Flight Into Darkness (53 page)

“Jagu?” She picked up a handful of music. “Did
you
compose this? This setting of the Vesper Prayer?”

He looked up from pouring tea and she saw an unusually vulnerable expression cross his face. “Don't look at that,” he said. “It's not finished.”

She was not to be fobbed off so easily. “These opening bars, they're for a soprano soloist. You weren't writing this for me to sing, were you?”

His hand jerked involuntarily and spilled some of the tea. Cursing, he mopped it up with his handkerchief.

“Let me try it out.” He had written music for her. She wanted nothing more than to hear what it sounded like.

“It's not finished.” He brought over a glass of strong brown tea. “Besides, you said your throat was sore. No more singing for you tonight. Drink this; it's from Serindher. It has a warming, malty taste.”

Reluctantly, she replaced the music and took her tea, holding the hot glass carefully in her cupped hands. “Tomorrow morning, then. We can use one of the practice rooms at the theater. Gauzia never arrives until an hour before the performance. She's too busy entertaining her admirers.”

“Maybe.” He was looking at her so intently that she suddenly felt self-conscious.

“What is it?” she asked. “Is there a smear of greasepaint on my face?”

“I just can't get used to seeing you like that,” he said awkwardly. “Can't you shed your disguise now that we're alone together?”

“It's still me, Jagu,” she said, sipping her tea.
Alone together.
There was something about the way he pronounced those words that sent a little shiver through her. Yet they had been alone together countless times before. His request touched her. Would it hurt to indulge him?

“Faie,” she said softly. “It's all right; I'm safe here. Change me back.”

“If that's what you truly wish…
”

Celestine saw from Jagu's startled reaction that the Faie had withdrawn the glamour she had cast around her.

“Is that better?” She felt suddenly shy, defenseless, as if the Faie had also stripped away the protective shell with which she had been shielding her true feelings.

He set down his cup, still staring at her. “The truth is that I would still love you, whether you were Maela, Celestine… or whoever else you chose to be.”

“You… love me?” To hear Jagu make such a confession was so unexpected that she thought she must have misheard. “Don't make fun of me, Jagu.”

“Don't you know me well enough by now? I'm incapable of joking about something so important.”

“Prove it.” What was she saying? The challenge issued from her lips before she could stop herself. Hadn't their relationship always been like this? Fierce arguments over interpretation, whether a piece of music or orders relating to their mission.

The next moment he crossed the room and, taking her face between his hands, pressed his lips to hers, kissing her. She began to protest, pushing against him, her cry smothered by his mouth. Then suddenly she stopped struggling, surrendering to his hunger, kissing him back, her mouth hot and eager.

All Jagu's conflicted feelings had woven themselves into the kiss: frustrated longing and helpless desire. He had expected her to push him away. But she had only pulled him closer. It surprised him how swiftly, how easily, his body responded to hers—and how urgent his need had become to take matters further. While he still had the power to control himself, he gently released her, his hands on her shoulders. She gazed questioningly up at him and he realized that she had never looked at him in such an intimate, vulnerable way before.

“I should take you back to your lodgings,” he said.

“Yes, you should.” But when she made no move, he began to stroke her hair.

“When you disappeared, I was afraid that I'd lost you for good,” he said softly. “Why is it that you don't realize till something's gone how important it is to you?”

“More important to you than your vow to the Commanderie?”

“Since I lost you I've felt”— he struggled to find the right word— “incomplete. Like a part of myself was missing. But when I heard you were on Andrei Orlov's ship, I somehow assumed that you… and he…”

“That we were lovers?” A little blush had appeared on her cheeks. “It could so easily have happened. But I ran away. I had my reasons.”

She was still so difficult to read, kissing him with such passion one moment, then tormenting him with these elusive hints and allusions. He wasn't entirely inexperienced in matters of the heart; as a music student, he'd had a couple of brief romances with young singers, but no one had ever affected him as deeply as she had.

“I wasn't there when you needed me in Smarna.” To think back to those troubled, uncertain days still hurt. “I'm so sorry. When I reached the villa they told me that you'd been arrested. I went straight to the harbor but the
Aquilon
had already sailed. I followed on the next ship to Francia, only to find that you'd already given the Inquisitors the slip.” His arms tightened around her. “I don't ever want to let you go ever again.”

I don't ever want to let you go ever again.
Those words, spoken with such intensity, at once thrilled and terrified Celestine. It felt as if every part of her that he touched was on fire. Tumbling backward onto the bed together seemed the most natural, inevitable outcome. It was such a delicious, dizzying sensation to know that he wanted her so badly… and to realize that she wanted him too.

Her body moved beneath his, arching upward to meet him. They had been making music together for so long that they had developed an instinctive, wordless understanding. Jagu could match the keyboard part to her vocal line as naturally as if they were one. One heart, one intelligence shaping the music together. And it seemed that their bodies moved to that same instinctive rhythm, giving and taking pleasure in equal measure until, sated and drowsy, they fell asleep in each other's arms.

The cold, pure light of a Mirom dawn filtered in through the wooden shutters. Celestine half opened her eyes, aware that she was warm and blissfully comfortable beneath the goose-feather quilt. She snuggled closer to the source of the warmth… and felt herself pressing up against someone else in the bed. Someone naked. As naked as she.

She lay still, fully awake now, not daring to move for fear she might disturb him. He was lying on his side, his back to her, the quilt gently rising and falling with his slow, regular breathing. His hair, untied, spilled over the linen pillowcase, black as scattered crows’ feathers against fresh-fallen snow. She wanted so much to touch it, to rake her fingers through it as she had the night before in the fire of their passion, yet still she didn't dare move. But a slow flush of heat ran through her body as she remembered what else they had done in the darkness.

Will you blame me for making you break your vow, Jagu?

The brightening daylight revealed their clothes, flung across the floorboards in the abandon and desperation of their hunger for each other.

He gave a slow sigh and turned over in the bed toward her. As his arms enfolded her and she felt herself pulled back into his embrace, she swiveled around and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “Good morning, Jagu,” she whispered. His eyes opened. They stared at each other.

“Um, did… did we?”

She burst into delighted laughter. “Don't tell me you've forgotten already!”

“Remind me,” he said, “so that I won't forget again.”

Later—very much later that morning—they rose and dressed. Jagu went out to buy some rolls for their breakfast and when he returned, he found Celestine studying his Vesper Prayer.

“Please, Jagu,” she said. “Let me sing it for you.”

“What, right now?”

“What's the point in writing music if it's never going to be performed? Come on,” she said tugging at his sleeve. “We can use one of the practice rooms at the Imperial Theater!”

Once Celestine had decided to do something, there was no dissuading her. Her enthusiasm won him over. He could do nothing but smile, aware that until now he had never known what happiness was.

He had made his choice last night, and he had no regrets. He had broken his vow in making love to Celestine. He was still living on the Commanderie's money but all that would change; he would go out and find work as an accompanist.

No sooner had they entered the theater by the stage door than they were stopped by Grebin.

“Who's this, Maela?”

“My new repetiteur,” she said, giving him her sweetest smile. “We're going to rehearse.”

Grebin peered suspiciously at Jagu in the gloom. “But aren't you a florist?”

Taking Celestine by the hand, Jagu hurried her away along the dark passageway. “I'm… versatile,” he called back over his shoulder.

“A florist?” she asked, mystified.

“I had to dream up a way of getting backstage to find you.”

“But a florist, Jagu—” Celestine couldn't hold back her laughter any longer.

“There has to be a keyboard round here somewhere.”

Her ribs hurt from laughing. “Third door on the right,” she gasped, wiping her eyes.

He opened the door to the smallest rehearsal room and pulled her inside. She linked her hands around the nape of his neck, pulled his face down close to hers and kissed him.

“Someone might come in.” Gently, he unwound her arms from around his neck.

As Celestine worked through her daily ritual of vocal exercises, slowly warming her voice to life, each arpeggio climbing a pitch higher, Jagu felt a sense of deep contentment seep through him. He hadn't realized until now how important a part of his life this had been.

“Why are you smiling?” she said, suddenly breaking off. “Did I make a mistake?”

“Far from it,” he said. “I was just thinking how much I've missed this. You and I, working together.”

“You may not still be smiling when you hear me sing your music. Of course, I shall blame you, the composer, if I make a mistake. I'll insist that it's impossible to sing and force you to change it!” She flashed him an impudent little smile.

“The opening is wordless. I wanted the voice to shine, like the voice of Azilis wreathing up to the stars through the desert night in Ondhessar.”

Her face became grave and she nodded slowly. She drew in a breath and began to sing, her pure voice taking the notes he had written for her and transforming them with the unearthly beauty of her tone.

Hearing her bring the opening melisma of his Vesper Prayer to radiant life made the hairs rise on the back of Jagu's neck. He stopped playing.

“Did I make a mistake?”

He shook his head, too moved to reply straightaway. He had imagined this moment so many times. Eventually he said simply, “It was perfect.”

Nevertheless, he was glad that he had remembered to bring a pencil with him. He kept halting to make little marks on the score to remind himself where he needed to make corrections.

“You're such a perfectionist, Jagu,” she said, planting a kiss on the top of his head.

Someone tapped on the door. “Demoiselle Cassard! Grebin wants all soloists onstage.”

“They need you,” he said, picking up the sheets.

“Meet me after the performance tonight. Not here… Gauzia might see you. Here's my address; it's not far.” She scribbled her address on the top of the score and blew him a kiss. “Till tonight.”

Celestine awoke all of a sudden, conscious that there was someone in the room. It was the empty, grey hour before dawn, the time at which the dying often fade away with the end of the night.

She lay utterly still, not daring to move. Had a burglar broken in? Beside her, Jagu lay in a deep sleep, one arm flung protectively across her body, utterly unaware. The Faie had withdrawn to the book. Could she summon her silently, by thought alone, without drawing the intruder's attention?

The shadow moved closer to the bed. Yet even in the uncertain light, she knew him, and her heart felt as if it had turned to ice.

“Celestine?”
said Henri in puzzled tones.
“Jagu?”

Celestine sat up, clutching the sheet tight about her to cover her nakedness. Beside her she heard Jagu stir at last and push himself up on one elbow.

“When am I going to wake from this nightmare?”
murmured the revenant distractedly.

Her hand crept out from beneath the sheet, not stopping until her fingers pinched Jagu's arm, feeling the reassuring warmth of living flesh and blood.

“M—Maistre de Joyeuse?” Jagu sounded as dazed as she, reverting to using Henri's full title as he had done in his student days.

”
Why can no one hear me?”
There was such a burden of desolation in his words that Celestine could not bear to listen.

“
I can hear you.”
The voice of the Faie issued from the book that lay on the bedside table.

“Faie?” Celestine said softly.

“Go back,”
said the Faie in a tone both compassionate and commanding.

“Don't send me back. Not there.”
The revenant's pale features twisted, warping into a look of such terror that Celestine could not bear to look and buried her face in her hands. And then she heard a voice, so pure and unearthly that it could have been the sound of a star singing. Daring to peer out between her fingers, she saw that the Faie had transformed into a creature of dazzling brightness. Her face was transfigured, her eyes closed, her arms extended as the song poured from her open mouth. A sliver of light appeared beyond the tips of her fingers, growing brighter until it opened like a doorway and radiance spilled out.

The revenant's tortured features slowly relaxed, to be replaced by a look of calm detachment. It turned and its shadowy form seemed to melt into the brightness.

The Faie's voice faded away and with it, the light that had filled the attic room.

“Is he gone?” Celestine whispered. The Faie let out the faintest of sighs. Her form was fading too as she melted back into the book. “Faie! What's wrong?”

”
I just… need to rest a little…
”

Jagu was rubbing his eyes. “Tell me that was a dream,” he said shakily.