The Mystic Marriage (22 page)

“I was wondering,” Jeanne repeated, touching her lightly on the shoulder when she saw that her attention had wandered, “whether you might like to borrow something a bit…nicer to wear.” She gestured to her maid, who laid a muslin-wrapped bundle across the table and began untying it. “I think we’re close enough in size, except that you’re taller, but there’s enough hem to let down for that. Marien is quick with a needle and she can have it ready by tomorrow.”

Antuniet fingered the fabric, evaluating the quality. The choice had been calculated carefully: a fine brown wool with rows of dark braid, but nothing too luxurious. Nothing to make it feel like a masquerade. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

She let herself be led upstairs to her chamber and pinned and tucked into the gown. There would be more work than only the hem. Had she grown so thin? Years of pointed comments had left her thinking of herself as Amazonian in proportions, but the bodice hung loosely, and not entirely by comparison to Jeanne’s more womanly figure. She had never been vain, but she was glad, of a sudden, for the lack of mirrors in the place.

As the maid bundled up the gown again, Jeanne handed her another smaller package. “I also thought…well, you could hardly just borrow a chemise or stockings or that sort of thing, so…”

Antuniet felt her face grow hot. It was such an intimate thing to have considered, and startling to have it considered at all. “Jeanne—”

“Oh, it’s perfectly selfish, I assure you,” she replied. “I was hoping you’d join me for a bite to eat at the Café Chatuerd after you’re done at the palace tomorrow and you know what sticklers they are for appearances!”

“So I’m to be rehabilitated into society?” Antuniet asked, forcing a wry smile.

She expected a joke in return, but Jeanne’s expression was serious. “Toneke, we thought…that is, Margerit thinks she may have been at fault in letting Mesner Kreiser believe you were entirely without friends in Rotenek.”

“But it’s true,” Antuniet said. Jeanne looked so stricken she wished she’d held her tongue. “Jeanne, why are you doing this? All this?”

Jeanne reached out to take her hand and pressed it between both of hers. “When you become accustomed to the idea of having friends again, you won’t need to ask that question. But for now, just remember that your talent may be alchemy but this is my talent. Put yourself in my hands, and the next thing you know you’ll have invitations to balls and the opera.”

It was utterly absurd—dancing at balls was the last thing she wanted—and a burble of laughter made it halfway to her lips. And that seemed answer enough for Jeanne, who squeezed her hand once more and took her leave.

* * *

It was impossible not to remember the last time she had entered the palace gates in the shadow of Estefen’s execution and her mother’s death. She had been too numb for anything to touch her: the dissolution of the Guild of Saint Atelpirt, the pardon for all but Lutoz. But she still remembered that chance confrontation with Margerit as she left and the bile she had allowed to spill.
This time you have blood on your hands; this time I do hate you.
And yet Margerit could pretend there was no wall between them. At least she’d had the tact to delegate Jeanne to accompany her today.

Jeanne left her at the doors to the royal apartments. She would wait in the corridor with those who hoped for a moment of the princess’s time. Antuniet continued on, privileged by the escort of a palace page. This was no formal audience in state. Annek looked up from the work on the desk before her and beckoned. Antuniet approached, curtseyed and said, “I am come as Your Grace requested.”

Those perceptive eyes looked her up and down and Antuniet was suddenly even more grateful for the borrowed dress. Princess Annek must be of an age with Jeanne, she thought, but looked much older. They shared the same raven hair but where Jeanne’s eyes always seemed bright with laughter, Annek’s were hooded and guarded, giving nothing away. Antuniet couldn’t help but see an echo of her own mother in the princess’s rigid posture. Annek pursed her lips as if in disapproval.

“You aren’t quite what I expected. From all the uproar around you I’d expected someone older.”

“I am five and twenty, Your Grace.”

“No matter. Forgive me, but I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

Antuniet thought back to all those long days of the succession debates when they’d occupied the same room. But there had been hundreds in that hall. “No, not formally.” Was this to be all pleasantries and social nothings?

“I understand that you dabble in alchemy.”

She bristled. Was that what Margerit had said of her? “I don’t dabble; alchemy is my work.”

“You’ve been making your living by it?”

“I make my living by tutoring students at the university, when I can. Few people have ever made a living by alchemy, except frauds.”

The princess turned more fully to face her and tapped a finger idly against the desktop. “Maisetra Sovitre has come to me with an odd request. As a token of gratitude for the services she’s done for me, she asked that I place your work under my protection. You seem to have impressed her a great deal.”

“I think,” Antuniet said carefully, “that it was in the way of paying a debt she felt she owed me.”

Eyebrows raised. “Indeed? Then perhaps I misunderstood. Tell me about your work.”

Antuniet swallowed heavily. The room was tilting and she reached for the back of a chair to steady herself. “Forgive me, I’ve been unwell.” Had she eaten that morning? She couldn’t remember.

At Annek’s gesture she was guided into the chair. “A glass of wine for Maisetra Chazillen, if you please.”

It gave her a few minutes to assemble her thoughts. The time was past for holding her plans close. As before, there was no way out but forward. She opened the small purse that hung at her wrist and drew out a knotted cloth. “My work concerns the properties of precious stones.”

It all came out, bit by bit, interrupted by Annek’s questions, for she had a sharp and perceptive mind. She described the initial experiments, the glimpse of success, the setbacks and—like a splinter drawn from a wound—what she hoped to gain in exchange for the gift.

Annek made no comment to that, only picked up the carnelian ring once more and turned it in the light. “Not a holy relic, nor yet the work of the devil, but you say it has power. If you wore this, what would happen?”

“If I wore it? Very little, I expect. That one draws between two poles, one set during the fixation, the other where it is worn. Or where it touches. Sometimes simply its presence will influence those nearby, but it was designed for contact. If I wore it, both poles would point to me.” She nudged the small pile of gems on the corner of the desk between them and fished out a jasper and one of the best black onyxes. “With these, the effect is fixed as a vector, only from the stone to the bearer. The process for enhancing those is more complex and so far I’ve only produced a weak effect. The carnelian—it only involved a single ceremonial role, so it was my first project in Prague.”

“And if I wore it?”

Antuniet hesitated. It would be hazardous to overplay the stone’s effects even though she’d seen them in action. “Then there would be a…a connection between us. It would strengthen any sense of agreement or affection. It would guide you into sympathy with my desires. The natural stone carries a variety of properties but the fixation focuses on enhancing specific elements.”

Annek smiled but Antuniet noticed that she shifted her grasp to touch only the band. “Agreement or affection. A love charm, then?”

“Nothing so crude. The effects are subtle and rarely rise to the level of compulsion. You might say that it increases any impulses the wearer already feels.” In her mind she saw the stone glowing against the pale skin of Jeanne’s forefinger. That could explain much.

“Interesting,” Annek said at last, returning the ring to the pile. “It seems harmless at the very least. We have yet to see how useful it might prove.” She stood in dismissal and Antuniet hastened to rise and scoop the gems back into her purse. “I’m not prepared at this time to lend my name to your work,” Annek continued, “but I think Maisetra Sovitre’s request can be met. The Austrian emissary has been informed that his welcome in Alpennia has worn thin and his…ah…associates understand that they will be held responsible if any harm comes to you or those who work for you. Is there anything else you wanted?”

Those who work for you.
Was she finally allowed to want something again? Perhaps…“Your Grace, I want my apprentice back.”

* * *

Café Chatuerd was much as Antuniet remembered it, bright and noisy in the crowded downstairs room. The upstairs was quieter, but Jeanne was determined that they be seen as much as possible. The food was light and dainty and only enough to wake her appetite. No, she must not have eaten that morning. She needed to be more careful about that.

Jeanne, as always, made conversation easy and pleasant without seeming effort. It helped to cover the stares of those who recognized her. None of them approached the table to talk or did more than greet Jeanne quickly in passing. If rehabilitation were the goal, it would take time. Time… She glanced over at the ornate ormolu clock on the sideboard once again.

“Is there somewhere you need to be, Toneke? You almost make me think I weary you.”

“No, not at all!” She touched Jeanne’s hand in reassurance. It felt awkward but she was rewarded by Jeanne’s smile. “That is, it seems I do have another appointment today. Would you mind…”

“But of course I can accompany you, if you like. When must we go?”

That hadn’t been what she meant to ask, but the company would be appreciated and it would be convenient if Jeanne would provide the transportation. It was a long walk down to Zempol Street and she was still feeling shaky. “Not for another half hour, I think.”

* * *

They waited in the hired fiacre until the second carriage arrived, disgorging a lady, veiled as a widow, with her attendant. Without a word, Antuniet led the way into the shop. It was the same young man behind the counter that it always was. He took in the small crowd curiously but the others held back, as if waiting their turn by chance. Antuniet could tell he recognized her. He pulled the bell that rang farther back in the house even as she said, “I would like to speak with Maistir Monterrez.”

There was no easy way to begin. What apologies could be made had been in her letter—the one he hadn’t answered. She saw a slight movement in the shadows past the half-open door to the living quarters and the glimpse of a pale face. “Maistir Monterrez, I made a contract to teach your daughter alchemy. And though I understand that you hold the contract to be broken on your end, I consider my part to be a debt of honor. Will you allow Anna to return to her studies?”

“No.” That one word and nothing else.

The topic of their conversation slipped out from the doorway. She held her shawl close across the left side of her face. “Papa, please! Let me—”

“Go back in the house, Anna. Don’t argue with me in front of strangers.”

Antuniet tried again. “You have my word that she will be safe from all harm.”

His face was sorrowful but his expression hard. “I failed my daughter once by trusting you. You will forgive me if I consider your word to be of little weight and no worth.”

Antuniet heard a rustle of silks behind her and a soft voice asking, “And what of my word?”

Annek had stepped forward and drawn the widow’s veil back from her face. There was no one in the room who didn’t recognize her. Monterrez bowed deeply and silently.

“You haven’t answered my question, Maistir Goldsmith. Will you accept my word? If you allow your daughter to return to her apprenticeship, she will be under my protection.”

Antuniet could see the struggle on his face, but he bowed once more, saying, “Then she has my consent.” There was really no other answer he could give.

Anna’s face was glowing as the princess stepped close and raised her from her curtsey with a finger lightly under her chin, saying, “So we share a name? Work hard and do honor to it.” And then, with a further rustle of silks, she left.

Monterrez sighed deeply. “It’s for the best, I suppose. Better you should have a profession. Now more than before.”

“Thank you, Papa,” she said, embracing him.

Antuniet saw how his eyes skipped away, never resting on that marred face. There was a deep debt owed here. “You can begin tomorrow,” she said. No point in delay. And it would give her a reason to leave her bed in the morning. That would be useful.

Chapter Eighteen

Margerit

When she returned from scouting out the next term’s lectures Margerit heard cheerful voices in the front parlor. Once she’d been divested of coat and bonnet she went to put in an appearance before Bertrut’s friends. There was value in such an investment, no matter that their conversation rarely turned to anything of interest. She was mistress of the house and any guests were her guests as well. She would put in half an hour of listening to the latest matchmaking speculations and tales of soirées past and balls to come.

“Maisetra Saltez had a great triumph with her skating party,” Ailis Faikrimek reported. “What an idea! Everyone thought it a great lark and though some of the antics went beyond what must be thought proper, the young men all turned up in numbers that you wouldn’t find at an ordinary party. They even managed to lure Baron Razik, at which I was amazed, for he’s quite outside their circle now.”

Margerit smiled, recalling Jeanne’s entertaining explanation of how she’d dropped that hint. Jeanne was quite the artist in her own way, and Margerit had plans to make use of those skills.

“He’ll be snapped up soon enough,” Lufise Chafil added. “Maisetra Sovitre, you should put in a play for him. Fortune’s been known to win before, but not if the pretty faces get there first.”

“I beg your pardon?” Margerit asked, having lost the thread of the conversation.

Aunt Bertrut said quellingly, “Lufise was making the rather unseemly suggestion that you might set your cap at the heir to the throne.”