes…”

“At a masked ball, everyone is in disguise. It can be hard to tell exactly who is who. If I were to provide identical costumes, we could pull off a little charade of our own.”

“You—and I—in the same costume?” It was an ingenious idea— although not without its risks.

“And then you and I will secretly exchange masks for a little while, so that I can become Celestine de Joyeuse.”

“Allowing us to smuggle your brother in, disguised as Jagu?”

Astasia laughed through her tears. “Just don't let anyone ask Andrei to play the fortepiano, or our charade will be discovered!”

Celestine laughed too, caught up in the Empress's infectious good humor. “And I will be Empress of New Rossiya! Or will I? For who'll be able to guess?”

“I don't know how to thank you, Demoiselle.” Astasia reached out and clasped the singer's hands in her own, pressing them warmly.

“Please, highness,” and Celestine pressed Astasia's hands in return, “call me Celestine.”

“How did she take the news?” Andrei hurried out to meet Celestine as she stepped down from the carriage that had brought her from Swanholm; he must have been keeping an anxious lookout for her. “Was she very upset? I didn't want to upset her. But she has to know the truth about her husband.”

“Let's discuss this indoors, shall we?” Celestine cast a look up and down the little cobbled street; there were many people about in the village, all employed, it seemed, on some errand to do with the ball. But even the sweetest dairymaid carrying cream for the desserts or the humblest tailor staggering beneath the weight of masquerade costumes could be one of Eugene's agents, paid to watch and listen.

“Swapping places with the Empress?” Jagu said. The shutters were closed and in the gloom, his voice sounded strangely slurred. “I think it's too risky.”

Celestine had guessed correctly that he would object to the plan. “It's a masked ball. Everyone will be in disguise.”

“But if you're caught, you could be charged with treason.” “Why are you sitting in the dark, Jagu? It's a beautiful day.” She went to open the shutters to let more daylight into the room and saw him wince.

“What's wrong with you?” She came closer, staring intently at him. “You look awful.”

He sighed. “If you must know, Prince Andrei couldn't sleep again last night and insisted on playing cards into the small hours. And now I have a pounding headache.”

“So you emptied a few bottles of wine at the same time? You don't deserve any sympathy.” But she began to search in her reticule for a paper of powdered headache remedy.

“You try keeping his highness from leaving the inn! He's as restless as a caged beast. How much longer till Dievona's Night?”

“Drink this.” She poured him a glass of water and emptied the powder into it. He looked at it suspiciously. “It's all right; it's not an alchymical potion. Just some feverfew.”

“It sounds as if you've made a favorable impression on the Empress,” he said, grimacing as he drank the bitter liquid.

“She's kind, trusting, and, I suspect, very lonely.” Celestine took back the glass. “Why else would she confide in me?” She realized as she was speaking that she had developed a genuine liking for Astasia; she understood how her open, spontaneous nature, which set her apart from the other sophisticated and world-weary young noblewomen, must have bewitched Eugene…

“Are you having second thoughts?”

Why was Jagu able to read her so accurately? “I—I feel sorry for her, I suppose. Just imagine how traumatic it would be to hear from a stranger that your husband had a hand in your brother's death.”

“Isn't it better that she should know the truth, however harsh?”

“Yes, except I believe that she genuinely loves Eugene,” Celestine said, pensively twisting the feverfew paper between her fingers, “and that makes this all the harder.”

“Remember,” Jagu said, “it's for the good of Francia.”

“Demoiselle de Joyeuse?” The innkeeper put his head around the door. “A message for you from the palace.”

Celestine opened the letter and read aloud, “‘It is her imperial majesty's wish that you return to Swanholm to continue with her singing lessons. A coach will pick you up at three this afternoon.’” She looked up at Jagu over the crisp white paper. “What do you make of that?”

“It sounds to me as if the Empress is ready to go ahead with her plan.”

Celestine nodded, although she still felt conflicted about her role in
this charade. “I'd better make myself look presentable.” As she passed Jagu, he caught hold of her by the hand.

“Promise me that you won't do anything rash,” he said, his voice low, intense.

“Rash?” She forced a laugh. “You know me, Jagu.”

“Yes. I do. And that's why I want you to give me your word that you won't act alone. Even if you meet… a certain magus.”

She looked down at his hand, which was still wrapped around hers, pressing tightly. That touch, that firm pressure stirred something buried deep within her, a memory of a time that she had snuggled close to him and felt so safe, so cherished…

He must have realized it too for he swiftly withdrew his hand and walked away. “Just be careful,” he said with his back to her so that she could not see his expression.

By three in the afternoon, the day had turned unseasonably sultry. When Celestine was shown into the music room, she saw the Empress sitting by the open window, dressed in a simple high-waisted summer gown.

“Your highness looks so charming in that sprigged muslin,” Celestine said. “I'm sure you'll start a new fashion at Swanholm.”

“Thank you! Countess Lovisa told me that it was démodé and inappropriate. But it's too hot today to wear a formal court dress. And as we'll be trying on costumes a little later, I thought there was little point in being laced into a boned corset. Now, what shall we play?”

“I've brought this song for you to try; it's an old love song from Provença…” Celestine placed the accompaniment to
“O Mon Amou”
on the music stand of the fortepiano.
If the Empress has something to confide in me and anyone walks past, they'll assume that we're discussing the music.
“Shall we give it a try?”

They managed a page and a half until Astasia lost control of the keyboard part and broke off, laughing helplessly. Celestine sang on for a bar or two, then joined in the laughter, leaning on the forte-piano to support herself.

Suddenly Astasia started up from the keyboard, staring out onto the terrace. “Hush,” she said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “we have an audience.”

Celestine glanced around.

An elderly man stood outside the open window, his wisps of white
hair and beard tousled by the breeze. He bowed but not before Celestine had seen the wintry glint in his pale eyes.

It's him. It has to be.

“Beautiful music, ladies,” he said. “I must congratulate you.” And he continued on his way along the terrace.

“There is no privacy to be had in Swanholm,” said Astasia and all the merriment had gone from her voice.

Celestine felt as if a pit of shadows had opened at her feet. “Tell me, highness,” she whispered, “who was that ancient gentleman we saw just now?”

Astasia pulled a grimace. “The Magus? His name is Kaspar Linnaius. He's a scientist, I believe, though he has an official court title like ‘Royal Artificier’ or some such.”

It was Kaspar Linnaius. And he stared straight at me. If he recognized me, he gave no sign of it.
“He looks at least a hundred years old!”

“I confess he gives me the shivers. It's his eyes: so lifeless, so cold…”

Celestine nodded, still shaken.

“He's busy arranging the fireworks for the ball. I'm told his displays are the most splendid to be seen in the whole quadrant.”

“Does he make them here in the palace?” Celestine asked, recovering herself a little.

“He has his own laboratory, although I've never visited it.”

“Isn't that a little risky, working with gunpowder so close to the royal apartments?”

“It's in the stable block, at some distance from the main wing. But rumor has it that he has set up invisible wards that repel any unwelcome visitors.”

“Ow!” wailed the Empress as her maid Nadezhda struggled to lace her into the shepherdess's costume. “Must you pull quite so tight?”

Celestine watched in silence, wondering if they would ever be alone so that she could break the news to Astasia. If anyone were to overhear, she would be arrested for speaking treason against the Emperor. And if the cold-eyed countess was spying on them outside…

“Now the wig.” Nadezhda eased the soft white curls into place.

“And a mask.” Astasia took the gilded mask from Nadezhda and put it on. “Stand next to me, Celestine.”

Celestine obeyed.

“We are a good match in stature. I think this costume will suit our needs very well.”

Celestine nodded. “Then Jagu will come as a shepherd.”

“Nadezhda,” Astasia said. “You remember what we agreed?”

Nadezhda bobbed a little curtsy. “I'll go whisper your requests to the costumier straightaway.”

Astasia made sure the door was firmly bolted after her. Then she handed a gilded mask identical to her own to Celestine and tied the golden ribbons securely behind her ears to stop it from slipping. Then they checked their reflections in the mirror, masked faces close together.

“Perfect,” said Astasia. “Who would guess? We look like identical twins.”

Now, before Nadezhda comes back.

“Did you know, highness,” said Celestine, taking off the mask, “that Kaspar Linnaius, whom we saw earlier, is no ordinary scientist?”