Auraria: A Novel (42 page)

“Dearest Holtzclaw,” said Almeda, the Reader of Mysteries, “we have selected a gala partner for you. She is a duchess from one of those bellicose countries that shrink after every war in which they entangle themselves. Anemic, consumptive, shy, and inelegant, but rich as they come, and an ideal match for someone like you who is ambitious, comfortable, but can’t seem to get ahead financially. The simplest path for you, Holtzclaw, would be to marry into wealth. Here is your chance. She has been a difficult case, and you have been a difficult case, and we think that it is a splendid solution.”

“Two special projects solved,” said Vera, the Tender of the Entwined Rose and Briar.

“Yup,” said Luella, the Poetess of the Stirring Heart.

“Ladies,” said Holtzclaw, “I appreciate your help, and I am sure this sickly duchess is both as rich and delightful as you say. But I have already placed my name with a lady for her dance card, exclusively. I will be accompanying Ms. Elizabeth Rathbun to the gala.”

The faces of the Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society members flushed purple.

“You have done this outside of our assistance,” said Almeda “Thus, we cannot endorse your match.”

“It’s of no concern to me whether you endorse it or not,” said Holtzclaw.

“Oh, it will be. It will be of concern,” said Almeda, “if you do not escort our duchess to the gala.”

“Grave, deep, utmost concern,” said Vera.

“Big concern,” said Luella.

“If the duchess is sickly, wouldn’t she rather spend the gala evening taking a treatment in the baths?” said Holtzclaw.

“The baths,” said Almeda, “are where people spend their idle hours between galas. Even the anemic and consumptive want to attend galas. They are the harvest time, where all that has been sown through social effort will be reaped.”

“Must I be the one accompany her?”

“If not you, then someone,” said Almeda. “Else her offended nation might go to war against someone, maybe against your valley. Do you want to be invaded?”

“There is little risk of that, I think,” said Holtzclaw.

“There is every risk that you will lose our alliance and our friendship,” said Almeda. “The Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society”—obligatory flapping gesture—“is a powerful force, Holtzclaw, and it can be with you or against you. If you choose to defy our match, then you must find a replacement escort for the duchess, if you want our good will.”

“I don’t want honorary membership in your society,” said Holtzclaw, “and I don’t think I need your good will. After the gala, I am certain that I will no longer need you.”

“Ah, but you do, Holtzclaw,” said Almeda. “Your guests are not here for your mineral waters and your fresh mountain air and your vague notions of healthfulness. They sound nice enough in your advertisements, but they are irrelevant. Even fine foods and fine clarets have a lesser role—they are necessary but ancillary. Your guests are here to make business deals and marriage matches. They are searching, Holtzclaw, for a good marriage for an aging daughter or an incorrigible son. A corundum miner may meet a steel baroness, and social graces will broker a business deal. It is sound business, but the soundest part is to keep us, your most skilled practitioners, happy. What does Saratoga have that you do not? You have a dozen different springs; Saratoga has one. You have a shimmering lake; Saratoga has a muddy field. But whose rooms go for a higher rate? Saratoga’s, because the matches are more profitable. The people are better, Holtzclaw. But you could have their success. Your resort could be even greater. A good word from us, a well-brokered match whose fame flows back into the society circles, is worth a dozen hot springs and a thousand sunrises over the lake. Now that we are clear on the structures of power, with whom will this poor duchess be attending the gala? Will you break your engagement with this Rathbun woman?”

The Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society, on its second lap of the interlinked verandas, came to a sudden halt as a figure barred their way.

“Oh, hello, Princess!” said Holtzclaw to his rescuer. “I am very glad to see you. Yes, introductions. To the members of the Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society”—the three women flapped their hands—“may I present Princess Trahlyta, Queen of the Mountains.”

“Enchanted,” said the princess, dipping at her knees in the perfect imitation of a curtsy.

“I have known very few barefoot princesses,” said Almeda. “Exactly where is your kingdom?”

“These springs,” she said. “The valley. An hour upriver, the same downriver. And thousands of miles beneath my feet.”

“How can we help you, Princess?” asked Holtzclaw.

“I’ve come, as always, to help you, James,” said the princess. “I overheard you talking about the sad consumptive duchess, and I wanted to propose an eligible match for her. He’s a royal acquaintance of mine. We’ve held court together many times.”

“He is a guest here?” said Almeda, arching an eye. “One that has escaped our notice?”

“No, a resident of the valley,” said the princess. She ducked into an alcove and led out by the hand a tall, slender man. He wore a green day suit of a satin-like fabric, accented by gold cufflinks. His hair was cut very short, in the huntsman’s style. He held a handkerchief in front of his face so that Holtzclaw could not see if he was bearded or smooth-shaved.

“This is Prince Rano,” said the princess. “You’ll forgive him, please, for the handkerchief. He has a hay fever.”

Prince Rano executed a crisp, deep bow, despite the handicap of having to keep the handkerchief in front of his face. He raised a finger to excuse himself and then dashed away a dozen feet before loudly—and somewhat exaggeratedly, thought Holtzclaw—blowing his nose.

“A prince, you say?” said Almeda.

“Of a long and ancient line,” said the princess.

“One of those Old World ones then? There are so many that it’s hard to keep track.”

“I have known him for many years—purely in state and functionary roles—and he has always carried himself with a spring in his step.”

“What can you say of his character?” said Almeda.

“Chiefly, he is a sociable creature,” said the princess. “He loves to make music in the evenings and take healthful swims. He stretches his legs in the out-of-doors. He is a connoisseur of all foods, native and exotic, though there are some winged things he likes better than others. He has friends and relations throughout the world, and he is quick and eager to travel. I think he would be an excellent match for your sad, rich duchess.”

“Are there any others that can vouch for his character besides Your Majesty?”

“I would be happy to duplicate all the praises that Princess Trahlyta has heaped upon Prince Rano,” said Abigail, who stepped out from a doorway. Her hair was dusted through with Pharaoh’s Flour; it coated her hands and made them ashy.

“There are two motions,” said Vera.

“One more is needed by the law,” said Luella.

“And you, Holtzclaw?” said Almeda. “What do you think? Is this Prince Rano an eligible match?”

“Oh yes,” said Holtzclaw, who had never met Prince Rano before in his life. “I can only sing his virtues. We are not well acquainted, but in our short but firm friendship, I have seen his worth. He is so quick-witted that when he plays at cards, he always wins if he wants to, but he is wise and gracious enough to know that sometimes he should let others win instead. I think a match with him would be a credit to your society.”

“And a credit to your hotel?” asked Almeda.

“We will write it above the door in ten-foot letters.”

“If the match is successful, you should put the faces of Prince Rano and the duchess in cartouches at the corner of your next advertisements, encircled by gold bands. It would be the best money ever spent. It would ensure the fame of your hotel for a generation. To have placed such a one as the consumptive duchess with a suitable match—what a coup!”

“Coo-coo!” said Vera.

“Coo-coo-coo!” said Luella.

For the next few nights, at dinner, the unfolding story of the legendary match was passed around every table. The Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society, supporting the consumptive duchess under her arms, met Prince Rano in the shadows beside the fireplace. The half-light concealed his face, but firelight twinkled in his large black eyes, and all were charmed.

Prince Rano and the consumptive duchess took their dinner together at a large round table; the other seats were filled out by their many chaperones. The prince had a toothache. His mouth was wrapped with gauze; his voice was an odd croak. But he talked of many subjects that interested the consumptive duchess, whose own voice was a reedy wheeze. The prince spent moon-filled nights paddling the river, singing his ballads and love songs. He had seen mighty cataracts and thickets of trees; he had been through swamps and dry creeks. Once he had wintered in a hollow log, shivering through the season and subsisting on what he could catch.

Prince Rano and the consumptive duchess walked through grassy meadows filled with wild flowers. Their chaperones were just a step behind. The prince’s hay fever still bothered him. His face was always screwed up as though to sneeze.

In the evening, Prince Rano and the consumptive duchess sat in chaise lounges on one of the upper porches and looked over the lake, where fireflies drew complex signs to their allies and enemies. The consumptive duchess put her hand to the prince’s cheek to look into his eyes, but Prince Rano bashfully turned away. The Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society made much of this show of virtue and decorum. Rumors abounded that the prince was soon to propose. The Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society gathered their accolades.

One evening, after these events had become the talk of the hotel, Holtzclaw was in the midst of writing one last plea to Dasha Pavlovski’s handlers; the words though would not come. Holtzclaw had ceased believing in them; he was considering the possibility of hiring a more spectacular local entertainer. There was a knock at the door of his little chamber. Abigail and Trahlyta stood outside, snickering like schoolgirls.

“Tonight’s the night, Holtzclaw!” said Abigail. “The duchess, the prince, the bird women—they’ll all get what’s coming to them. You have to come see.”

Trahlyta smiled as broadly as Holtzclaw had ever seen.

Prince Rano and the consumptive duchess were taking a moonlit carriage ride around the lake; the Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society members followed in a second vehicle, at just enough of a distance to grant the couple their privacy and yet near enough to see and approve every move.

The driver of the first coach had been told to stop at the top of the dam. Trahlyta and Abigail, with Holtzclaw in tow, hid behind the far side of the flume.

The prince and his beloved descended from the carriage. She pressed her hand to her chest; the prince gazed romantically into the vast emptiness of the Terrible Cascade. Starlight reflected in a single tear that slid down his cheek, but all the rest was lost in the night. He dropped to his haunches, took the hands of the duchess, and felt for his pocket. The Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society plunged into raptures, holding their breath as they anticipated the splendid climax. Abigail and Trahlyta stopped their mouths with their palms.

But then a dragonfly flashed past the prince’s nose. Prince Rano could not suppress his instinct. He whirled toward the morsel, tongue loosened. A moonbeam fell across his face, which was wide with happiness—the prince was a frog! Now after just a glimpse, it was all so clear—the black bulbous eyes, the rounded snout, and the lipless mouth.

The consumptive duchess stepped backward in surprise, and the throat of the frog-prince swelled up from consternation and chagrin. He fled into the lake with a flying leap, his green suit becoming slick amphibian skin.

The Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society reached for the consumptive duchess to draw her into their absorbing bosom, but the duchess stopped their hands. She shook free of her bonnet and her boots and leapt after the prince into the lake. Despite her terrestrial frailty, she was an excellent swimmer, and she frog-kicked toward the green and lanky open arms of her prince. They swam in the moonlight, and powerful strokes took them farther, farther from their chaperones, farther into the waters, farther into the night.

The women in the Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society fell, like upended dominoes, into each others’ arms. Employees loaded them into the baggage compartment of the carriage.

Abigail and Trahlyta linked arms and promenaded and then did molasses turns and cartwheels, over and under, time and time again, until they were giddy and nauseous. Tears streamed from their eyes.

“It was a mean-spirited trick,” said Holtzclaw to them as their glee subsided. “You should not have plucked the consumptive duchess so cruelly.”

“Do you think we meant to trick anyone but those horrible bird-women?” said the Abigail.

“There is no better creature for the poor duchess than a playful frog-prince,” said Trahlyta. “She’ll want to stay here forever, and there will be only joy between them.”

“Well, I think we’ve made some eternal foes of the Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society,” said Holtzclaw.

“The birds,” said the princess, “have always been our enemies.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

As invitations were received and supplies for the gala accumulated in the Queen of the Mountain’s storerooms—and her treasury commensurately to dwindle—frog-duchess miscegenation was only the first of many wonderful signs. The sulfur springs poured orange juice, and the cold springs blew out blizzards. A parade of spectral forms harvested glowing mushrooms from crevices in the hallways. Sweet potatoes, though boiled and split open and filled with butter and brown sugar, arose from diners’ plates and marched in military rows. Sheep-fruit roamed over the croquet lawn and ate the blades of grass down to nubs. The earth disgorged shiny yellow rocks, which were snatched up by eager capitalists of every sort; however, when they were inspected by the children that had bought kits and guidebooks from Mother Fresh-Roasted, the rocks proved to be wet clumps of mud, laced with mica.