The Mystic Marriage

by Jones, Heather Rose

  When the swarm around Tio dissipated, Rikerd pulled her aside to point out a group of dancers in an energetic performance halfway between a tarantella and the tumbling of acrobats. “She’s quite talented,” he said archly, directing her attention to the smallest figure in the group. “I’ll introduce her when they’ve finished the set.”

  Jeanne took a moment to admire the blond dancer’s skill, then raised an eyebrow at him, not in question but in understanding. He smiled and nodded and moved on to the next group of his guests. Well, perhaps this was what she needed: distraction without any lasting entanglements. In the brief breathing space, Jeanne looked around for Antuniet and found her standing by a string quartet who were playing at the far end of the room so as not to compete with the singers.

  “You’re being very quiet,” Jeanne said, coming up beside her. She seemed to be listening to the music more as an excuse for retreat than in true interest. “I hope you aren’t sorry you came.”

  Antuniet gave a careful answer. “The evening has been pleasant enough, but I was up at dawn to set up the firing and tomorrow will be all day cleaning up the result to study.”

  “Surely it could wait another day if you’re tired?”

  She shrugged. “It could, but until I know how the stones came out I won’t know whether the adjustments to the congelation worked. And then I wouldn’t have the new procedure worked out in time for the next alignment. Margerit promised to find me someone to take the Mars role, so it will waste everyone’s time if I’m not ready.”

  Even here her thoughts were back in the workshop. She hadn’t meant the additional invitation to be a burden. “You could have said no to this.”

  “Oh, Jeanne, I don’t mean to complain. I didn’t want to drag you away. You’ve been working so hard to find people who will receive me. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, either to you or to the Count. Don’t worry over me. Go enjoy yourself.” Someone else might have come up with a polite lie, either to escape the party or to excuse her mood. Antuniet didn’t deal in polite lies but neither was it her habit to apologize at such length.

  Jeanne frowned. “Are you sure? Say the word and we could go. We’ve been here long enough to honor Chanturi’s invitation.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “But I’m enjoying the music for now. It’s only the people who make me tired.”

  Jeanne couldn’t think of how to answer that except to let her be. She saw Rikerd beckon to her from across the room and, with a light touch on the shoulder in place of the missing words, she left Antuniet to the viols in the corner.

  “Jeanne, I thought you might enjoy meeting Luzild,” he said as she approached, gesturing at the petite dancer. “Luzild, this is the Vicomtesse de Cherdillac. She’s a great patron and admirer of the arts.” And with that, he stepped discreetly away to find other amusements.

  Jeanne had thought at first glance, from her diminutive height, that the girl was young. The dance companies were generally chosen to be well-matched in size. But it was only that she was compactly built, combining a womanly body with the lithe athleticism of a cat. “How long have you been dancing with the opera?” she asked. It seemed an easy opening to draw her out. “I’m trying to remember whether I’ve seen you perform before.”

  “Only for a year now,” she replied. “They needed someone to dance the role of the monkey in La Turca last March and one of the musicians remembered seeing me performing in Iuten at floodtide, and Maistir Fizeir thought I’d be perfect for the role.” The woman’s mobile expression reflected her every emotion. “And of course once I was here in Rotenek I was hardly going to let myself be sent back to the provinces! But I don’t appear in any of the main dances, only in the back of the chorus. That’s why you don’t remember seeing me. They say it’s because I’m not good enough yet or because I’m so short, but—” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “—they’re as bad as a flock of hens for not letting new people in. I think they’re just jealous.” Her eyes sparkled and a wide grin split her face. “Fizeir says he may write a child’s dance for me in the next one, and of course if they need the tumbling they come to me. That’s what I was doing in Iuten before.”

  She chattered on at length, hardly needing prompting to tell the story of her life and career so far. Jeanne was amused at her complete absence of self-consciousness, but to stem the flood of trivialities, she asked, “So how does a monkey dance?”

  The woman looked up at her sideways with speculation. “Perhaps you’d like to see?” she asked. “I think there’s a hallway back behind the promenade where there would be enough room.” And few people about, Jeanne thought, as the dancer led her out past the wide entryway and around the corner.

  The place was empty and unlit, though the glow from the promenade beyond left enough to see by. Luzild slipped off her shoes and stretched and twisted briefly to loosen her muscles. Her face was stiller now as she bent and curved in clever contortions: now standing on both hands with her back arched, now lifting one leg and then the other to tumble in one spot like a slowly rolling wheel. Her wide, flowing skirts followed her muscular limbs like water, always promising but never revealing what lay beneath. She finished by bending her legs up over her head to set herself down nearly at Jeanne’s feet then rose up in a slow, controlled stretch to stand before her, close enough that Jeanne could feel her panting breath. The dancer fixed her gaze and said low, “Count Chanturi tells me that you might be interested in a companion for the evening.”

  It was a delicate but unmistakable offer. A flood of warmth ran through her at the promise in those tones. Jeanne answered with similar delicacy, “Count Chanturi is an old and dear friend who is very familiar with my tastes.”

  Luzild stretched up on her toes and leaned forward boldly. Her hot breath tickled Jeanne’s cheek as she whispered, “Or for the night?”

  “Very familiar,” Jeanne repeated as the woman’s lips brushed hers. Hunger ran under her skin. One hand came up without thought to guide the kisses to the corner of her jaw, the hollow below her ear, the nape of her neck. Her other hand moved across the woman’s back and lower, enjoying the play of muscles beneath the curve of her hip. A brief wash of guilt whispered Antuniet’s name in her mind but Luzild pressed closer and more insistently. It had been too long…too long. Jeanne felt a draft of cool air on her leg as her skirts were drawn up and gasped in pleasure at a touch on her most intimate parts. That brought her back to her senses. She moved away a fraction. “Shh, not here, not now.”

  “Where and when?” The warm lips pursued her. “Tonight?”

  “Tonight…” No, tonight was impossible. “There is a friend I must see safely home tonight. Tomorrow?”

  “I perform tomorrow night. We practice all afternoon.”

  Jeanne saw a petulant look creep over the dancer’s face. No doubt she feared if the moment of passion were allowed to pass, the opportunity would as well. Her own heat longed to burn itself out. She touched the other’s lips. “Don’t pout. Something can be arranged.”

  Luzild nipped playfully at the fingertip and her mouth settled into a lopsided and knowing smile. “Arrange it soon.”

  “We should return to the salle now. Someone may come looking for me.” She hoped the woman would have the tact to wait before following, but Luzild entered the crowded room hard on her heels. Jeanne turned back, just enough for a brief shake of her head and a shooing motion of her fan, before drifting farther out into the room. She thought she’d seen Antuniet over by the sideboard when she first entered, but now there was no sign and Tio claimed her ear for a lament on the life of a diplomat’s wife.

  When she was released once again, one of the servants approached with an apologetic cough. “Mesnera de Cherdillac? I was asked to give you a message from Maisetra Chazillen. She wished you to know that she has accepted a ride home from Maisetra Sovitre. She said she didn’t wish to disturb you.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” She’d said she was tired… Perhaps Margerit had offered at an opportune time. The gu
ilt came back more strongly.

  The man continued, “She left an item that she said was yours. A shawl? I placed it with your other things.”

  “Thank you,” she repeated absently.

  While she stood there in thought, Luzild passed by, sending a wink and a smile in her direction. In sudden decision Jeanne called her over. “It seems I’m free for the evening after all.”

  * * *

  Jeanne rolled over sleepily and came more fully awake at the soft sound of snoring. She opened her eyes. The little dancer from last night. A slow smile turned to a moue of irritation. The woman really had no conversation. Last night their mouths had been far too busy with other things for it to matter, but the thought of her empty chatter stretching over breakfast… She slipped out of bed and pulled on a dressing gown. Luzild turned over and reached out an arm toward her. Jeanne kissed her own fingertips, then pressed them against the woman’s lips. “I’m sorry for the rush but I have appointments to keep this morning.” It was a polite fiction, but the woman would understand its meaning. “You don’t mind seeing yourself out? Tomric will arrange for a carriage.”

  There were customs for this sort of thing. A gift was called for. Not money, of course—that would be an insult. A small gift was an invitation to meet again. A very expensive gift was the opening negotiation in a contract. But one that was neither large nor small signaled an amicable end to the matter. With as much warmth as she could muster, Jeanne said, “The evening was lovely. As a memento, perhaps you might accept—” She looked around for inspiration, wondering what would be suitable. Her eyes fell on the heap of clothing she’d discarded in the heat of the night before. “—you might accept the shawl I was wearing when we met.” She gestured where the garments lay across the back of a chaise. With a smile and a wink she slipped into the dressing room, where Marien waited discreetly and closed the door behind her.

  By the time she’d finished dressing, the dancer was gone. The fringed shawl still lay tumbled across her crumpled gown. That was an unusual move. If she hoped to bargain for something more she’d be disappointed. Jeanne shrugged and opened her jewelry case to contemplate the day’s ornaments.

  Marien moved about the room picking up the scattered garments. As she folded the shawl away into a drawer, she asked, “What’s happened to the mauve cashmere, the one with the peacock design?”

  “I lent it to—” No. Antuniet had returned it last night. Where had she put it? On the… She glanced back at the chaise. So that was it. She’d taken the wrong shawl. How annoying when it had matched Antuniet’s gown so perfectly. “I gave it away,” she finished.

  * * *

  The weather had turned foul again, wavering between rain and icy sleet. That alone might have explained Antuniet’s mood, but what she railed against was the inexplicable lateness of everyone involved in the new working. Jeanne cut short her own excuses upon realizing she was the first to arrive.

  “Margerit promised to bring someone for the Mars role but she hasn’t seen fit to tell me who,” Antuniet continued. “She takes too much on herself. And I have no idea what’s happened to Anna.” But the last had more of worry than irritation.

  “She might be waiting to see if the rain passes,” Jeanne offered.

  “It never stopped her before,” Antuniet muttered as they fell to setting out the equipment.

  A clatter of carriage wheels outside heralded the answer to one set of questions. Now that should not have been a surprise, Jeanne thought when Margerit was followed through the door by Efriturik Atilliet. The front room was becoming quite crowded, given the shadowing armins as well. She could see the same thoughts crossing Antuniet’s face as the formalities were dealt with.

  “You know the Vicomtesse de Cherdillac, of course,” Margerit said briskly. “And…but I don’t know whether you ever had a formal introduction to Maisetra Chazillen back…before.”

  He made that charming foreign bow, saying carefully, “I am unlikely to forget any of the Chazillens.”

  Antuniet responded with equally stiff formality and Margerit plunged onward, “I remembered what Baron Razik said at Akezze’s lecture—that he was looking for some useful occupation—but I didn’t know what Her Grace might have to say to it, so I didn’t want…Well, it doesn’t matter. She thought it a fine idea and…and here we are.”

  “I am no scholar, like you or Maisetra Sovitre,” he offered, “but my mother thinks I could be of some use here.”

  Antuniet looked as if she might have words in private for Margerit later, but said, “Then we have only to wait for my laggard apprentice and we can begin. Has Margerit told you anything of what we actually do in these workings? Good, that will save us some time. Perhaps you might read over—”

  She was interrupted by a clatter of running feet outside and the sound of Anna’s hurried farewell to her escort as the door opened once more.

  “Maisetra, I’m so sorry,” she said, hurriedly doffing her coat and bonnet. “The house was in an uproar this morning and—” She faltered, seeing the strangers present. Her face was flushed red from the run and the thread of her scar stood starkly white against it.

  “Dear God, what an ugly thing!” Efriturik exclaimed into the sudden silence.

  Anna looked wildly from one face to another, then plunged on past into the workshop, slamming the door behind her. The muffled sound of sobbing came through the boards.

  He can’t have meant that as badly as it sounded, Jeanne thought desperately.

  “I meant the mark; it startled me,” Efriturik said in confusion as all heads turned angrily.

  Antuniet advanced stiffly toward him, stopping at a carefully calculated distance as if it were only the presence of his lurking armin that kept her from laying violent hands on him. “That scar,” she said coldly, “is as much a medal of courage and loyalty as any soldier’s tinsel. And if you ever again give her cause to weep or so much as blush over it, you needn’t return.”

  “I meant no harm,” he protested.

  She seemed to believe him. “Then go apologize and we’ll say no more of it.”

  There he balked, glancing toward the workshop door. “Apologize to a…an apprentice?”

  “To my apprentice, yes. Or leave. It makes no difference to me.”

  What inducements had Annek laid on him to come? Whatever they’d been, it seemed refusal was not allowed. He slipped inside, closing the door again after him and emerged several minutes later followed by a silent but dry-eyed Anna.

  * * *

  In the weeks that followed, the work progressed better than its inauspicious start might have suggested. Efriturik had a flair for learning the lines and gestures, Jeanne observed critically. If, as she guessed, he had not come entirely of his own volition, at least he entered into it with a will. But he disrupted their cozy circle. From Antuniet, there was a tension; from Anna, a mortified reticence. And gone were the days of closing out the world with the workroom doors, for propriety demanded they be open for witness, though the armins paid little enough attention. At the second session they began a complex game of dice that picked up with no pause each time their duties brought them together. And as the days passed, with the work growing ever more successful, Antuniet had little time to spare. The cozy picnic lunches of their early days became a faint memory.

  But surely today work can’t be an excuse, Jeanne thought as Tionez bustled into her parlor in a carnival costume bordering on the outrageous, even for her. She had taken inspiration from the Parisian dandies, layering a garish waistcoat over close-fitting breeches and topping the whole with her husband’s caped driving coat.

  “That will turn heads!” Jeanne laughed. “Whatever would Iohen say?”

  Tionez pulled her friend Maisetra Silpirt after her, more tamely costumed à la bergère. “Oh pooh! He wouldn’t care. And he can’t expect me to spend my days sulking at home while he’s in Paris, can he, Iaklin?”

  The other woman giggled nervously. Jeanne guessed that she was less sure of the
limits of her license. Their husbands had met in the diplomatic service and Tio had taken the woman under her wing, to her greatly expanded education.

  “Iohen won’t be back until June, he says,” Tionez continued. “And then it’s the country for the rest of the summer and by the start of the season I’ll either be too far gone to travel or have a little gift to look after.” She laid a hand casually on her belly, confirming the truth of that rumor, at least. “I’ll be a boring matron before you know it.”

  “Well, we need to see you properly entertained in the meantime, then,” Jeanne said. “I have a scheme in mind for floodtide that I think you would enjoy. But enough on that for now. The plans aren’t fixed yet.”

  Jeanne caught up her own cloak and mask and fastened it around her neat curls as they all settled into Tio’s carriage. “I hope you have room for one more.”

  “Anything for you,” Tionez said, rapping on the roof to catch the driver’s attention.

  “Then I’d like to go by Trez Cherfis and see if Antuniet will join us. I invited her last week.” And she’d turned the subject without saying no or yes. Perhaps it would be better to let her be, Jeanne thought.