‘Sorry?’ I said, thrown.
‘That Felix’s painting is famous in your country?’
‘It certainly is. It is a great work of art. But more importantly, it captures the very light of your beauty. In fact, in Faustina, the subject means more to people than the artist, you know.’ The flattering, lying words felt unbearably slimy on my tongue, but they did the trick. She beamed.
‘So I am famous in Faustina?’
‘Oh, yes, Mam’selle, you are. And now, with the painting back and the return of Gabriel Fontenoy, you will be even more famous. It is not just your beauty people will focus on. It is also the inspiring story of your womanly courage. Please allow me to tell it.’
I felt nauseous even saying such things. But she was obviously delighted.
‘Oh, very well,’ she said, with an unconvincing attempt at casualness. ‘If you remember this is my story, not his,’ she added.
‘Excuse me?’ I said, confused.
‘Oh, it’s Gabriel this and Gabriel that; it’s as if they forget that it was me who suffered the most!’
I gaped at her. She saw my expression and snapped, ‘Well, it’s true. I was the one left behind – to wait and wonder. How do you think that felt?’
My belly was churning. I wanted to slap her till her ears rang, to yell, ‘Do you have any idea, you selfish cow, what poor Gabriel has gone through?’ But it would have been pointless. She didn’t know. And even if she had, it would hardly have penetrated her self-absorption. I decided instantly that I didn’t want to tell her the truth.
I said smoothly, ‘I can understand how difficult it must have been for you. And now, too, when you have to keep watch at his bedside and help the doctor to –’
‘Do you think I am some kind of servant?’ she said haughtily. ‘I most certainly do not help the doctor. I wouldn’t even if the doctor would want me to, which he doesn’t.’
My heart was racing. ‘I’ve heard that the treatment advocated by the doctor is quite radical.’
Celeste shrugged. ‘He says it’s the only way to pull Gabriel out of whatever brain fever he is in. Though there hasn’t been much progress so far.’
‘Is it possible – would it be possible – to see him?’
It was her turn to stare. ‘What? You want to see the doctor?’
‘No, not the doctor – Gabriel Fontenoy.’ I hurried on. ‘Just for background, you understand. It makes such a difference if one can write at firsthand. I would of course be focusing the article about how hard it is for you, remembering what he was, and now what he is – hoping against hope that he will get better, but feeling discouraged at times, saying if only –’
‘Mmm. I like that,’ she said. ‘That’s a good way of putting it. Very well. No harm showing you, I suppose. Just a quick glimpse, mind. Dr Golpech is due soon and I’m sure he would be tiresome about it if he knew.’
I nodded. Yes, I’m sure the good doctor would be tiresome about it, I thought. ‘It must have been quite a shock,’ I said, as I followed her out. ‘I mean, when you found out about Messir Fontenoy turning up on Dr Golpech’s doorstep.’
‘Yes, of course it was a shock. We don’t know exactly how it happened because he didn’t get time to tell the doctor before he passed out; he had only managed to say he’d escaped from his kidnappers and that they were Ruvenyan.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, outrageous, isn’t it! Our President is, of course, outraged that such a thing could happen on our own soil to one of our citizens, and he’s sent a stiff letter to the Ruvenyan Ambassador, who denies all knowledge of it, the liar. But what can you expect from such a barbarous country?’
Anger rose in me but I tamped it down firmly. ‘You say it happened on your own soil? Do you mean . . .?’
‘Yes. He was in Palume when it happened. Back then we thought that he’d just gone off in a huff. He’d been behaving badly ever since Felix won that prize. He was jealous of him winning, but angry too that he hadn’t even known I’d been sitting for him. Felix said it had to be a secret because he knew Gabriel would be jealous.’
My heart lurched unpleasantly. ‘About how he vanished – didn’t you suspect something had happened to him?’
‘No. He took off one day without a word. His old nurse went with him. I couldn’t stand her. She always stuck to him like glue. She was one of the reasons we didn’t worry at first. Later, when we still heard nothing from him, Papa hired an investigator. But we discovered nothing.’
‘What about his nurse?’ I asked.
‘What about her?’
‘You said she always stuck to him like glue. Where is she now?’
‘The kidnappers most likely killed her. How should I know? She’s unimportant, anyway.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that the kidnappers never asked for a ransom from Gabriel’s family?’
‘Gabriel’s an orphan. His parents died when he was twelve, in a boating accident. They had no money, and Papa is his godfather, so that’s why he took him in and let that ghastly old woman stay here.’
‘But why wouldn’t they ask your father for a ransom, then?’ I persisted.
‘Who knows what goes on in the heads of people like that? Stupid as well as barbarous. Maybe they just wanted a slave. I’ve heard they still keep slaves in Ruvenya.’
‘You are mistaken,’ I said tightly. ‘And in any case, that’s hardly a credible motive.’
‘Who knows?’ Celeste shrugged. ‘All we do know is that they took Gabriel and held him captive until he managed to escape.’
She was remarkably incurious, I thought. But then I suppose self-centred people usually are. Nothing matters unless it relates directly to them.
We had reached another wing of the house, which did not look as if it was used by the family. There was little furniture and what there was of it was shrouded in dust-clothes. We went down one corridor, then another and finally down a small flight of stairs to another level, through another set of doors, till at last we came to a room that was completely dark. However, it was a quality of dark I could not understand, until I touched one of the walls and discovered it not to be plaster or brick, as you might expect, but a smooth slippery surface that reminded me of glass.
‘Papa normally uses this room for his photography,’ came Celeste’s voice out of the darkness. ‘Other people have darkrooms; he has a light-room.’ I couldn’t see her – I couldn’t see anything – and yet I was aware of something just beyond us, a faint emanation that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Light came on, suddenly. I gasped. For we were standing in a kind of antechamber, looking through a glass wall into the strangest room I had ever seen. It was made entirely of glass. The wall we were looking through was clear, but the other three were translucent interlocking panels, each panel imprinted with the black outline of an image – faces, flowers, animals, landscapes – in a style that was like a shadow of the photographs I’d seen in the hall, as though the walls were giant photographic negative plates. But strange as it was, that wasn’t what drew my eye and caused the breath to thicken in my throat.
For in the middle of the glass room, illuminated by a silver light that shone down from the top of the chamber like an eerie artificial moon, was a plain wooden bed.
And on the bed lay a young man as pale and still as though he were a stone effigy in a church. The impression was reinforced by the silver mesh skullcap that covered the top of his head, and the drape of the bedcovers, which under the eerie light, appeared like carved stone. His eyes were closed, and the light bleached everything of its true colour, so that even the rich tones of his red-brown hair were faded. In that strange glass bubble, surrounded by those weird negative images, it was as though he were floating between reality and dream, and for one dazed, terrifying instant, I thought I was dreaming him, and that I must soon wake up.
After only a moment, my heart jerked back to life, my blood tingling, my limbs shaking with the thrill and grief
of it. Oh dear God, it was him. It was Ivan. Gabriel. My love. After all my long search, there he lay. So close yet so far. I yearned so much to touch him I thought I must faint from the fierce pain of it. As if from a great distance I heard myself say, ‘Are you sure he’s breathing?’
‘Of course. See the cap? It monitors his breathing. If he wasn’t breathing, it would go black. It also keeps the flow of antirentum irrigating his brain,’ Celeste said, in the tone of someone repeating a tedious lesson.
‘Antirentum?’
She waved a hand. ‘It’s Dr Golpech’s brand-new medicine. A miracle cure, he calls it.’
‘That’s very . . . interesting. A miracle cure! I think our readers would be fascinated to know more about it.’
‘Well, I don’t know any more than what I’ve told you already. It’s all very hush-hush.’
‘I see. Mam’selle, it’s a most extraordinary room. How do you get in? I see no way in or out.’
She pointed to a spot on the wall, which to the casual eye looked simply like a slight imperfection in the glass. ‘I press my thumb to that and the door opens. You can’t see it otherwise, because it seals perfectly. Only if you have the right thumbprint can you get in. And only three people have that: Papa, the doctor and me. It’s one of Papa’s inventions. Don’t ask me how it works.’
‘That’s amazing,’ I said, sincerely impressed. ‘Does that mean that no-one else can go in?’
‘Only if they’re accompanied by one of us three.’
My pulse raced. ‘Can I go in, with you? I would very much like to look a bit closer at the . . .’
‘No,’ Celeste said firmly. ‘The doctor’s due any moment. We’ll have to go now.’ And she reached out to the light lever on the wall.
‘No,’ I said desperately. ‘Please don’t turn it off yet. I need to take it all in.’ I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him, from where he lay so still. I couldn’t bear the thought of what was happening in there. I had to get in there, I had to – whatever it took, whatever it cost. If I could only get in, I thought wildly, I could save him. Somehow I’d get him out of the room that now seemed like nothing so much as a gigantic glass coffin.
‘Right, I think you’ve seen your fill,’ Celeste said impatiently. ‘The doctor will be here soon, and you’d better not be seen around here; he doesn’t like people gawking at his patient.’ She pulled the light lever down, plunging us into darkness once more.
But I’d had an idea. An idea born of desperation and longing. As we went out of the antechamber, I said, ‘Listen, I can pay you to let me in. I can pay you well.’
Celeste laughed. ‘My father’s one of the wealthiest men in Champaine. I have all the money I need.’
‘I didn’t mean money,’ I said. ‘I meant something much more unusual.’
‘What?’
‘Something rare and amazing, which no-one else in Palume will have and that everyone will envy, I can guarantee you that.’
‘What is it?’ she snapped, her eyes alight with sharp curiosity. ‘You must tell me.’
‘I can’t tell you, or it won’t work.’
‘Something magical?’ Celeste said, her eyes narrowing. ‘Papa doesn’t like magic. He says it’s dangerous, and he doesn’t want me to have anything to do with it.’
If he only knew he’d let in the worst sort of magic with Golpech, much worse than anything he could have seen in far-off lands, I thought. What would he say then? ‘Yet he invents a light-room that can only be opened by a thumbprint. That’s a kind of magic, some people would say.’
‘He’d say such people are stupid. He’d say that’s just pure science,’ Celeste said, and the scornful way in which she spoke told me I was in with a chance.
‘But you don’t feel the same way about magic as he does,’ I hazarded.
‘I don’t see why I can’t try it. Everyone else does! People I know have their fortunes told and buy little love philtres and have been given amusing magical baubles, like my friend who has a ring that changes from diamond to ruby to emerald in a flash, or another friend who has a pair of silver shoes that make her a perfect dancer. Where’s the harm in that?’
‘Where indeed?’ I echoed.
‘This thing you have – is it like that?’
‘Very much so, only better. None of your friends could have anything like it.’
‘I want to see it,’ Celeste said, her eyes alight with greed.
‘I don’t have it on me,’ I lied. ‘I’ll have to fetch it first. But it’s worth waiting for, I can promise you that . . .’
‘You better be right,’ she said, and I knew then that she’d taken the bait, ‘because if it isn’t, I’m going to have you thrown out and thrashed into the bargain, do you understand?’
‘I understand,’ I said impassively. What did I care about her threats? She was less than an ant to me. Even the thought that she’d once been in Gabriel’s dreams mattered not a jot any more. All that mattered was the knowledge that my love was here and that come hell or high water I was going to get him out of that glass coffin and bring him back to true life.
‘Don’t come to the front door. There’s a walled garden at the back of the house,’ she said. ‘You can reach it from the next street. Come to the garden door in –’ she looked at her watch – ‘in three hours’ time, at ten o’clock, and I’ll let you in. Understood?’
‘Perfectly.’
Shortly after, Celeste had the servant escort me out, and I left the house without seeing Messir Durant again. I could only hope that between now and ten o’clock he wouldn’t find out what his daughter had promised to do and tell the doctor; I could also only hope that in that time Celeste would not change her flighty mind. And most of all I hoped that my gamble would pay off, and Luel’s gifts would not let me down.
I had no need to go back to Argent Lane, for I had the box in my pocket. But I couldn’t stay too close to the Durants’ house whilst the doctor was in the vicinity, in case somehow he got a whiff of the magic. So I walked away from the house, down one street after the next until finally I came to a little fenced park on the edge of a square that had a tall clock in its centre. The park was deserted and not very well-lit; I didn’t feel very comfortable being there, but I didn’t have much choice, for this kind of quiet residential area offered very little in the way of public spaces where I might have passed unnoticed amidst a crowd. No little cafes, no shops, no theatres, just this empty, shadowed bit of greenery, benches and a couple of statues of historical figures, caught in a moment of action, like stone photographs.
Stone photographs . . . I shivered suddenly, thinking of Gabriel, lying under that weird silver light in that strange glass room, and how I’d thought he looked as still as stone. What was that poison coursing through his veins? What was it doing to him? A miracle cure – the Durants might think the aim was to heal Gabriel, but I knew it was not. Something terrible was being done to my love’s mind, something which would turn him into a puppet, like poor Felix Vivian – a puppet that the sorcerer Golpech could work through, for his own purposes. Felix Vivian was a pawn now, a soulless tool, but he had once been a good painter. A more than good painter. Summer Morning showed that, quite clearly.
My skin prickled as something struck me. An artist’s picture is like a writer’s story: it carries a voice. Summer Morning had spoken to me. It had made me uneasy. And it wasn’t just about coming face to face with the scene in my dream. It was something about the painting itself, some disturbing quality. And even before I saw the painting, I’d felt it. I’d felt a presence. Something watching me. Something whispering in my mind. Something that disturbed me, that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. What if it was the same thing as when I had looked into Felix Vivian’s clear blue eyes and seen another presence? What if Summer Morning also had a presence behind it? For what if Felix Vivian had not naturally evolved from a good, competent painter into one of magical, unusual genius, but had instead made a dark bargain with a sorcerer?
It ma
de a dreadful kind of sense. If Gabriel had found out the secret behind Summer Morning, and threatened to tell the authorities, then that might have been enough motive. Because a spell that enslaves your spirit is regarded with great horror, and its creator would be severely punished, in the same way as the creator of an abartyen spell. Perhaps it could even explain the theft of the painting: Golpech himself tying up loose ends, removing it from sight while he searched for Gabriel, who had inexplicably vanished after the abartyen spell was cast. Luel had thwarted him there, by whisking her lord away . . .
Luel. Where are you, Luel? I need you! I took the box out from my pocket and looked at the things within: the comb, the handkerchief, the tin of sweets and Old Bony’s single hair.
I took out the handkerchief and said, ‘This is for Celeste,’ and shook it. Instantly, to my delight, into my lap shimmered a gauzy blue scarf threaded with gold embroidery in the shape of flowers with tiny jewels in their centre. It was enchantingly lovely, exquisitely made and absolutely covetable.
I took up the comb. ‘Again, for Celeste,’ I said, and ran it through my hair. A flower swirled down at once, only this time it didn’t fall softly, like the silk flowers had. No, it fell with the weight of stone, for this flower was carved out of a single piece of white opal with shifting colours inside it like the fires of the earth.
These were gifts for a rich girl, not the humble pretty things I had received. Magic that fitted its recipient . . . Which would Celeste prefer? I had to give her the choice. The tin of sweets would be of no interest to her, I was sure. But it was probably a good idea for me to take some more, for though I was still some way from the twenty-four-hour deadline for each, it was better to be on the safe side. I swallowed half a Faustinian sweet and half a Champainian one, and then I had to somehow endure the three hours till I could return to the Durant residence. I paced round and round that wretched park more times than I cared to count, each strike of the clock making my heart beat faster.
I was in the street at the back of the house well before ten o’clock. The stone wall of the garden faced me: it rose steep and high, and was topped by jagged bits of broken glass that shimmered under the moon like lethal icicles. There was a door of metal, set tightly into the wall, and firmly locked. Any idea I might have entertained of getting back into the Durants’ house over the wall – if Celeste did not keep her promise – quickly faded away. As for going through the front door, well, there was still Remy to get past. And after that, Celeste’s father. And if she had told him what had happened, I’d never be allowed in again. How ironic that it was in his house that the darkest sorcery was being practised, under his very nose!
Scarlet in the Snow Page 20