Tracing the Shadow

by Sarah Ash

  Had Gauzia given her the clue?

  Autumn had come early to Lutèce, bringing winds and sharp spatters of cold rain. Celestine went to and from the Conservatoire alone all week. Gauzia and Maistre de Joyeuse were busy rehearsing together for the recital at the Muscobar Embassy. Every time Celestine heard them, her heart was twisted with jealous anguish. Gauzia’s voice seemed to have bloomed; even Celestine had to admit that her richly burnished contralto was a pleasure to listen to. Her technique had improved too, and she could sing a long, arcing phrase without skimping or snatching a little breath.

  And then, the night before the concert, Celestine woke in the night to hear Gauzia sneezing. By morning, Gauzia was running a slight fever.

  “It’s only a head cold,” she insisted, but Celestine could see the desperation in her eyes and hear the thick, clogged rasp of catarrh in her throat.

  At Celestine’s request, Angelique brought some linctus from the infirmary and a hot camomile tisane laced with honey.

  “I’ll be fine,” Gauzia said again and again as she sipped the tisane. But the hoarseness in her voice was all too apparent. “You’ll see.”

  “Will you turn the pages for me, Demoiselle?” the Maistre asked Celestine.

  “Me?” Celestine was a little uncertain about this task; she did not want to risk turning in the wrong place and upsetting him.

  “Don’t worry; I’ll nod so you know exactly when.” He was smiling at her. “Shall we begin with a few vocal exercises, Demoiselle Gauzia?” He played a broken chord for Gauzia to pitch her first note, but Gauzia did not start to sing; she was surreptitiously trying to clear her throat, one hand covering her mouth. Maistre de Joyeuse played the broken chord again and Celestine saw Gauzia swallow hard before opening her mouth to sing. The notes that issued from her throat did not display the usual strong, well-rounded tone, but were far from the husky sound Celestine had expected.

  But Gauzia was only ten bars or so into her first chanson when she broke down, one hand to her throat.

  “Henri, this girl is sick!” pronounced Dame Elmire, marching in. “I could hear her coughing from two floors up. I forbid you to allow her to perform.”

  Gauzia let out a hoarse wail of protest, then lapsed into another bout of coughing.

  “You should be in bed, young lady,” said Dame Elmire. “Come with me to the kitchen and I’ll give you a hot drink to soothe your throat. Then you’re going back to the convent in the carriage.” And before Gauzia could protest again, Dame Elmire took her firmly by the arm and marched her out of the music room.

  Celestine rose from her seat beside the Maistre. “I’d better go to her.”

  He caught hold of her by the hand. “Can you take her place, Celestine?”

  “Me?” Her first reaction was one of panic. “I can’t sing Gauzia’s songs!”

  “We’ll change the program. We’ll choose a repertoire better suited to your voice. Who will know?”

  “B—but it’s tonight.” The panic increased. “All those important people will be listening.”

  “And I’ll be there to accompany you. What is there to fear?” He grinned at her, a disarming, friendly grin.

  “But you said that my voice isn’t ready.”

  He leaned closer to her. “Here’s your chance to prove me wrong.”

  Her eyes widened. What was he implying?

  “And I’ve nothing to wear.”

  “What about Gauzia’s dress?”

  “That won’t be at all suitable!” pronounced a disapproving voice from the doorway. Dame Elmire had reappeared, glowering sternly at her nephew. “Green is definitely not Celestine’s color. Not too mention the fact that Gauzia is rather more well developed than Celestine, and there’s no time to take in the gown.”

  Celestine felt herself blushing again, mortified that Dame Elmire should have pointed out such a fact in front of the Maistre.

  “So, Aunt, what do you propose?” said the Maistre wearily. “I can tell from the glint in your eyes that you have a plan.”

  “Indeed, I have! I’ve kept costumes from my favorite roles on stage. And I was a lot slimmer in those days. I was thinking that Comtesse Melusine would work very well. Follow me, Celestine.”

  “Well, what do you think, my dear? It’s not the latest fashion, I know, but it has a timeless charm.”

  Celestine gazed at herself in Dame Elmire’s mirror. Melusine’s gown was made of the palest blue silk, with a delicate tracery of little flowers embroidered with sequins of turquoise and silver around the low-cut neck and hem. She had never worn anything so pretty or frivolous in her life. She wondered whether Sister Noyale would have approved.

  “I don’t feel like…me,” she murmured.

  “That’s the idea! Let’s see what Henri says.”

  The soft folds of the gown whispered as Celestine followed Dame Elmire down the steep stair to the Music Room. Such luxurious material. Will he disapprove? Suddenly she could think of nothing else.

  “Well? Will she do?” demanded Dame Elmire.

  The Maistre looked up from the score that was laid out open on top of the fortepiano. He hates it.

  And then she caught a darkening in his eyes, an intense focusing of the gaze, as if he were seeing her as he had never seen her before.

  “You look…lovely, Celestine,” he said without a trace of the playful, teasing tone he had used earlier. He closed the score with a snap. “The carriage is waiting. It’s time to go.”

  A glitter of crystal chandeliers lit the crowded salon of the Muscobar Embassy. What am I doing? Celestine wondered, one hand clutching hold of the fortepiano. If I make a mess of this, the Maistre will wash his hands of me. But if I’m a success, Gauzia will never speak to me again.

  So many well-dressed, elegant women and so many distinguished-looking men, all seated, looking expectantly at her…She was breathing too fast; she closed her eyes, remembering Dame Elmire’s training. “Inhale through your nostrils to the count of five, then exhale slowly through the mouth…”

  Yet when the Maistre began to play, the familiar phrases of the first song flowed around her like a comforting embrace and her fear faded away. When she opened her mouth to sing, she felt transported. She and the Maistre instinctively understood each other, working together to convey the subtlest nuances of the words and music. Only when the last notes died away did she become aware of the hush in the salon. And then guests rose to their feet to applaud. Bemused, she took the Maistre’s outstretched hand and sank into a deep curtsy to acknowledge the rapturous reception.

  “Well done,” he whispered. “You charmed them.”

  “We charmed them.” She felt as light-headed as if she had drunk sparkling wine.

  “So this is your new songbird, Maistre?” The speaker was a distinguished-looking man of middle years. “Your performance was exquisite, Demoiselle.”

  “May I present Celestine, your excellency?” The Maistre bowed. “This is our host, Count Velemir, the Muscobar ambassador.”

  Celestine was about to curtsy again, when the count took her hand and kissed it.

  “Celestine? How mysterious that you use only your first name…You must tell me all about yourself, Demoiselle.” He held on to her hand, leading her away from the Maistre, who was instantly surrounded by admiring women, young and old.

  Servants were offering the guests silver trays with bowls of black, oleaginous globules heaped on crushed ice, surrounded by lemon segments. The contents gave off a faint, disagreeably fishy odor.

  “What is that?”

  “One of our national delicacies, my dear: caviar from the sturgeon that spawn in the River Nieva. You really must try some. It’s delicious, I assure you.” And as if to reassure her, he helped himself, spooning the eggs onto a tiny pancake, adding a squeeze of lemon juice, before popping it into his mouth. “Excellent. Now it’s your turn, Demoiselle.” And before Celestine could refuse, he was holding out another little pancake, heaped with caviar, for her to try. As she relucta
ntly opened her mouth, she caught Maistre de Joyeuse’s eye as he listened to one of the Muscobite ladies and saw, to her annoyance, that he was vastly amused at her discomfort.

  I can’t afford to offend my host. She chewed the fishy mouthful and swallowed swiftly, trying to smile. To her surprise, the Count began to laugh. “Well done, my dear! You needn’t disguise your disgust. It’s an acquired taste. What you need now is a glass of vodka to wash it down.” He clicked his fingers and one of the servants appeared with another tray.

  “No spirits for my pupil, your excellency.” Henri de Joyeuse had suddenly appeared at her side. “They damage the delicate vocal cords.”

  “And Demoiselle Celestine’s vocal cords must be protected at all costs,” said the Count, laughing again good-naturedly. “You are in good hands, Demoiselle. May we entice you to perform one day at the Winter Palace at Mirom?”

  “Not until I have finished with her, dear Count,” interrupted Dame Elmire. “Her training is not yet over. She’s only sixteen.”

  Mirom, capital city of the northern kingdom of Muscobar. Her first invitation beyond the shores of Francia. Her first steps on the hunt for Kaspar Linnaius.

  “If you are to begin your professional career, you need a name.”

  A name. Celestine lowered her gaze, studying the dusty floor of the carriage as they jolted along over the cobbles. I have a name but it’s one I can never reveal to you, dearest Maistre.

  “Don’t make the girl feel ashamed, Henri,” scolded Dame Elmire. “Is it her fault if she never knew her parents?”

  If only I could tell you everything, then you would understand. She glanced up but the Maistre was staring out at the night, resting his head against the padded back of the carriage, lost in his own thoughts.

  “As my student, you should take my surname,” said Dame Elmire. Her eyes glinted in the darkness. “How does Celestine Sorel sound?”

  “She’s my student too,” said the Maistre distantly, without turning his head. “Celestine de Joyeuse has a more euphonious sound.”

  “Celestine de Joyeuse,” echoed Celestine. Even saying the name aloud gave her a glowing feeling deep inside.

  “Of course, I was a Joyeuse before I married. So I suppose that taking our family name is a compromise. Although it could lead to misunderstandings. She could be supposed your sister, your cousin, even your daughter…”

  As Dame Elmire prattled on, Celestine tried to make out the Maistre’s expression as the occasional gold gleam of a street lantern briefly lit up the interior of the carriage. But he had withdrawn into his thoughts again. Only his fingers moved in a rhythm of their own making, silently tapping against the armrest.

  He’s composing again.

  The city was already shivering under grey, glacial skies when Celestine heard a slow sad dirge of city bells tolling through the falling snow. She and Gauzia were helping Dame Elmire to toast slices of brioche over the glowing sea coals in the range in the kitchen.

  “A good excuse to keep close to the fire,” declared the old lady.

  The kitchen door opened and Maistre de Joyeuse came in, stamping the snow from his boots. The icy draft made the burning logs sizzle and spit in the grate.

  “Close the door, quick!” scolded his aunt. “So, what’s all that tolling for?”

  Maistre de Joyeuse came close to the fire to rub his hands; Celestine made room for him, but as she did so she saw the sadness in his eyes.

  “Terrible news,” he said. “Prince Aubrey is dead.”

  Gauzia let out a shocked cry and dropped the toasting fork.

  “Heavens preserve us!” Dame Elmire hastily made the sign to ward off evil. “That fine young man, dead? How can that be?”

  “A hunting accident. His horse threw him.”

  “But he was such an accomplished rider—” said Gauzia.

  “Apparently a bird of prey flew down and startled his mount.”

  Celestine stood unmoving, remembering a tall, broad-shouldered young man, with an easy smile and an infectiously good-humored laugh, so full of life and confidence.

  “This is a sorry day for us all.” Dame Elmire retired to her seat in the inglenook, shaking her head. “He was so well liked. His poor mother. What must she be feeling now? And his father, the king…all his hopes for a secure succession dashed.”

  Gauzia had been fighting back sobs. Now she dashed from the room, slamming the door.

  Snow still fell over Lutèce, softening the morning city clatter, dampening the metallic din of horses’ hooves on cobbles, as cart and coach wheels stuck in the icy slush.

  Celestine and Gauzia trudged to Maistre de Joyeuse’s house through the snow, clutching their grey Novice’s cloaks and hoods tightly to them against the bitter chill. The city’s mood was as muted and hushed as the snowy streets; the Sisters of Charity had already planned an all-night vigil to pray for Prince Aubrey’s soul.

  Maistre de Joyeuse was seated at his desk, poring over a half-written score, the pale snow light leaching the gold from his hair. He raised his head as they entered and Celestine saw there were grey smudges beneath his eyes as if he had been up all night.

  “I wouldn’t have called you here through the snow if the matter were not so pressing. There is to be a state funeral in three days’ time and I’ve been asked to provide suitable music. Not the whole service, for which I thank God, but an anthem. The queen has specifically asked me to set some verses by the Allegondan poet Mhir. Given the lack of time, it’s going to have to be mostly solo, alternating with brief choral passages.” He was almost speaking to himself, indicating the relevant bars as he flipped through the score. “First verse—you, Gauzia.” He tossed her a page. “Second and third verses, Celestine.”

  Celestine caught the sheets as he flicked them to her. The writing was not easy to read, hastily scribbled in the heat of inspiration—or desperation, she thought, given the tight demands of the royal commission. She glanced up and saw that Gauzia’s lip was trembling again.

  “The choristers of the Chapelle Royale will be singing the rest of the service, so you need only learn this. Shall we make a start? I’ll have to set out for the Chapelle in an hour; the snow’s all but brought the city to a standstill.”

  The aisles of the gloomy cathedral were filled with the noble families of Francia and the ministers of state and their entourages, somber in their mourning clothes. Outside, the streets were lined with the people of Lutèce, waiting in the snow to pay their respects to the dead prince. Celestine and Gauzia had left the convent at six in the morning to make their way to the cathedral before the crowds gathered. Since then they had endured an interminable wait in the cathedral vestry with the other musicians. The youngest choristers’ behavior soon began to deteriorate and, forgetful of the solemnity of the occasion, one initiated a farting game. The head chorister grabbed the offender by the ear and dragged him outside. From the ensuing yelps, Celestine guessed that punishment had been swiftly administered.

  “Little boys,” said Gauzia scathingly, and Celestine nodded, though she had been rather grateful for the distraction. She could not help but remember Rozenne’s funeral in the little chapel at Saint Azilia’s. Even though the cathedral of Saint Eustache was so vast and austere, she was sure she could sense similar thoughts emanating from the mourners: a young life, so full of promise, cut short before its time.

  I wasn’t able to sing for you then, Rozenne. But I’ll do it today. As well as for the young prince.

  When at length the signal came from the priests that the royal family had arrived, Celestine and Gauzia stood up to process in behind the choristers. Celestine was almost numb with cold and the boredom of waiting. She just wanted the ordeal to be over. The sight of one of the lay clerks clipping an errant chorister around the ear for chattering as they entered the nave only increased her sense of dislocation. They moved slowly down the side aisle to the steady rhythm of a solemn organ prelude. Then as they turned, she saw the prince’s catafalque before the altar, the coffi
n draped with the blue-and-gold flag of Francia, and her heart seemed to miss a beat. In front of her, Gauzia’s tread faltered.

  Henri de Joyeuse came out from the choir stalls, ready to conduct the choristers as they approached. The boys’ voices soared up into the shadowy heights of the nave, sounding, in spite of their earlier behavior, like a chorus of angels. Celestine, watching the Maistre’s face as he conducted, suddenly felt comforted by his presence. His calm expression mirrored the mood of the music; he mouthed the shapes of the words to his young charges, who now sang their hearts out, their eyes soulful and yearning. His hands, as they shaped the phrases, moved gracefully, sinuously.

  The chilly cathedral was filled with little braziers, glowing with coals sprinkled with grains of pungent incense, filling the cold air with blue wisps of twisting smoke. As the priests intoned the words of the service, Celestine became aware of the responsibility she was carrying. If she made a mistake, she would ruin the Maistre’s composition and possibly his reputation. Worst of all, she would besmirch this final, heartfelt tribute to Prince Aubrey. Her stomach began to churn with anxiety.

  She had never sung in such a vast space before and as she took in a breath, listening for her cue, she wondered if her voice would be too weak to carry to the congregation. The notes of the introduction, high, like distant morning birdsong, issued from the organ pipes. Beside her, Gauzia raised her head to watch the Maistre. The words chosen by Queen Aliénor from the writings of the poet-prophet Mhir took on a new significance as Gauzia’s voice filled the cold air.