Sovay (35 page)

‘Like I say,’ she said, looking at me, ‘don’t believe everything you hear.’

I began to introduce myself and her laughter chimed like the coins she wore.

‘I know who you are, little Duchessa. Does your father know you are here? Your mother?’ The gleam in her eye grew needle sharp. ‘Do they care?’ She took my chin in a firm grip. ‘You look like her. Lady Viola – she’s a strange one. From the sea she came, and the sea will claim her. And what about your father?’ She pinched my cheeks harder. ‘I don’t see much of him about you.’

Bunches of herbs hung down from the beams along with other things: dried and scaly, dark and leathery, the desiccated remains of snakes and lizards, toads, frogs and bats’ wings. Many came to her for charms, to ward off the evil eye, to guard against the sprites and spirits that haunt graveyards and deserted places, gather at crossroads, lurk under gateways or hover close to running water. Illyrians are a credulous people, ready to see malevolence everywhere, but she was no ordinary market charm seller or fortuneteller. My mother had never been to her, as far as I knew, but other ladies consulted her, including the Lady Olivia, who was of the country and as superstitious as any. Even my father sometimes summoned Marijita to find out which days were auspicious. My people keep the feast days and go to church on Sunday, but they are ever mindful of other forces at work around them and she was a mistress of that invisible world.

‘Let me see that wound.’ She examined the gash on Guido’s head, gently probing with her long, thin fingers. ‘Looks worse than it is. Boys have thick skulls. You, Count’s boy, fetch me some water.’

Stephano filled a basin while she went to a long cupboard set against the far wall. The shelves were crammed with different-coloured bottles and pottery jars. She took what she wanted and came back to Guido. She washed his face and swabbed at his matted hair, parting it carefully to find the long, jagged cut still oozing blood on his white scalp. She dabbed the wound with sharp-smelling liquid that made him wince. Then she threaded a needle and Guido did his best not to flinch as she held the edges of the gash together and sewed it as neatly as she would sew a seam.

‘There!’ She stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘That will heal clean and leave no scar.’

Feste leaned against a bench covered in carvings at different stages of completion. He whistled softly to himself and whittled away at a piece of wood, while above our heads the swallows whirled about like birds on a child’s stick.

‘Feste, stop whistling at my birds. You are confusing them.’

While she tended Guido I stood by the window, looking at a stone set on the sill: a milky white moonstone about as big as a man’s fist. I found my eyes drawn to it, to the different hues of violet and blue playing across its shining surface. This was the seeing stone that she used to tell the ladies’ fortunes. It was like looking up into the sky on a cloudy day. I began to see shapes there, and then something else in its depths: little dancing spots like agitated grains of sand. It was like being in that state between waking and dreaming when fancies take form. The spots began to come together and turn themselves into a fleet of tiny ships. I blinked, thinking it was a trick of the light, that an image had been captured from outside, like the pictures cast on to the wall in Father’s dark chamber, his camera obscura. I looked out of the window. The ships moving across the sea below were small carracks, coastal craft, nothing like the long war galleys that I had seen in the stone.

When I looked back, the stone was opaque. I could see nothing beneath the shining surface.

‘My shewstone.’ Marijita held the stone cradled in her two hands. ‘Before you came, I had a reading. I put the stone there for the sun to burn away any lingering darkness. You saw something.’

It was not a question and she did not need me to confirm it. She knew. Her hand went to the charm she wore round her neck, a cimaruta, an amulet, made in the shape of a branching sprig of rue and hung with tiny charms: a key, the moon and a serpent. I’d seen them before; many women wore them who held to the Old Belief. The charms represented the goddess in her triple form: the key of Hecate, the moon of Diana, the serpent of Persephone.

‘Is it finished, Mother?’ Feste asked. He had left off whistling and was inspecting her carvings, as though looking for something.

‘Not yet,’ she replied. ‘You must be patient.’

She drew a cloth from the piece she had been working on, exposing it to Feste’s scrutiny. I had no idea what it could be. It looked just like a lump of wood to me.

Guido had recovered enough to wander over to where a sword hung on the wall. It was a Turkish yataghan, a fine weapon, with a hilt of mother-of-pearl and verses in silver and gold laid along its slender, curving blade.

‘Sharp enough for a man to shave himself,’ she said, as Guido tested the blade with his thumb. ‘When you have a beard to cut, perhaps it will be yours.’

She turned to where Stephano stood admiring a vest of chain mail covered in beaten silver discs which shimmered like fish scales.

‘Fine work.’ Her fingers fluttered over the shining surface. ‘It is said to have been worn by great Saladin himself and to have been blessed by the Prophet Mohammed, may peace be upon him. It is covered with verses from the Holy Qur’an.’ Although the majority worship Christ, there are those in Illyria who follow different faiths. Muslim and Jew live side by side with Christians. She made obeisance to other religions, like many in the town. ‘A gift from a soldier who had no further need for it.’ She plucked it up and measured it against Stephano. His fair hair had grown darker, it would be like his father’s, and his face had lost a child’s roundness, but he was still only halfway to a man. His chest was narrow and the yoke of the mail shirt stretched well past his shoulders; the shimmering length of it fell almost to his knees ‘Too big for you yet, boy.’ She threw the shirt aside and clapped her hands. ‘Do not wish to grow up too soon. Go away now and be children. When it is time, you will come back.’

With that, we were dismissed. We left her and followed the walls round, down into the town. The sun had fallen below the level of the battlements, the bright blue of the sky was darkening to purple and lavender, the air was loud with the sound of birds coming home to their roosts, bats just flying out. We linked arms, jumping down the steps that led down to the Stradun. The market had righted itself. The first lamps were lit and the wide street was busy with people coming out into the cool of the evening. There was little sign of the fighting that had broken out earlier, only a few rusty stains on the white paving stones. Feste stationed himself at a corner, set his battered hat in front of him and played and sang until he had collected enough to buy us lemon drinks sweetened with sugar, honey cakes and sweetmeats from the vendors. We went out into the harbour and sat on the wall together to watch the sun go down over the water. We ate and drank and laughed until the curfew bell summoned us back inside the city walls. I remember it better than yesterday. It was the last time that I was happy.

N
ANCY IS AN HEIRESS FLEEING AN ARRANGED MARRIAGE

M
INERVA IS A RUNAWAY PLANTATION SLAVE

B
OTH WILL FIND SALVATION ON A PIRATE SHIP

“A rip-roaring adventure.” —
SLJ, starred review

“Robust and romantic.” —
San Francisco Chronicle

www.bloomsburyteens.com

Praise for
Sovay

“Capturing the romantic, dramatic flavor of late-18th-century prose . . . without compromising the complexity of her characters, the author creates a suspenseful tale of political intrigue and class struggle.” —
Publishers Weekly
, starred review

“You’ll love it if: You adore high-spirited adventures starring fearless girls.” —
Cosmogirl.com

“Full of detail and lots of mystery. . . . If you enjoy historical fiction with strong female characters, you’ll love
Sovay
.” —
TeensReadToo.com

“Rees produces an appealingly fast-paced and suspenseful historical novel with plenty of plot twists, dastardly villains, and a brave, resourceful young heroine.” —
VOYA

“This intriguing, fast-paced story will both shock and entertain readers as they experience the events of the French Revolution through the eyes of the memorable heroine Sovay.” —
Curledupkids.com

“Remarkable.” —
Teenreads.com

Copyright © 2008 by Celia Rees

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

First published in the United States of America in September 2008

by Bloomsbury Books for Young Readers

E-book edition published in September 2010

www.bloomsburyteens.com

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Bloomsbury BFYR, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Rees, Celia.

Sovay / by Celia Rees. —1st U.S. ed.

p. cm.

Summary: In 1794 England, the rich and beautiful Sovay, disguised as a highwayman, acquires papers that could lead to her father’s arrest for treason, and soon her newly awakened political consciousness leads her and a compatriot to France during the Revolution.

ISBN-13: 978-1-59990-203-6 • ISBN-10: 1-59990-203-6 (hardcover)

[1. Social classes—Fiction. 2. Sex role—Fiction. 3. Robbers and outlaws—Fiction. 4. Great Britain—History—1789–1820—Fiction. 5. France—History—Revolution, 1789–1799—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.R25465Sov 2008      [Fic]—dc22      2008004779

ISBN 978-1-59990-573-0 (e-book)