Flight Into Darkness (52 page)

“An admirer to see you, Demoiselle Cassard,” called Grebin from the passageway.

“I said no visitors tonight—” Celestine broke off as the dressing-room door opened.

Jagu stood in the doorway, carrying a bouquet of spring flowers. Awkwardly, he held them out toward her. They stood, unmoving, staring at each other, she with her peignoir half-slipping off one shoulder, he still proffering the bouquet. The green, piquant scent of narcissi filled the little room.

“I wanted to congratulate you on your performance,” he said. “I had no idea that you were such a talented actress…
Celestine.
”

He had tracked her down. He had recognized her, in spite of her disguise.

“You'd better come in, Jagu,” she said. “And shut the door.” She placed the flowers in a vase, turning her back on him so that he should not see the confusion in her eyes. For just to know that he was there, standing so close to her, had stirred up a host of buried emotions. Why did she want to feel his arms around her, holding her so tightly that the breath was crushed out of her? No, this could be no passionate reconciliation.

He had been sent to arrest her.

I've fended for myself all these months without you, Jagu. I've become strong. Independent. Now what am I going to do?

“So what gave me away?” she asked, forcing herself to turn around to face him.

“Your voice. I'd know your voice anywhere.” His face was expressionless, but she detected the faintest husky tremor as he spoke. Skilled as he was at hiding how he felt, she knew that there was too much history between them for him to stay unmoved.

She nodded. “Those clothes suit you,” she said, unable to resist reaching out to run her fingertips down the lapel of his ink-blue jacket. “It's nice to see you in a color other than Commanderie black.”

“You heard about the Maistre?”

She let her fingers drop away. “I heard. I just couldn't believe it at first. I still can't believe that he's… he's gone.”

“Your disguise—”

“Has fooled everyone but you, Jagu. Even Gauzia, though for how long I can keep deceiving her, I'm not so sure.”

“I can see that you've dyed your hair, but how have you managed to change the color of your eyes?”

“Jagu, I haven't changed anything.
She's
done it all.”

His expression altered, black brows drawing together in a frown. She hadn't realized till then how much she had missed seeing that familiar expression of disapproval. “So I'm not speaking to Celestine, but to her guardian spirit?”

She forced a laugh. “Of course it's me. But you must remember to call me Maela.”

He gave a little shake of the head, as if he had tasted something unpleasant. “You know why I'm here?”

“Old times’ sake? Because you really wanted to see me?” She couldn't resist the barbed little taunt. “My guess would be that you've been sent to arrest me.”

A slight hint of color darkened his pale face and he looked down at the floor.

“And you believed that I'd willingly go back with you to Francia to stand trial? A trial with only one possible outcome? You can't be naïve enough to think that Visant would pardon me?”

He began to shake his head. “I—I don't know what I believed. I only know that I wanted to see you again.”

“How touching.” She sat down in front of the mirror and began to wipe the greasepaint from her face. But his words
had
touched something deep within her, a buried memory of a feeling never completely acknowledged. But it was not the time to be swayed by nostalgia. Jagu was still a member of the Commanderie, and her enemy. As she
checked her reflection in the glass for remaining traces of rouge, she caught a glimpse of him watching her, his dark eyes clouded, brooding, unreadable. And she felt a sudden unease.

Have I misread you, Jagu? Does your vow to the Commanderie count for more than your feelings for me?

She wanted to be honest with him. She owed him that, at least. She laid down the rouge-smeared cloth and turned to face him.

“Jagu, I like being Maela Cassard. I never knew before that I had a gift for opera. But every time I go out onstage, it feels like… like coming home.” She reached out, taking his hands in hers, gazing pleadingly into his eyes. “I love everything about this life. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“You want me to go back to Francia without you.” He looked down at her hands, still clasped around his own. He seemed to be struggling with his feelings. But this was Jagu, and she was asking him to lie. She felt his fingers tighten around hers. “Hugues Donatien is Grand Maistre. He and Visant are changing the Commanderie, and not for the better.”

“Then why go back?” Her voice dropped, knowing that she was suggesting something he might find treasonable. “Ruaud is dead. Start a new life here, Jagu. The Muscobites love music. With your gift, you could easily make your reputation here.”

“But my vow. You're suggesting that I break my vow.” His fingers tightened again until they were almost crushing hers. “And how long do you think I could keep my identity a secret? I haven't got a guardian spirit to change my appearance.”

“Does your vow to the Commanderie mean so much to you?”

He snatched his hands from hers. “I—I can't believe I'm hearing you speak this way. I thought you knew me, Celestine. I thought I knew you too. Now I see how far we've grown apart.”

His words hurt her. And she didn't know how to defend herself against them. “Forget this meeting ever happened, Jagu. Forget all about me. Celestine de Joyeuse is dead. Make up some story or other; she caught a fever on Lapwing Spar and died in a fisherman's hut. Or—”

“I understand.” Without another word, he turned and left the dressing room.

Had she persuaded him? And if she'd finally persuaded him to pronounce her officially dead, why did she feel so empty now she had sent him away?

* * * 

“Forget this meeting ever happened.”
Jagu took another mouthful of vodka, swilling the clear liquid around in the little glass. It was well past midnight, but there were still taverns open; the Muscobites liked to drink late into the night. Vodka was not really to his taste, even seasoned with bitingly hot red pepper. But it seemed close enough to the wound-cleansing spirit used by the Commanderie surgeons on the battlefield to anesthetize the pain he was feeling.

“Forget all about me.”
How could he? Yet it had felt so unnatural, talking with a stranger who had all Celestine's little mannerisms, who spoke with Celestine's voice, yet looked so utterly different. Her guardian's glamour had almost deceived him. How long would it work on others, especially Gauzia? Gauzia was no fool. She would not relish having so gifted a competitor on the operatic stage. She might already be planning ways to destroy her rival's career before it had even begun.

Celestine de Joyeuse is dead.

Celestine set out for her lodgings through the dark, silent streets.

Jagu recognized me in spite of this disguise. I can't stay here. Even if he doesn't reveal my secret, it's only a matter of time before others come…

Was that why she walked so slowly, dragging her feet? Or was it that—even though she had driven him away—she had not wanted to let Jagu go? The sound of his voice alone had awakened a thousand little memories.

Why had his words hurt her so much? Why did it matter to her what he thought? She had a new life, a new identity; she didn't need him anymore.

CHAPTER 19

“You've been very generous to me, Ambassador; I can't thank you enough.” Jagu bowed to Fabien d'Abrissard as Claude whisked away the borrowed finery.

“So you were mistaken?” Abrissard asked, hardly glancing up from the dispatch he was reading.

“I was mistaken.”

“You're a poor liar, Jagu.” Abrissard looked up at last. “But events have overtaken us. I have some advice which you'd do well to pay attention to. I'd think twice, if I were you, about returning to Lutèce.” He cast the dispatch down on the desk. “Ruaud counted you among his most trusted and loyal agents. I know that for a fact, because he told me so. But you and I—and Celestine, wherever she may be— have been marked as Ruaud's supporters. You see, there's a new king in Francia: Ilsevir of Allegonde.”

“Prince Ilsevir?” repeated Jagu, astonished.

“And wherever Ilsevir goes, the Rosecoeurs accompany him. How do you feel about being forced to join the Rosecoeurs?” Abrissard gazed at Jagu inquiringly.

“Forced?” Jagu did not like the idea at all. “But why would I—?”

“Because the balance of power is shifting even as we speak. Hugues Donatien has been a secret member of the Rosecoeurs for many years. He will replace Alain Friard with Ilsevir's right-hand man, Girim nel Ghislain.”

“No!”

Abrissard leaned forward. “And it won't be long, I imagine, before
I'm replaced by one of Ilsevir's favorites. I'm no friend to the Rosecoeurs. I was always Gobain's man, and Aliénor knows it. I imagine that Ilsevir and Donatien will purge the Commanderie of any dissenting voices as soon as they can; they may even have begun the process already.”

“I could never renounce my allegiance to Saint Sergius,” Jagu said without hesitation. “I could never follow the tenets of the Rosecoeurs.”

“I want you to know, Jagu, that for as long as I hold office, I'll give you whatever help or advice you need.”

“But you, Ambassador, what will you do?”

“Oh, I've bought a charming dacha quite close to Erinaskoe. I thought I might enjoy playing at being the country gentleman for a while: indulging in a spot of fishing, perhaps, or creating a fine garden. Of course, if the new king comes to realize that I know too many state secrets for my own good, I might have to disappear altogether.” An enigmatic smile spread across Abrissard's face. “You needn't worry on my account, Jagu. Claude will take good care of me.”

Celestine popped her head out of the stage door to see if the coast was clear. The fervent admirers had given up waiting to see their favorite singers at last and it was safe to set out for home.

Carriages and troikas were still crossing the lamplit square and the sound of drunken singing announced a group of revelers emerging from the nearby tavern.

“Hullo, sweetheart!” yelled one, lurching toward her. “Fancy a drink?” The beery gust he breathed in her face made her turn aside, disgusted. A drunkard was the last thing she wanted to have to deal with after the rigors of the evening performance.

“Sorry, friend, but the lady's with me,” said a familiar voice behind her.

“Jagu?”

“My lodgings are just beyond the square,” he murmured in her ear.

The drunks started hooting and whistling, but Jagu caught Celestine by the arm and began to hurry her across the square, between the passing carriages. He did not stop until they had passed beneath an archway into an inner courtyard, surrounded by tall buildings.

“You shouldn't be out alone so late at night,” Jagu said disapprovingly.

“You're forgetting,” she said, “that I have my guardian to protect me.”

“Of course; you're invulnerable.”

Was he mocking her? Away from the streetlights of the main square, it was impossible to see his expression.

“Why were you shadowing me?”

“I've been with the ambassador. You need to hear this.” He unlocked the door to his lodgings and ushered her inside. She saw him look back toward the street and knew he was checking to see if anyone had followed them.

“Why, what's happened?” He had his back to her, striking a tinder to light the lamp.

“Ilsevir is to be crowned king of Francia.” He turned around to face her, his expression grim in the soft glow of the lamp. “And Abrissard suspects that he will oust Alain Friard and appoint Girim nel Ghislain in his place.”

“A Rosecoeur at the head of the Commanderie?” Celestine did not like the prospect at all. “But everything Maistre de Lanvaux worked so hard to establish will be destroyed!”

“I will not serve under Captain nel Ghislain,” Jagu said stubbornly. “I will not swear allegiance to the Blood of the Rose.”

Everything is changing… and not for the better.
The room was chilly and she began to shiver.

“You're feeling the cold,” he said. “I'll put fresh fuel in the stove. I don't have much to offer to warm you up.” He opened up the little stove to place wood on the glowing embers. “I could brew some tea.”

Jagu, offering to make tea? The new domesticated side to his character was unexpected and rather endearing.

“Tea, then,” she said, sitting down close to the stove. “My throat's a little sore after tonight's performance; Dame Elmire would have given me a stern lecture for such poor technique.”

As he filled a little kettle from the water jug and set it to boil on top of the stove, she glanced around the sparsely furnished room. It offered no clue as to Jagu's interests; she noticed a couple of bound volumes of the Holy Texts lying on the chest, alongside his sword. There was nothing to gladden the eye or the spirits; not even a spring flower. But the table was covered in sheets of paper. When she was
sure Jagu was busy spooning tea into the pot, she sneaked over to investigate. Page after page of handwritten music lay before her, a mess of blots and scratched-out bars. This was just how Henri's desk used to look when he was in the throes of a new composition, littered with scraps of ideas and scribbled jottings. But the strong, well-formed hand was unmistakably Jagu's—and it had never once occurred to her that Jagu might be interested in writing music as well as performing it.