Turning the Storm (18 page)

“Most of Cuore believes that Eliana is all that sustains the Lupi,” she said. “The Fedeli would have her assassinated if they had the slightest idea where she was.”

“Assassinated, hell,” I said. “They'd have her arrested.” I shrugged. “I think they're wrong, anyway. Giovanni has his problems, but he could lead the Lupi. He
is
leading the Lupi. Eliana is expendable.”

Mira shrugged. “Maybe.” She held up the hose: still stained. She picked up the cloak again. “In any case, I knew that the Circle would strike as soon as the Lupi left the wasteland. I thought about trying to get a message to them, but I couldn't think of a way to do it that wouldn't be too dangerous. Besides, I told myself, surely Eliana would
know
that the Circle would wait for her and strike as soon as she led the Lupi out.”

“Surely,” I said, through clenched teeth.

“What happened?”

“There was a traitor, Felice. He brought false intelligence.”

Mira nodded, her eyes on the stained cloak.

“Did you know about him?”

“No. At some point during the summer, the conflict between the Fedeli and the Circle subsided a bit; that must have been when they agreed to send the spy down. I didn't know about it. Only the Circle Council would have known.” She wrung out the cloak again, then shook her head. “You know, I think you should just take my cloak, and deal with the clothes later.”

I pulled the sodden hose back on and then draped Mira's cloak over my shoulders. Mira was shorter than me, but the cloak was generously cut and I thought the short hem would be a great deal less noticeable than a bloodstain. Mira shook her head. “I should have thought of that immediately. Now you'll have to walk home in soaking hose; I'm sorry.”

I laughed. “Well, if I get sick from running around in wet clothes, like my mother always insisted would happen, I'll send you the physician's bill.”

“Well, I'll pay it—though I was
trying
to be helpful.” She fastened the cloak around my shoulders. It was made of a much finer wool than mine, black instead of gray, and was lined with indigo wool flannel.

“Do you want this back?”

“Not worth the risk of contact. I have extras.”

I bundled up my own cloak and tucked it under my arm, and pulled my boots on over the sodden hose.

“If I had sent a message,” Mira said, and she was not talking about the cloak. “If I
had
sent a message, it could have been traced back to me—and then I could not have volunteered to go with four other mages to destroy the Lupi. I wouldn't have been able to protect my friend.” She raised her eyes to meet mine. Her face was very pale, and her hands were shaking. “I had to
protect Eliana. If I hadn't, my sacrifice at the conservatory would have been for nothing.”

“I know,” I whispered, but I couldn't erase the image of Mira raining fire on my army from my mind. I hesitated a moment longer, then said, “We can't meet again. It's too risky.”

“I want to help you,” Mira said. “I want to help the Lupi.”

“Then tell me a way to turn back magefire.”

Mira was silent.

I touched her hand, and then left to return to the enclave.

M
idwinter's Night was approaching: Mascherata, the festival of wild revelry honoring the Lord's victory over the Maledori. Of course, Cuore's celebration was rumored to be particularly debauched, but I was sufficiently distracted that Valentino took me by surprise when he asked, a week before the festival, if I had my mask yet.

“No,” I said.

“You haven't celebrated Mascherata outside the conservatory, have you?” he asked.

“Well, I did as a child—”

Valentino waved a hand dismissively. “If you haven't celebrated Mascherata in Cuore, you haven't celebrated Mascherata.” He glanced at Quirino. “I'm right, aren't I?”

“Definitely,” Quirino said. He looked at me speculatively. “Did you have a costume in mind?”

“Well, you know.” Something discreet and inconspicuous, but nobody wanted to be discreet and inconspicuous at Mascherata. I tried frantically to think of something
acceptable. “Um, something bright—velvet—with feathers. Why, what were you going to wear?”

“A red sash,” Quirino said with a wicked smile. “We're both going to dress as Lupi.”

My jaw must have sagged. Valentino said, “It's Mascherata! Lots of the nobles will be dressing as Lupi, too. It'll be fun!”

“Are you going to dress as a woman?” Quirino asked me. Dressing as a member of the opposite sex was always a popular costume theme at Mascherata.

“I hadn't been planning to,” I said.

“Oh, come on,” Valentino urged. “You've got so little beard, you'd make a great woman. We could get you a wig when we get your mask—”

“You've got barely more beard than I do,” I said, trying to hide my panic. “Are you going to dress as a woman?”

“I'm already dressing as a Lupo,” Valentino said.

“There are women among the Lupi,” I said. “Their leader, for one.”

“There's a thought,” Quirino said to Valentino. “Dress as Eliana. A Lupa with a violin—don't you think that would work?”

Valentino looked at me. “Daniele would make a better Eliana.”

This was a really, really bad idea, and I thought frantically for an idea,
any
idea, that they might like better. Or, failing that, an excuse. “I'll go as a Lupo
or
a woman, but I don't want to dress as Eliana. I'd have to carry my violin around all night, and that would be a nuisance.”

“I suppose that's true,” Quirino said. “It could get stolen in the crowd.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Actually, you know, I'd been kind of thinking I'd like to dress up as a noble. That stupid
gray conservatory robe wasn't that long ago for me, you know?”

They laughed. “All right, Daniele,” Quirino said. “Just so long as you dress as a noble
lady
. You have to have
some
fun with your costume.”

The next day, they took me out to one of the shopping districts near the enclave. Every shop had turned into a costume shop, with masks, face paint, and flimsy but luxurious-looking gowns, tunics, and cloaks. With Quirino and Valentino inspecting the dresses over my shoulder, I picked out a dark red one—the color of the Lupi would be acceptable on Mascherata, clearly—with an elaborate fake brocade that turned out to have been painted on. Then it was on to the wig maker. Mascherata wigs were not made from real hair, but from an assortment of materials including yarn, feathers, and—for the extravagant—strands of glass beads. At Quirino's urging, I tried on the wig of glass beads. “Glass from Varena,” the merchant said, frowning because he suspected I wasn't really going to buy it. He held up a mirror.

The glass caught the light from the late-afternoon sun, sparkling red and blue and yellow. The beads were tiny, threaded on strands of silk as long as my arm, and they clicked against each other like pebbles spilling from a cup.

“You should buy it,” Valentino said, but I handed it delicately back to the wig maker and bought a cheap wig made from black yarn instead.

Our costumes and masks tucked under our arms, we went down to the university district to have a drink with Ulisse. Valentino waved his mask at Ulisse. “We've got our costumes. What are
you
wearing?”

“Guess,” Ulisse said with a broad grin, pulling out a chair to sit beside us. We ordered a round of drinks. Quirino and Valentino discussed the relative merits of two of the soprano vocalists. I didn't really think either one was pretty enough to mention, and I watched the crowd, not really listening, trying to decide whether I should come back to the university district that night to see Michel even though I had nothing new to tell him. Valentino tried to get me to take sides in the argument, and I demurred; Quirino took this opportunity to ask which female musician I thought was prettiest, and I said I preferred not to name names until I'd had the opportunity to take a look at
all
the female musicians, and I was fairly certain I'd missed a few in my scant months at the enclave.

When we were ready to go, Ulisse drew me aside, away from Valentino and Quirino. “A lady asked me to pass this on to you,” he said, and handed me a sprig of winter jasmine.

I froze, staring down at the flower. “Did she give you any other message?”

“No,” Ulisse said. “She seemed to think you would know what this meant. Was that a tease? Is this some secret admirer?”

“I know who it was,” I said, and forced a grin to my lips. “I just need to figure out what she meant by it.”
Meet me
, presumably. Where? The inn we went to before, I supposed.

“You have interesting taste in ladies, Daniele,” Ulisse said. I couldn't quite read his expression. I wondered if Mira's status as a member of the Circle had been obvious when she passed her “message” to Ulisse, but I didn't dare ask, and Ulisse volunteered no further comments.
Tucking the jasmine sprig out of sight, I stammered some thanks and followed Quirino and Valentino out of the tavern.

I went out that evening to the inn where Mira and I had tried to wash out my cloak. The downstairs room was loud, the crowd disreputable, and the company— so to speak—inexpensive. I waited uncomfortably, drink in hand, watching the door anxiously. Mira arrived an hour after I did; she had shed her robes and was wearing a dress. It was a simple dress of blue linen, but obviously well made, and it made her almost as conspicuous as the robes would have. She caught my eye, we paid for a room, and went upstairs to talk.

“I hope you aren't angry that I sent you a message,” Mira said. “I wanted to warn you, the Circle knows that the Lupi have left the wasteland.”

My heart was suddenly very loud in my ears. “Do they know where they are?”

“No.”

My panic eased a bit. “Good.”

“They've sent out searchers, to the areas near the wasteland. I don't know precisely where they're looking. But I wanted you to know that they
are
looking.”

“Thank you,” I said, although this information did me very little good. Especially since I didn't know where the Lupi were, either. I could pass it on to Michel, but it was unlikely he'd feel he could do anything with it either. “Was there anything else?”

Mira hesitated and looked a little embarrassed. “It's a little thing, but—” From under her cloak, she brought a pair of slender scissors. “You need a haircut,” she said.

I touched the ends of my hair. “Why?”

“You don't have a beard. That implies that either you aren't growing facial hair yet, or you're very careful
about shaving it off. If you were fastidious about shaving it off, you'd be getting your hair cut regularly.”

I touched my cheek. “I've kind of been hoping to pass as a late bloomer.”

“Oh, I think you do. But if you keep your hair trimmed, it's less likely that anyone will stop to look and wonder.”

“You're right.” I dropped my cloak on the bed and sat down. “You've got scissors; I assume that means you're willing to take care of it.”

The bed frame creaked as Mira sat down behind me. As she leaned forward, I smelled Rosalba—cinnamon and rose petals—and startled so violently I almost fell off the bed.

“What is it?” Mira's hand held a comb with tiny, even teeth, carved out of bone. She had frozen to stillness when I jumped. “Did you hear something?”

“Rosalba,” I whispered. “The Fedeli priestess. I smell—” I looked around, realizing it was absurd. “For a moment, I thought I could
smell
her.”

“Oh.” Mira laughed self-consciously. “She must wear—you know the perfume that caused the war with Vesuvia? I thought you might like to know what it smelled like, so I put some on. Rosalba must wear the same perfume. Sorry, I didn't realize it would inspire that sort of reaction.”

I settled back down, laughing a little shakily.

“Does she frighten you?”

“I'd be an idiot if she didn't.” I breathed in the scent again; knowing that it was Mira, I realized that it smelled subtly different. More cinnamon, and less rose. “It's too bad. It's a nice scent.” I shook my head. “Not nice enough to fight a war over, but a nice scent.”

Mira dipped the comb in water and combed my hair
out carefully. I found myself thinking about the morning of the Viaggio festival back at the conservatory, when Mira had combed my hair for me, patiently easing out each tangle. My cropped hair barely gathered tangles now, but Mira's hands were as gentle as I remembered. Her fingertips brushed the back of my neck. The last time we'd touched her hands had been ice cold, but today they were warm. I could feel the calluses on her fingertips catch in my hair, and she smoothed my hair back down with her thumb. From the bed, she picked up the scissors.

We'd had a pair of sheep-shearing clippers in the wasteland; that's what Lucia had used to cut my hair. Mira must have bought hers from a toolmaker who normally supplied barbers; they were perfectly made and very sharp, and snipped through the ragged ends of my hair with a soft click. Mira stroked her fingers around the tops of my ears and along the nape of my neck, tracing the line as she cut it.

“There,” she said finally. “It's done.”

“I wish I had a mirror,” I said, touching my hair tentatively. “I could admire your work.”

“Take a look when you get back to the enclave. I think I did a good enough job, but if you don't agree, you can always take yourself to a real barber.” Mira tucked the scissors away in a pouch.

Back in my room at the enclave, I examined my appearance in the mirror; Mira had done an excellent job. I touched the ends of my hair where it curved around my ears, remembering Mira's deft work, then barred my door and took her cloak out of my wardrobe. When I pressed my face to the lining, I could smell something like new-cut wheat and faint wood smoke—
Mira's scent, without Rosalba's perfume covering it up. Mira had smelled like this at the conservatory, too. It was her own scent, and not a perfume.

I lay down on my bed, stroking the velvet-soft lining and trying not to think about anything at all.