The Mystic Marriage (26 page)

Why had she ever thought—even for the moment of denying it—that Antuniet might grow to feel more for her than gratitude and friendship? Every time she tried to reach out she became as clumsy as a green girl. And for what? As she kept reminding herself, there was no future for her there. It was time to let go of that fantasy before Antuniet found her attention tedious. And yet she was drawn again and again like a moth to the moon, simply for the pleasure of her company and the taste of bittersweet dreams. So it ever had been. She had no power to deny herself even the shadow of pleasure. But giving up didn’t mean letting herself go. She addressed her image in the glass in stern tones. “When you admire a woman, it is a virtue to make yourself attractive
for
her, even if it isn’t possible to make yourself attractive
to
her.” She took up the haresfoot again and dipped it in powder to brush across her cheek.

Marien tapped and entered, carrying her feather-topped turban, freshly arranged into crispness. “Your guest is here, Mesnera.”

“Tell her to come up, I’m almost ready.”

She finished the last touches and stood as Antuniet was shown into the dressing room. “Oh, Toneke, it’s beautiful! Dominique triumphs again!” She had known the rose shade would set off Antuniet’s dark coloring, but the dressmaker had transformed her steadfast refusal of lace and ribbons into an elegant texture of pleats and tucks. “You look lovely,” she added in the face of clear skepticism. “Now help me choose a shawl. I keep coming back to this hideous thing.” She held up the offending garment. “Tio convinced me that striped fringe was all the rage, but…” She shuddered in mock revulsion.

“You’re coming to me for advice on fashion?” Antuniet asked in amusement. “Which one do you like the most?”

“Ah, that would be this one,” Jeanne said promptly, holding up a length of mauve cashmere, its borders decorated with a design of peacock feathers. “But the color is impossible with this gown. Although…” She held it up speculatively against Antuniet’s shoulder. “Perfect! You simply must borrow it for tonight,” she urged before any protest could be made. “With that vision before me I can bear the striped fringe.” She held it up and circled around behind Antuniet to drape it across her arms and shoulders. A wave of heat ran through her. The wisps of hair trailing across the back of Antuniet’s bare neck invited kisses. She closed her eyes, only to have her senses filled with the scent of her. No, this would never do! If she didn’t find some distraction soon, she’d be betrayed into doing something unforgivable.

Margerit had offered a light supper before the affair but Jeanne had demurred. “I hope you don’t mind, Toneke,” she offered, “but I thought you might prefer a quiet bite here with me.” And she would have the pleasure of Antuniet’s company all to herself for a time. She was different in public, even with just the few of them at the workshop; there only the work brought out her inner fire. But here at home…“Tell me more about Prague,” Jeanne urged when the soup was served. “Once you promised me the full story of how you found your treasure with a true-love charm!”

Antuniet leaned forward, but her eyes were distant. “There’s an ancient wall by the castle where long ago people built houses into the spaces of the archways. Back in King Rudolf’s day, when he gathered alchemists from across the face of Europe under his patronage, it was known as a gathering place. I don’t know whether it was a bookshop already at that time or if it was DeBoodt’s workshop, or one of his student’s. But somehow his greatest work came to fall behind a case, against the wall. I was in the shop one day, a tiny place crammed so full of books you could hardly turn around. When I worked the finding charm it kept leading me to the back of a cabinet, even after I’d emptied out all the shelves onto the floor. And when I tapped on the back there was one spot that didn’t echo like the rest. It took most of the day to convince the owner that I was ready to buy whatever it was, sight unseen. He had to chisel open the back of the cabinet because it had been plastered to the walls ages ago. The book must have fallen down from on top and been utterly forgotten for over two hundred years.”

It was like an ancient fairy tale with romance and adventure, chance and destiny. She could imagine Antuniet standing there among the shelves and corridors, lighting her tiny candle and sprinkling the dust of the charm over it to see which way the sparks pointed her. And she was grateful that in the course of time they’d pointed her back to Rotenek. Antuniet had brought new fire into her life even if it could never go beyond moments like this.

The opera itself was only ordinarily entertaining. Maistir Fizeir was known for his historic tragedies, but tragedies had become less popular than farce. His attempts to join the two made for an odd assortment. The guests, too, were an odd assortment: the aunt and uncle and some assorted older Pertinek cousins; a countrified-looking gentleman who might be some connection of Margerit’s Chalanz relatives. Jeanne suspected that Margerit was using the occasion to pay off a collection of social debts that hadn’t balanced out in the ordinary course of things. She should put a word in her ear about how to manage these things more elegantly.

It mattered little. An excellent performance could have been transporting, but tonight it was enough to enjoy having Antuniet at her side and to exchange small witty comments with the other guests. Antuniet seemed to have expended most of the store of her conversation over dinner, but she gave every sign of enjoying the music and the company. “It’s different,” she said at one quiet moment. “When my mother dragged me to the opera it was always to be on display. And then there would be a quarrel when we returned home because I hadn’t spoken to this one, or was unfriendly to that one. There was no chance simply to listen.”

“I’ve never thought of conversation as a burden,” Jeanne said. “What you must think of me! I made you talk all through dinner.”

The music swelled and prevented a response, but when the song was finished Antuniet continued, “I didn’t mind. You make it so easy to talk. It’s different when it’s just us. I miss—” She hesitated uncertainly. “It may seem strange to miss anything about those awful months last fall, but I miss our little picnic lunches. There never seems to be time for that now.”

Jeanne was tempted to retort about whose fault that was, but instead she pressed Antuniet’s hand silently. She let go more quickly than she’d planned as the heat rose again. But it was gratifying to know that she’d been able to provide those bright memories.

They walked about the galleries at the interval, though Antuniet declined to do more than nod to old acquaintances in the hallways, and then returned early enough to Margerit’s box to catch the last of the visitors there.

“I was wondering where you’d wandered off to,” Count Chanturi greeted her, rising from where he sat beside Barbara. “I’m holding a small celebration afterward to congratulate Fizeir on the new work. I’ve been hoping you could come because there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Will you grace us?”

“So kind of you to invite us, Rikerd,” Jeanne replied, looking pointedly at Antuniet, still close at her side.

Chanturi added, “Maisetra Chazillen is welcome too, of course.” Antuniet nodded hesitantly, but she couldn’t say she hadn’t been specifically included. He turned back to kiss Barbara’s hand and bow farewell to their hostess.

The opera ended in a muddle of deaths and triumphs, with the lighter elements falling somewhere by the wayside. Jeanne doubted it would be performed again after this season.

They were a smaller party to join the celebration afterward. The Pertineks and several others had made an early evening of it. Margerit’s country friend pleaded business in the morning and perhaps sensed that he would be out of place in the Count’s crowd. But the rest descended to the smaller concert hall that Chanturi had hired for his festivities.

There were speeches and congratulations from the composer and his patrons, all hearty and insincere. The principals were toasted and then the guests were released to the scattered tables of food and drink, with small groups of performers entertaining between them. At first Jeanne feared they might be regaled with a repetition of highlights from the evening’s work, but it seemed the singers and dancers had been directed to bring out favored bits from previous seasons. She recognized snippets of the overtures and a few of the arias. But the entertainments were the least of the evening. Maisetra Ovinze offered a wealth of gossip regarding performances they could expect in the fall, and when Tionez claimed her attention to tell all the fashion news her husband had written from Paris, a crowd of eager listeners buzzed about them. Antuniet drifted away while Tio held forth and Jeanne watched her worriedly with half an eye until she fell into conversation with Margerit.

When the swarm around Tio dissipated, Rikerd pulled her aside to point out a group of dancers in an energetic performance halfway between a tarantella and the tumbling of acrobats. “She’s quite talented,” he said archly, directing her attention to the smallest figure in the group. “I’ll introduce her when they’ve finished the set.”

Jeanne took a moment to admire the blond dancer’s skill, then raised an eyebrow at him, not in question but in understanding. He smiled and nodded and moved on to the next group of his guests. Well, perhaps this was what she needed: distraction without any lasting entanglements. In the brief breathing space, Jeanne looked around for Antuniet and found her standing by a string quartet who were playing at the far end of the room so as not to compete with the singers.

“You’re being very quiet,” Jeanne said, coming up beside her. She seemed to be listening to the music more as an excuse for retreat than in true interest. “I hope you aren’t sorry you came.”

Antuniet gave a careful answer. “The evening has been pleasant enough, but I was up at dawn to set up the firing and tomorrow will be all day cleaning up the result to study.”

“Surely it could wait another day if you’re tired?”

She shrugged. “It could, but until I know how the stones came out I won’t know whether the adjustments to the congelation worked. And then I wouldn’t have the new procedure worked out in time for the next alignment. Margerit promised to find me someone to take the Mars role, so it will waste everyone’s time if I’m not ready.”

Even here her thoughts were back in the workshop. She hadn’t meant the additional invitation to be a burden. “You could have said no to this.”

“Oh, Jeanne, I don’t mean to complain. I didn’t want to drag you away. You’ve been working so hard to find people who will receive me. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, either to you or to the Count. Don’t worry over me. Go enjoy yourself.” Someone else might have come up with a polite lie, either to escape the party or to excuse her mood. Antuniet didn’t deal in polite lies but neither was it her habit to apologize at such length.

Jeanne frowned. “Are you sure? Say the word and we could go. We’ve been here long enough to honor Chanturi’s invitation.”

“Thank you,” she said. “But I’m enjoying the music for now. It’s only the people who make me tired.”

Jeanne couldn’t think of how to answer that except to let her be. She saw Rikerd beckon to her from across the room and, with a light touch on the shoulder in place of the missing words, she left Antuniet to the viols in the corner.

“Jeanne, I thought you might enjoy meeting Luzild,” he said as she approached, gesturing at the petite dancer. “Luzild, this is the Vicomtesse de Cherdillac. She’s a great patron and admirer of the arts.” And with that, he stepped discreetly away to find other amusements.

Jeanne had thought at first glance, from her diminutive height, that the girl was young. The dance companies were generally chosen to be well-matched in size. But it was only that she was compactly built, combining a womanly body with the lithe athleticism of a cat. “How long have you been dancing with the opera?” she asked. It seemed an easy opening to draw her out. “I’m trying to remember whether I’ve seen you perform before.”

“Only for a year now,” she replied. “They needed someone to dance the role of the monkey in
La Turca
last March and one of the musicians remembered seeing me performing in Iuten at floodtide, and Maistir Fizeir thought I’d be perfect for the role.” The woman’s mobile expression reflected her every emotion. “And of course once I was here in Rotenek I was hardly going to let myself be sent back to the provinces! But I don’t appear in any of the main dances, only in the back of the chorus. That’s why you don’t remember seeing me. They say it’s because I’m not good enough yet or because I’m so short, but—” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “—they’re as bad as a flock of hens for not letting new people in. I think they’re just jealous.” Her eyes sparkled and a wide grin split her face. “Fizeir says he may write a child’s dance for me in the next one, and of course if they need the tumbling they come to me. That’s what I was doing in Iuten before.”

She chattered on at length, hardly needing prompting to tell the story of her life and career so far. Jeanne was amused at her complete absence of self-consciousness, but to stem the flood of trivialities, she asked, “So how does a monkey dance?”

The woman looked up at her sideways with speculation. “Perhaps you’d like to see?” she asked. “I think there’s a hallway back behind the promenade where there would be enough room.” And few people about, Jeanne thought, as the dancer led her out past the wide entryway and around the corner.

The place was empty and unlit, though the glow from the promenade beyond left enough to see by. Luzild slipped off her shoes and stretched and twisted briefly to loosen her muscles. Her face was stiller now as she bent and curved in clever contortions: now standing on both hands with her back arched, now lifting one leg and then the other to tumble in one spot like a slowly rolling wheel. Her wide, flowing skirts followed her muscular limbs like water, always promising but never revealing what lay beneath. She finished by bending her legs up over her head to set herself down nearly at Jeanne’s feet then rose up in a slow, controlled stretch to stand before her, close enough that Jeanne could feel her panting breath. The dancer fixed her gaze and said low, “Count Chanturi tells me that you might be interested in a companion for the evening.”