Flight into Darkness

by Sarah Ash

  Celestine nodded and swiftly slipped the paper back beneath her fichu.

  “I want to see him so much.” Astasia seemed to be talking to herself. “If only I could leave the palace. But I'm watched, day and night. It's just that I can't bear to think he's so close by and yet I can't, I daren't risk—” She broke off suddenly, looking directly at Celestine. “I have an idea, Demoiselle. There is to be a masked ball here at Swanholm for Dievona's Night—a Tielen tradition, I'm told. If I could arrange for you and your accompanist to be invited…”

  “For Dievona's Night?” Celestine considered the proposition, wondering what plan Astasia was hatching. “Well, my next recital is to be given in Bel'Esstar. The weather is clement and the seas are calm. If we delay our departure to attend the ball, I think we shall still make Allegonde in good time.”

  “Would you say that we are about the same height?” Astasia asked. “And the same build?”

  “Well, yes…”

  “At a masked ball, everyone is in disguise. It can be hard to tell exactly who is who. If I were to provide identical costumes, we could pull off a little charade of our own.”

  “You—and I—in the same costume?” It was an ingenious idea— although not without its risks.

  “And then you and I will secretly exchange masks for a little while, so that I can become Celestine de Joyeuse.”

  “Allowing us to smuggle your brother in, disguised as Jagu?”

  Astasia laughed through her tears. “Just don't let anyone ask Andrei to play the fortepiano, or our charade will be discovered!”

  Celestine laughed too, caught up in the Empress's infectious good humor. “And I will be Empress of New Rossiya! Or will I? For who'll be able to guess?”

  “I don't know how to thank you, Demoiselle.” Astasia reached out and clasped the singer's hands in her own, pressing them warmly.

  “Please, highness,” and Celestine pressed Astasia's hands in return, “call me Celestine.”

  “How did she take the news?” Andrei hurried out to meet Celestine as she stepped down from the carriage that had brought her from Swanholm; he must have been keeping an anxious lookout for her. “Was she very upset? I didn't want to upset her. But she has to know the truth about her husband.”

  “Let's discuss this indoors, shall we?” Celestine cast a look up and down the little cobbled street; there were many people about in the village, all employed, it seemed, on some errand to do with the ball. But even the sweetest dairymaid carrying cream for the desserts or the humblest tailor staggering beneath the weight of masquerade costumes could be one of Eugene's agents, paid to watch and listen.

  “Swapping places with the Empress?” Jagu said. The shutters were closed and in the gloom, his voice sounded strangely slurred. “I think it's too risky.”

  Celestine had guessed correctly that he would object to the plan. “It's a masked ball. Everyone will be in disguise.”

  “But if you're caught, you could be charged with treason.” “Why are you sitting in the dark, Jagu? It's a beautiful day.” She went to open the shutters to let more daylight into the room and saw him wince.

  “What's wrong with you?” She came closer, staring intently at him. “You look awful.”

  He sighed. “If you must know, Prince Andrei couldn't sleep again last night and insisted on playing cards into the small hours. And now I have a pounding headache.”

  “So you emptied a few bottles of wine at the same time? You don't deserve any sympathy.” But she began to search in her reticule for a paper of powdered headache remedy.

  “You try keeping his highness from leaving the inn! He's as restless as a caged beast. How much longer till Dievona's Night?”

  “Drink this.” She poured him a glass of water and emptied the powder into it. He looked at it suspiciously. “It's all right; it's not an alchymical potion. Just some feverfew.”

  “It sounds as if you've made a favorable impression on the Empress,” he said, grimacing as he drank the bitter liquid.

  “She's kind, trusting, and, I suspect, very lonely.” Celestine took back the glass. “Why else would she confide in me?” She realized as she was speaking that she had developed a genuine liking for Astasia; she understood how her open, spontaneous nature, which set her apart from the other sophisticated and world-weary young noblewomen, must have bewitched Eugene…

  “Are you having second thoughts?”

  Why was Jagu able to read her so accurately? “I—I feel sorry for her, I suppose. Just imagine how traumatic it would be to hear from a stranger that your husband had a hand in your brother's death.”

  “Isn't it better that she should know the truth, however harsh?”

  “Yes, except I believe that she genuinely loves Eugene,” Celestine said, pensively twisting the feverfew paper between her fingers, “and that makes this all the harder.”

  “Remember,” Jagu said, “it's for the good of Francia.”

  “Demoiselle de Joyeuse?” The innkeeper put his head around the door. “A message for you from the palace.”

  Celestine opened the letter and read aloud, “‘It is her imperial majesty's wish that you return to Swanholm to continue with her singing lessons. A coach will pick you up at three this afternoon.’” She looked up at Jagu over the crisp white paper. “What do you make of that?”

  “It sounds to me as if the Empress is ready to go ahead with her plan.”

  Celestine nodded, although she still felt conflicted about her role in this charade. “I'd better make myself look presentable.” As she passed Jagu, he caught hold of her by the hand.

  “Promise me that you won't do anything rash,” he said, his voice low, intense.

  “Rash?” She forced a laugh. “You know me, Jagu.”

  “Yes. I do. And that's why I want you to give me your word that you won't act alone. Even if you meet… a certain magus.”

  She looked down at his hand, which was still wrapped around hers, pressing tightly. That touch, that firm pressure stirred something buried deep within her, a memory of a time that she had snuggled close to him and felt so safe, so cherished…

  He must have realized it too for he swiftly withdrew his hand and walked away. “Just be careful,” he said with his back to her so that she could not see his expression.

  By three in the afternoon, the day had turned unseasonably sultry. When Celestine was shown into the music room, she saw the Empress sitting by the open window, dressed in a simple high-waisted summer gown.

  “Your highness looks so charming in that sprigged muslin,” Celestine said. “I'm sure you'll start a new fashion at Swanholm.”

  “Thank you! Countess Lovisa told me that it was démodé and inappropriate. But it's too hot today to wear a formal court dress. And as we'll be trying on costumes a little later, I thought there was little point in being laced into a boned corset. Now, what shall we play?”

  “I've brought this song for you to try; it's an old love song from Provença…” Celestine placed the accompaniment to “O Mon Amou” on the music stand of the fortepiano. If the Empress has something to confide in me and anyone walks past, they'll assume that we're discussing the music. “Shall we give it a try?”

  They managed a page and a half until Astasia lost control of the keyboard part and broke off, laughing helplessly. Celestine sang on for a bar or two, then joined in the laughter, leaning on the forte-piano to support herself.

  Suddenly Astasia started up from the keyboard, staring out onto the terrace. “Hush,” she said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “we have an audience.”

  Celestine glanced around.

  An elderly man stood outside the open window, his wisps of white hair and beard tousled by the breeze. He bowed but not before Celestine had seen the wintry glint in his pale eyes.

  It's him. It has to be.

  “Beautiful music, ladies,” he said. “I must congratulate you.” And he continued on his way along the terrace.

  “There is no privacy to be had i
n Swanholm,” said Astasia and all the merriment had gone from her voice.

  Celestine felt as if a pit of shadows had opened at her feet. “Tell me, highness,” she whispered, “who was that ancient gentleman we saw just now?”

  Astasia pulled a grimace. “The Magus? His name is Kaspar Linnaius. He's a scientist, I believe, though he has an official court title like ‘Royal Artificier’ or some such.”

  It was Kaspar Linnaius. And he stared straight at me. If he recognized me, he gave no sign of it. “He looks at least a hundred years old!”

  “I confess he gives me the shivers. It's his eyes: so lifeless, so cold…”

  Celestine nodded, still shaken.

  “He's busy arranging the fireworks for the ball. I'm told his displays are the most splendid to be seen in the whole quadrant.”

  “Does he make them here in the palace?” Celestine asked, recovering herself a little.

  “He has his own laboratory, although I've never visited it.”

  “Isn't that a little risky, working with gunpowder so close to the royal apartments?”

  “It's in the stable block, at some distance from the main wing. But rumor has it that he has set up invisible wards that repel any unwelcome visitors.”

  “Ow!” wailed the Empress as her maid Nadezhda struggled to lace her into the shepherdess's costume. “Must you pull quite so tight?”

  Celestine watched in silence, wondering if they would ever be alone so that she could break the news to Astasia. If anyone were to overhear, she would be arrested for speaking treason against the Emperor. And if the cold-eyed countess was spying on them outside…

  “Now the wig.” Nadezhda eased the soft white curls into place.

  “And a mask.” Astasia took the gilded mask from Nadezhda and put it on. “Stand next to me, Celestine.”

  Celestine obeyed.

  “We are a good match in stature. I think this costume will suit our needs very well.”

  Celestine nodded. “Then Jagu will come as a shepherd.”

  “Nadezhda,” Astasia said. “You remember what we agreed?”

  Nadezhda bobbed a little curtsy. “I'll go whisper your requests to the costumier straightaway.”

  Astasia made sure the door was firmly bolted after her. Then she handed a gilded mask identical to her own to Celestine and tied the golden ribbons securely behind her ears to stop it from slipping. Then they checked their reflections in the mirror, masked faces close together.

  “Perfect,” said Astasia. “Who would guess? We look like identical twins.”

  Now, before Nadezhda comes back.

  “Did you know, highness,” said Celestine, taking off the mask, “that Kaspar Linnaius, whom we saw earlier, is no ordinary scientist?”

  “I had some notion, yes,” Astasia said, fiddling with her wig. “I know that he has placed certain wards on the palace here and its grounds to protect us from harm.”

  “But were you also aware,” and Celestine dropped her voice, “of his other talents? Or that his title is not a fanciful conceit? He is a wind mage, able to bend the winds to his will.”

  “I had no idea!”

  Celestine could not see the Empress's expression clearly but she noticed that her hands had fallen away from the wig.

  “In the conflict between Francia and Tielen, your husband's father, Prince Karl, won a decisive victory over my countrymen in a sea battle off the Saltyk Peninsula. At the height of the battle, a terrible storm broke and many of the Francian fleet were blown into the rocks.”

  “The seas around the Saltyk Peninsula can be treacherously unpredictable,” Astasia said lightly, taking off the heavy wig and replacing it on its stand, “even in the best of weather.”

  “And Prince Karl was Kaspar Linnaius's patron.”

  “I don't think we should be talking of this, Celestine…”

  I can't stop now; she must hear it all. “Your brother's ship, the Sirin, went down in a storm that blew up out of nowhere. On a calm, moonlit night.”

  There came a loud rap on the door. Someone rattled the door handle.

  “Imperial highness!” It was Countess Lovisa's voice. “Why is your door bolted?”

  “I'm in dishabille!” Astasia beckoned Celestine to the fireplace. She pressed the marble acanthus leaf on the right and as a panel slowly slid into the wall, Celestine heard the grating of hidden machinery.

  “A secret passageway?”

  Astasia's voice dropped to a whisper. “I'm desperate to hear more, but it's best if you leave now. I'm certain that Lovisa has been spying on me. We mustn't arouse her suspicions.”

  “I understand.” Celestine bent low to enter the secret passage.

  “It opens onto the shrubbery near the Orangery, but be careful there is no one about to see you.”

  “With so many people around for the ball, it won't be difficult to disappear into the crowd.”

  “Nadezhda will have the costumes delivered to your lodgings.”

  “Are you dressed yet, highness?” called a voice from the corridor.

  Astasia gave a little groan. “Lovisa again. Go.”

  She touched the acanthus leaf again and the panel slid to, leaving Celestine in the dark of the secret passageway, frustrated that the prying countess had interrupted their conversation before she had finished warning Astasia about the Magus.

  “Are all the arrangements made?” Andrei's eyes were dark-shadowed as if he had not slept.

  “The Melusine is waiting at Haeven to take you to safety in Francia, highness,” said Jagu. “We have a cabin prepared for your sister too, should she choose to leave with you.”

  “I can't bear to think of her sharing that man's bed a moment longer.” Andrei rose and began to pace the little room restlessly.

  Jagu exchanged a surreptitious glance with Celestine. Both were aware how risky a game they were playing and the strain of waiting was obviously beginning to tell on Andrei. Jagu had already had enough of humoring the Muscobite prince's unpredictable mood swings but was unwilling—for reasons he couldn't quite define—to leave Andrei and Celestine alone together.

  “Delivery from the palace for Demoiselle de Joyeuse!” called the innkeeper. A moment later, he came puffing up the stairs, carrying a wicker hamper.

  “Costumes!” Celestine flung open the lid and pulled out the silky flounces of the shepherdess's dress, followed by breeches and a silken jacket of the same powder blue.

  “Wigs,” announced the innkeeper, reappearing to deposit two boxes. Celestine took out a white-powdered wig and presented it to Andrei.

  “You can't mean I have to wear this?” His dismayed expression was so comical that she burst into delighted laughter. “But I'll look like a travest!”

  “So will everyone else. And your true identity will be hidden under this mask.” She placed the gilded mask over his face, tying the laces behind his ears. A slip of paper fluttered out and Jagu bent to retrieve it, trying to hide his disapproving expression. Was she consciously flirting with Andrei? He didn't like the way she was behaving so familiarly with him.

  “It's addressed to you, Celestine.” He handed her the note, stony-faced. “It's from the Empress.”

  The Empress was sitting at the keyboard when Celestine was admitted to the music room. But as Celestine rose from her curtsy, she realized that the Empress was silently weeping, a lace handkerchief pressed against her lips as though to hold in the sobs.

  “Why, imperial highness, whatever is wrong?” Celestine said in her warmest, most sympathetic tones. She had begun to hate herself for having to play so cruelly on Astasia's feelings.

  “I—I was prepared to forgive Eugene many things,” Astasia said at last, dabbing at her eyes. “No one can reach his position without making enemies. But I couldn't sleep last night thinking of what you told me…” A fresh flow of tears stifled her words.

  The sight of Astasia's face all red and blotched from crying only increased Celestine's sense of guilt. “Forgive me, highness, but are you
referring to—?”

  “The Magus. The sinking of the Sirin. How could Eugene have sanctioned such a thing? Muscobar wasn't even at war with Tielen when she went down in the Straits.”

  “It may be that the Magus acted alone for the good of Tielen… or to gain favor with your husband. The Emperor himself may have known nothing about the consequences of the storm until the news broke and it was too late to do anything.”

  “I only wish I could believe it to be so. But Eugene had everything to gain from my brother's death. I don't know if I can trust him anymore.” Astasia was so distressed that her tears began to flow unchecked. Celestine felt so sorry for the young woman that she forgot court protocol and put her arms around her.

  Dievona's Night arrived and the carriages of the illustrious guests began to roll through the village, heading toward the Swanholm estate. Celestine hired the innkeeper's daughter to act as her maid and help her with the intricate fastenings of the boned bodice and pannier over-skirts of the shepherdess's costume. Tightly laced, she sat before her traveling mirror, making small adjustments to her wig so that not a single golden hair could escape and betray her identity. And she wondered if the Empress was feeling as apprehensive as she at that moment. She had developed a genuine liking for the Empress over the past days; Astasia had accepted her unquestioningly, treating her as a friend. “And a friend is a luxury that I haven't been able to afford for so very long,” she said softly to her white-wigged reflection.

  “Are you ready, Celestine?” Jagu called. “Your carriage is waiting.”

  “Coming.” Celestine draped a black velvet cloak over her costume, took up her gilded mask, and went out onto the landing to find Jagu waiting for her. His eyes widened as he gazed at the beribboned vision in powder-blue satin.

  “Does it suit me?” She performed a little pirouette for him, unable to hold back delighted laughter as she held the mask to her face, peering at him teasingly.

  “It's certainly… different from your usual style of dress.” He seemed at a loss for words.

  “Ah, but can you be sure it's really me? I might be her imperial highness—”