The Mystic Marriage (7 page)

The house’s location was respectable but far from fashionable: on the northern side of the Rotein, but neither directly along the river where the oldest families lived, nor at the city’s edge where the new money had built. Close enough to the Plaiz that a woman careless of proprieties might walk to the cathedral or the opera house or other entertainments if she didn’t care to keep her own carriage, but far enough that the houses allowed for breathing space between them. One could catch glimpses of tidy gardens and carefully trained fruit trees through the side passages. A family would have filled the house to a cheerful chaos. De Cherdillac had no brothers or sisters that Antuniet knew of. Well, no, there would have been no brothers or she wouldn’t have inherited the house or the comfortable competence that allowed her to play queen bee to an eccentric social set of mildly questionable reputation. Antuniet knew the vicomtesse’s public face, played out in the
salles
and concert halls and the country homes of her wealthier friends, but today was business and private. She wondered if de Cherdillac had chosen to meet her at home rather than a public café to preserve her own reputation or to preserve her guest’s dignity. No matter, it suited them both.

There was no bar to her entrance this time, rather a bland and dignified, “Mesnera Chazillen, if you would…?” and a gesture leading her past the dining room back into the small breakfast parlor that looked out over the garden. It was early to dine, unless one were going out later in the evening. Antuniet made a mental note to watch for signs of impatience. Better to make a dignified retreat than put de Cherdillac to the embarrassment of dismissing her. Places were set for two, and there would be no need to shout across the length of a long table to be heard. That could be excuse enough for using the smaller parlor without touching on how out of place she would look among the crystal and silver of the formal dining room.

The man took her coat and bonnet, and she crossed to the windows to wait for her hostess to be informed. A thick, gnarled vine climbed along one edge of the view and disappeared above, testifying to the house’s age. How many generations of boys had used that route to escape for nighttime adventures? There had been a twisted ilex of similar function behind her own house. No, it hadn’t been her house, not then and certainly not now. The house she had grown up in—that was as much as she could call it. And she recalled the tree’s spiny leaves had held a penance for the transgression.

De Cherdillac burst into the room as if she were walking on stage. Antuniet wondered idly if she paused before entering to gather herself to assume the role. She was as striking as ever with coal-black curls peeking out from under a turban of gold silk and setting off the creamy perfection of her skin. That perfection, Antuniet knew, owed something to the powder box, but the vicomtesse was enough of an artist that you scarcely noticed. You forgot the question entirely as soon as her dark eyes fixed upon you in delight and she unexpectedly clasped you for a quick peck on both cheeks. “
Ma chère
Antuniet! I’m so glad you could come! You’re looking well.”

By which Antuniet assumed she did not look as if she’d been sleeping under a bridge. “Well” was stretching matters. “Do you have any news for me?” she asked.

“Tcha, we’ll come to business later. I have a lovely dinner planned. My cook has managed to find the most succulent duckling you have ever tasted and she won’t say where she gets them because she thinks I’d tell all my friends and then she wouldn’t be able to buy any more. Which I would, of course.” She laughed.

So it was to be the fiction of a purely social call for now. Well, it wasn’t as if she had any other appointments this evening. Antuniet took the indicated seat and started composing a praise for the meal that would sound appropriately artificial. Somehow “It’s been ages since I dined this well” struck the wrong note in her present situation. And she was trying not to bring to mind that last private dinner.

As the evening wore on it was easier than she thought to slip into the rhythms of her old life, especially with someone so skilled at the game. The food
was
delicious. And the conversation covered harmless, inconsequential topics. De Cherdillac was a superlative hostess. Almost, she could imagine that the meal would be followed by a concert and then she would return to Modul Street. And her mother would inquire in her acid, pointed way whether she had met anyone interesting. And then, later in the night, she would be awakened by some minor uproar when Estefen returned home.

Reverie and reality merged in the sound of a raised voice elsewhere in the house, the tapping of quick footsteps and the bursting open of the door. De Cherdillac’s butler was serving at table, so the unexpected guest was trailed by a parlormaid, apologizing profusely, “I’m sorry Mesnera, but she insisted on seeing you and—”

“And you are always welcome in my house, Benedetta. Thank you, Ainis, you may go. But darling, as you see, I have company.”

The intruder was a tall, curvaceous woman, wearing a pelisse in the Italian style of deep garnet sarsenet. The elaborate coiffure and the boldness with which her long, oval face was painted advertised her profession as a performer. A singer, Antuniet guessed from the honey-rich tones of her voice, which were at odds with her waspish words.

“I expected you two hours ago.”

De Cherdillac rose and, with a brief gesture of apology, took the conversation out into the hallway. It made no difference, as neither woman took the trouble to whisper.

“Didn’t you receive my note, Benedetta? I have other plans this evening.”

“And I wanted to see for myself just who these other plans were.”

“
Chérie
, you know I adore you, but this jealousy is so unattractive. You embarrass me in front of my guest.”

“And you embarrassed me in front of my friends. I promised Hannek you would join us for a drive. You have made me a joke.”

“But
chérie
, you should not have promised in my name! Here is a promise for you: I will be there for the performance tomorrow. And afterward we will go to Café Chatuerd.”

“Who is she?”

“An old friend. Really, Benedetta, this is growing tedious.”

And then the voices became less distinct and there was the sound of a door closing. Antuniet rose when the vicomtesse returned to the dining room. “Perhaps I should come again when it’s more convenient.”

“No, no, there’s no reason to go. I do apologize; she has a lovely voice but such low-class manners. Who would have thought she’d turn jealous when they’re only here to perform for a month? But she sings with such fire! I have a weakness for passion and talent.” She gave a little forced laugh. “I confess I’ll be glad after tomorrow when the company moves on. I’ve grown bored of the constant tragedies.”

Antuniet had no idea what one said to that, but some change of topic seemed to be called for. “Perhaps we could discuss my search for a patron.”

“Ah, yes. Tomric, bring us some Madeira in the drawing room and then that will be all.”

* * *

De Cherdillac settled herself on the edge of a chair and leaned over to touch her gently on the wrist, as if in apology. “There’s no point to beating around the bush. I fear I haven’t had any luck yet in finding someone to sponsor your work. It isn’t…” There was an awkward hesitation. “It isn’t the matter of your brother. But alchemy…” She shrugged helplessly.

Antuniet wondered why her heart sank so. It had been a long reach from the beginning. “I wonder that you didn’t simply leave word for me and save yourself all that.” She gestured to take in the earlier quarrel.

“But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your company this evening.”

Almost, she could make it believable. It was easy to see why de Cherdillac was invited everywhere, despite…everything. She had that way of focusing her attention, as if you were the most fascinating person in the room.
Never mind that I’m the only person in the room
, Antuniet thought. She had never been the target of that charm in the old days. She could see how it might be intoxicating. No one had ever considered her worth charming, even during her first seasons out in society. “Whom have you approached?” she asked, bringing her mind back to important matters.

The vicomtesse rattled off an assortment of names. It covered all the likely possibilities. “Of course you forbade me to speak to Sovitre or your cousin, which would come to the same thing.”

“I would prefer,” Antuniet said more stiffly than she intended, “that you not refer to Baroness Saveze as my cousin. I rather doubt she acknowledges the relationship.”

“But do you?”

She shrugged. “Does it matter?” In truth, Baroness Saveze was a stranger to her. She had known Barbara No-name, her uncle’s ward, the strange, intense child always keeping quiet in the shadows. And she had known the ruthlessly competent duelist she had become, always at her uncle’s side, and after his death left along with the rest of his property to the Sovitre girl. But Barbara Lumbeirt—revealed as her uncle’s bastard daughter, the one granted his title after Estefen’s disgrace and execution—that latest Barbara was a stranger to her and she was more than a little frightened of her.

De Cherdillac had been speaking again, mentioning those she still planned to approach. “Don’t bother,” Antuniet said abruptly. “I can see it was a foolish hope. There are other roads, they’re merely slower.” And had more hazards, but that was no one else’s concern. “I thank you for your efforts on my behalf.”

She rose, but the vicomtesse protested, “Surely you aren’t leaving yet? I’d hoped for a longer visit once business was out of the way.”

“Mesnera de Cherdillac,” Antuniet said tiredly, “I have work to do in the morning. Business is never out of the way.” She curtseyed formally, giving the other no choice but to return the gesture and see her to the door. But at the last, she turned and said, “Thank you for letting me forget, for a few hours at least.”

* * *

She dreamed again that night. The sort of dream that had haunted her since the flight from Prague. Dark spaces, locked doors, and beneath it all her mother’s insistent voice:
What do you have to show for yourself? Is that all? You could have made a good match if you’d tried at all. Instead you waste your time with books and mystic nonsense.
But a good match would have done nothing for the Chazillen name now. Marriage would only have provided an excuse to turn her back on the family disgrace. It was the alchemy that was their chance at redemption, but only if she could scrape together enough money to begin again.

The immediate problem had been to find some students. In Heidelberg she’d had the small advantage of being an exotic curiosity. In Rotenek she was merely an embarrassment, but at least she knew her ground. The university district had been her second home for years, and she knew its rhythms and gathering places. She had found some work already—enough to put a roof over her head. It would never be enough to support the Great Work, but there were those she knew who dealt in money for the right return. She remembered Estefen’s fury over his debts and one name more than others on his lips: Langal. None of Estefen’s rages had suggested that the man cut more than the usual corners in his financial dealings or that he would cheat anyone who didn’t deserve to be cheated or that the subject of alchemy would deter him. Estefen had raged at anyone who came between him and what he wanted. Oh, not always outwardly, but rage had driven him all the same and that had been his downfall. Watching him, Antuniet had vowed never to let love or hatred cloud her sight. Only once had she allowed herself the luxury of hatred. At the end of that long, dark night full of death, on the last occasion when she had come face-to-face with Margerit Sovitre, she had let it spill over.
This time you have blood on your hands; this time I do hate you.
No, she would not go beg anything from Sovitre, not when two deaths stood between them.

As with de Cherdillac, Langal lived in a part of the city where Antuniet’s shabby clothing marked her out more strongly than the fact that she traveled on foot. The difference was that his neighbors were quite accustomed to seeing him receive visitors whom fortune had treated badly. She knocked boldly on the front door at an hour far too early for social visits but quite acceptable for business. The man who opened it to her had too much of the ruffian about him to be a footman and not enough crisp professionalism to be an armin. In addition to combining the duties of reception and security, he seemed to have sufficient authority to assess her name and person and instruct her to follow him without further consultation. He preceded her into Langal’s office, announcing, “Mesnera Antuniet Chazillen to see you.”

Langal looked up and removed a small pair of spectacles, gazing at her from under bushy eyebrows with a face that gave away nothing except in the length of the silence that hung between them. At last he addressed her escort, “I believe you have been misinformed. This is
Maisetra
Antuniet Chazillen.”

Antuniet struggled to match his bland demeanor. It would have come to this sooner or later. The vicomtesse might be too polite to take notice, but it was to Langal’s advantage to point out that she no longer enjoyed the rights and privileges of the nobility. They stood at the same social level now. The taint her brother had brought on the Chazillens had stripped her of all her birthrights. The courtesies of address and title were the very least of it, but she still felt it as a slap in the face.

“As you say, Maistir Langal,” she said with a formal curtsey. “The world has turned.”

“And turning, it brings you to me. I’m trying to imagine what possible use I could be to you.”

There was a chair placed facing him and she settled herself in it without waiting for permission. There was a fine line to be trod between confidence and arrogance. “I am engaged in a certain project.” She weighed how deeply to delve into the details, but complete vagueness seemed unlikely to bring him to the table. “An alchemical project. I have had some small initial success.” No need to mention all the failures since then. “And the results will produce both wealth and influence.” She reached into her purse and drew out a knotted cloth. Unfastened, it revealed a blood-red carnelian, the only one of the gems worth keeping that was still in her possession. The rest had been lost in the flight from Prague. But if it were true to its nature, it would bring her what she needed. He picked it up between a stubby thumb and forefinger and examined it with the same bland expression as before. She watched for any sign that the stone affected him, but as his face still gave nothing away, she continued, “In my present situation the work goes slowly and I find myself short of patience. I need a workshop, equipment, supplies and perhaps an assistant or two.”