by Sarah Ash
“My mother is calling it a spring banquet,” Adèle said to Celestine, showing her the list of guests, “but it’s really a marriage market at which I am to be sold off to the highest bidder.”
Celestine scanned the list and her eyes widened. “You want me to sing before all these eminent people? Wouldn’t it be better to ask a well-known diva, like Aurélie Carnelian?”
“I want you, Celestine.” Adèle put her hands on Celestine’s shoulders, gazing candidly into her eyes, and Celestine blushed. “Besides, who else can I discuss my mother’s choice of suitors with? None of my ladies-in-waiting dare tell me what they really think; they’re all too scared of Maman. I’m sure that she lines them up in front of her and makes them learn by heart exactly what she wants them to say to me.”
Celestine was much relieved to hear that Adèle preferred her to the Divine Aurélie.
“If only Papa could have lived a little longer. I’m almost certain he didn’t favor an alliance with Allegonde.” Adèle’s hands dropped back to her sides. For a moment she looked vulnerable and bereft. “But now that he’s gone…”
The realization that Adèle was still grieving for her father stirred bitter memories for Celestine. “Do you miss him very much?”
“Do I miss him?” Adèle went to a little ebony-framed portrait of the king and picked it up, staring at it. “I’m not sure if I ever truly loved my father. I respected him…but he was not an easy man to love. When Enguerrand and I were little, we hardly ever saw him. He was always so busy.” She carefully replaced the portrait. “Aubrey was his favorite. But strangely enough, I never hated Aubrey for it. I was…grateful to him, I suppose, for keeping Papa from interfering in our daily lives. And now they’re both gone.”
“Congratulations, Celestine.” The Maistre looked up from Princess Adèle’s invitation and smiled at her.
She looked away, biting her lip. The warmth in his grey eyes almost melted her resolve. How can you look at me like that when you’re Aurélie Carnelian’s lover?
“This could be the making of you. This could lead to many invitations to sing abroad. Let’s review your repertoire, shall we?”
Helplessly, she felt herself being seduced all over again by his charm. In spite of her determination to stay aloof, she found that she had drawn nearer to him, looking over his shoulder as he flicked through a sheaf of songs, picking some, discarding others. “I see that the princess has marked ‘Spring Moon’ as one of her favorites; I’m flattered that she likes it—and so should you be, as I wrote it for you.”
He turned and gazed into her eyes.
“F—for me?” Why had he chosen this moment to tell her? She gazed mutely back at him, unable to find words to express how moved she felt.
“When it’s published, it will bear a dedication to you.”
“It’s to be published?” She was utterly confused now; did this mean that he might have feelings for her? Or did he just dedicate each piece that he wrote to its first performer?
Celestine glared at the Maistre’s new song, “October Seas.” Why was it proving such a trial? The poem, by Muscobite poet Solovei, was deceptively simple; it recorded the impressions of a lone woman going to the seashore every day and gazing out into the autumn fogs for a glimpse of her lover’s ship returning to harbor. “In vain” was the refrain of the last verse, “I wait in vain.”
“All the Muscobite poets seem to relish gloomy subjects,” the Maistre had said to her with a glint of a mischievous smile in his eyes as he handed her the music. “It must be because they’re too far north to see much of the sun.”
Since then, Celestine had been struggling to find the right way to convey the song’s subtle melancholy. When she concentrated on refining the purity of her tone, aiming to let the words speak for themselves, it sounded too detached. And when she tried to interpret what lay behind the words, she got in a muddle.
“Is her lover dead?” she asked, perplexed. “Or does she think he’s dead?”
“There are many possible readings.” The Maistre looked up at her from the keyboard. “But you must find the one that unlocks the music for you. It’s all to do with…love.”
Love. She felt an involuntary shiver go through her. “On the far horizon—” she began, and broke off. This phrase was especially challenging as it skipped over the break in her voice. She took a breath and tried again. It was like trying to crest a high wave; each time she struggled, she fell back, floundering.
The Maistre left the fortepiano and came to stand close behind her, placing his hands on her diaphragm.
“Breathing. Control,” he said softly into her ear, one of his favorite phrases. “Push against my fingers as you release those notes. Slowly. Don’t strain. Let it sound effortless.”
She drew in a breath, then let the notes float out. All she was aware of was the firm pressure of his hands on her waist and rib cage. He’s holding me. I can feel his breath warm on my cheek…
“Now try it again by yourself.”
He moved away from her, smiling encouragingly. Flustered, she tried to collect her thoughts. She reminded herself that he was merely instructing her, as he instructed his other pupils, young men as well as girls…
“Perhaps we’d better substitute another song,” the Maistre said at length. “Perhaps you’re not ready to sing this one.”
Not ready? What had he meant by that? Aurélie had put it more bluntly, calling her an inexperienced child.
And now she lay sleepless, restless with longing, unable to forget what it felt like to be pressed against his firm frame, to sense the steady beat of his heart so close to her own…
It was all to do with love.
Was he implying that she could not sing the song with true understanding until she had made love? She felt her cheeks burning. But what did love mean to him? Was it possible for two people to love one another deeply, chastely, and never surrender to the sins of the flesh? All she knew was that every time she was with him, life seemed so much more vivid and intense. She longed for him to touch her, kiss her…and yet she also feared where such intimate contact might lead. The girls had frequently been warned at the convent about men and their importunate needs and desires. If she were to surrender to the strength of her feelings, she feared that she would lose all control.
But he is Aurélie’s, and can never be mine…
In the first dawnlight, she found herself opening her father’s book. For a brief moment she glimpsed the names of holy saints, then the printed text blurred, re-forming to reveal the spells and glamours hidden within. Flicking desperately through the faded pages, she searched for a cure for the unassuageable ache in her heart.
“What are you looking for?” The Faie was gazing over her shoulder, translucent eyes wide and curious.
“A remedy,” Celestine muttered angrily, “to cure a broken heart.” Or to remove a spiteful rival. Even though she had not spoken aloud, the pages fell open at a potion that claimed to cause youthful bloom to fade and wither. Tempted, she lingered over the words, wondering if the spell would work…
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Because the Maistre matters to me more than anyone else.” She clapped her hands to her mouth. She had said it aloud.
“More than your father?”
“That’s different!” Even though the Faie had asked the question without any expression or insinuation, Celestine heard the unspoken reminder.
I have a duty to Papa…
“Are you feeling well, Celestine?” the Maistre asked. “You look pale.”
Why did he have to speak so sympathetically? One kind look from his soft grey eyes and she was quite undone. “I—I didn’t sleep well. The birds woke me early,” she lied. If you only knew why I couldn’t sleep, Maistre…
He played a few bars and she recognized the introduction to “October Seas,” as gently repetitive as the wash of the tide on the seashore in the bay below Saint Azilia’s. She closed her eyes, remembering standing on the head
land, gazing out across the grey sea. Before she realized what she was doing, she had sung the first phrase, letting the notes float into the misty horizon conjured from her memories. The Maistre continued playing, so she continued to sing, caught up in the notes’ desolate spell.
“In vain,” she sang. “In vain…” The last note faded away. She opened her eyes, awakening from the trance, to see the Maistre had risen from the fortepiano.
“When did you learn to sing it like that?”
She could not even stammer out a reply.
“Only yesterday I was thinking of removing it from the program.” He was speaking so fast in his excitement that she couldn’t quite catch all his words. “And now you’ve managed to capture exactly that elusive quality of melancholy I was striving for.”
His approval meant more to her than any amount of applause. And even though he could never be hers, at least she had the bittersweet pleasure of knowing that she had brought his song to vivid and poignant life.
“The time has come, Celestine, for you to choose.” The Mother Superior fixed Celestine with a stare so penetratingly severe that she began to tremble. “The sisters and I have tolerated your frequent absences from the daily services long enough. I have a letter here from Abbess Ermengarde asking me to take in one of the novices, Margaud, from Saint Azilia’s. She has a genuine vocation and is eager to take the veil.”
Celestine nodded, remembering Margaud, a solemn girl, two year’s her junior, with a sweet alto voice. She guessed where this discussion was leading.
“We have little enough room to accommodate our own sisters here. And we survive on the charity of our benefactors. But you are eighteen years of age. You must decide, Celestine. Do you intend to dedicate your life to God?”
Gauzia had not given the matter a second’s thought—but then, she had never pretended to have any kind of spiritual vocation. She had been sent to Saint Azilia’s against her will. But Celestine had begun to agonize over the decision.
The sisters took me in and cared for me when I was orphaned. But if I leave, I’ll be out on the streets again. I have no money, no family, nowhere to go.
“The very fact that you’re hesitating just confirms what I’ve suspected for quite a while; you don’t belong here.” There was a sour hint of triumph in the Mother Superior’s stern voice.
“I’m very grateful to the convent for all that you’ve done for me,” Celestine burst out. “But if you’re saying that I must give up my performing career, then I’m just not prepared to do that.”
“Celestine must stay here, mustn’t she, Henri?” Dame Elmire declared as she poured tea for her nephew. “We can’t have the poor girl wandering the streets.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t possibly…” Celestine heard herself say and was not entirely sure why she was arguing so forcibly against Dame Elmire’s suggestion. The thought of living so close to the Maistre was both seductively attractive and disturbing.
“Nonsense!” said Dame Elmire briskly. “There’s Gauzia’s room.”
“Isn’t Gauzia coming back?”
“Why would she want to?” A knowing smile appeared on Dame Elmire’s face. “She has her freedom, living with her fellow ingénues near the Opera.”
“I’ll do housework. And I want you to have any money I make from performing.” Celestine felt her eyes brimming with tears of gratitude. “I can’t board here for free, Dame Elmire.”
Dame Elmire thrust a broom into her hands. “If you’re not afraid of a few spiders, then you can start straightaway.”
The little trunk Celestine had brought with her from Saint Azilia’s lay open on the bed as she carefully folded her few clothes and laid them inside. She was required to leave behind her novice’s gowns and linen; they would be washed and handed on to her replacement, Margaud.
There came a discreet tap at the door and Angelique came in.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving us,” she said.
“Mère Apolline said I must choose.” Celestine continued to pack, not wanting to meet Angelique’s eyes.
“And you chose Henri de Joyeuse.”
Why did I choose to stay close to him, knowing he can never be mine? “There are things I have to do. Things I can’t accomplish if I stay here, safe inside the convent walls.” Still she could not look at Angelique. As she struggled to fasten the strap tight around the battered leather, she felt Angelique’s arms go around her.
“There’s a shadow haunting you, isn’t there? Ever since that first day I saw you in the Skylarks’ dormitory, I’ve known. Maybe it’s what makes your singing so poignant.”
“Oh, Angelique, if only I could tell you…” Celestine closed her eyes a moment, longing to share the burden of her past. Yet if Angelique knew that she was an alchymist’s child, would she still treat her so fondly?
“Take care. And if ever you need to confide in anyone…well, you know where to find me.” Angelique kissed the top of her head and, unlacing her arms, hurried away.
The note, emblazoned with the royal crest, read:
Please wear this for the recital. It should fit, as my maid is certain that you and I are almost exactly the same size.
Your affectionate friend, Adèle.
Celestine carefully lifted the silken dress from its wrappings and held it up against her.
“The princess has an excellent eye for color!” exclaimed Dame Elmire, clasping her hands together in delight. “That deep hyacinth blue complements your eyes perfectly.”
Celestine had never received so costly a gift before; she stroked the softly shimmering material, holding it up to her cheek. “How can I ever thank her?”
“By giving the best performance of your life, my dear.”
Celestine gulped. Suddenly she felt overwhelmed by nerves. “I have butterflies,” she admitted, pressing a hand against her breast.
“I would be worried if you didn’t feel a little apprehensive.” Dame Elmire helped her fold the silk dress. “I mistrust any performer who boasts that they never feel nervous. Such musicians rarely give a memorable performance—or they are consummate liars.”
“Well? How does she look, Henri?” asked Dame Elmire as Celestine came down the stair. The dress was so light that she felt as if she were floating down on a cloud.
The Maistre was sorting through his music on the hall table. Celestine was sure that he would glance up, nod abstractedly, and go back to his sorting. But instead he let the sheets of music slide. He was gazing at her, almost as if seeing her for the first time. When he spoke, he stammered. “Ce—Celestine. You look…lovely.” And then as she hastily bent to retrieve the scattered sheets, he said swiftly, “Forgive me. That must sound so lame. I never meant…”
“Let me help.” Celestine darted forward and dipped down to hand him the pages she had rescued. His fingers gently grazed hers as he took the music, and she felt herself shivering at his touch. She gazed into his eyes and saw a look so intimate, so intense, that it seemed to strip away all her defenses, laying bare her innermost feelings.
“The carriage is waiting,” said Dame Elmire, “and it really wouldn’t do to be late for this recital!”
The Salle des Chevaliers was one of the most impressive halls in the Palace of Plaisaunces. The wooden beams of the ornate plaster ceiling were intricately painted in the style of the previous century, with white and golden lilies and fire-breathing salamanders, the emblems of the royal household. Embroidered banners hung from every beam, displaying the arms of the duchies of Francia: Provença; Armel; Vasconie. The walls were hung with crossed swords and spears, battle trophies from ancient Francian victories.
“Not the most intimate of rooms for a recital,” said the Maistre, testing the tuning of the fortepiano. He took out a little tuning key and started tightening the upper strings, the sound echoing high into the vaults of the ceiling.
“And there are so many extra guards on duty around the palace tonight,” murmured Celestine, as the heavily armed soldiers standing in every d
oorway shuffled and coughed.
“With half the crowned heads of the quadrant here tonight, they’re taking no chances.”
The great doors at the rear of the hall were pushed open, and the courtiers thronged in, all talking loudly. Odors of herb-roasted meat and rich wine wafted in from the banqueting hall beyond.
“It sounds as if they’ve all dined well,” said the Maistre with an ironic lift of one brow. “Let’s hope half of them don’t sleep it off during our recital.”
“His majesty, the king,” announced a herald.
The whole company fell silent as King Enguerrand entered the Salle des Chevaliers. Queen Aliénor, somberly dressed in black-and-silver brocade, swept through the bowing guests toward her seat, looking straight ahead until she saw the Allegondan guests. Only then did a chilly smile of welcome appear on her face as she greeted Prince Ilsevir and gestured to him to sit beside her. Celestine, head lowered in a respectful curtsy, caught sight of Adèle’s resigned expression as she sat down on the gilded fauteuil beside her mother. Where, Celestine wondered, was the young Muscobar prince and his entourage? King Enguerrand kept glancing around anxiously, as though searching for someone.
The murmur of conversation in the room ceased. Celestine realized that all the guests were looking expectantly at her, and her mouth went dry. She sent a swift, desperate glance to the Maistre. He looked over the top of the open music on the fortepiano and smiled at her. And suddenly she knew, in her heart, that she had no reason to be afraid. She managed a shaky little smile in return and slowly inclined her head—the signal they had agreed for him to start to play.