On the Isle of Sound and Wonder

by Alyson Grauer

  “I thank you for your interest, but I should go,” said the midwife, bobbing a little curtsey and turning for the door.

  “Wait, please—”

  “Thank you, my lord, but I—”

  The midwife heard the shift of the air as something came hurtling toward her. Instinctively, she turned back and brought the staff over her face in an upward slash, as swiftly and effortlessly as if it were a part of her own body. A crack of energy erupted from it and deflected the flying object, shattering it into pieces. The midwife looked down; it had been a teacup. Not a dagger, not an arrow, but a simple china teacup, now broken on the floor. She looked at the duke, who was still holding the book, his eyes bright and fixed rapturously on her staff.

  “Just a midwife,” he echoed. “Of course.”

  She narrowed her gaze, willing her thundering heart to slow. “I am no alchemist,” she repeated firmly.

  “No,” he said, with a smile of something like relief. “But you are much more than a midwife. Please.” He took a step toward her. “Teach me. I want to learn.”

  “And if I refuse you?”

  His smile did not falter, but his eyes were cold and bright. “I can be very charming. Persuasive, even.”

  The midwife did not like those words, but she feared being driven from the city as she had from other cities in the past. She was wary of the look in his eye. “What will the duchess say of someone like me, teaching someone like you?” she asked in a low voice.

  The duke gave a boyish shrug. “She is with child. There is only one thing in her mind now, and that is the birth. When the child is born, we will worry what she thinks. For now, we won’t tell her. Do we have a deal?” He extended one hand to her.

  “I don’t know much,” protested the midwife meekly one last time.

  “Anything at all would be a great help to me,” he assured.

  With a slow exhalation, she reluctantly clasped the duke’s hand.

  “Excellent. Oh, wonderful. What is your name, midwife?” he asked, beaming as they shook hands.

  “Corvina, my lord,” she answered, knowing the cause was lost.

  “Please, when we are at our studies, you must call me Dante,” amended the Duke gallantly, letting go of her hand. “So. Corvina, then. I should have guessed. A raven’s name, to match your fine, dark skin.” The duke closed his book thoughtfully and smiled at her as happily as any schoolboy. “And your clever mind, as well. They pick locks, you know—ravens do. And they can use stones to open nuts. Excellent problem solvers. As I hope you shall be to me, Corvina.” He moved around the work table and glanced back at her. “Please, do not look so cornered. I don’t intend to tame a wild thing.” She stared back at him, but his smile was steady. “I simply wish to learn from you as much as you’ll teach me. In friendship and all respect, I assure you.”

  The midwife lowered her head. “Of course,” she replied, though she could not quell the uneasiness in her stomach. “In friendship and all respect.”

  * * *

  The lightning flashed again, striking a tall spire nearby as Corvina crested the tallest hill in the town. She ducked lower as it cracked, fighting to keep moving forward and upward. She could see the gates of the palace; they were not far, now. It had been the longest hour of her life, trapped in the unyielding downpour on merciless hills. No wonder she was the only soul about the streets tonight; the storm bellowed all around her and made her progress seem futile.

  But the word had come from the tin birds: the duchess was in labor, and she would have to come. She would have written back demanding an escort, some kind of assistance to reach the palace in this terrible weather, but the bird had collapsed after delivering the duke’s orders. So, it was on foot that she climbed and struggled through mud.

  She could see the outline of the mechanical birds perched on the wrought iron gate of the palazzo, each bearing the national crest on their breasts, their heads cocked at varying angles to observe the streets and the city below. She was closer now, within reach, and could see the lights burning brightly within the palace windows.

  The midwife hit a loose stone in the street and went down hard. Her staff clattered away from her, and any part of her that wasn’t already wet immediately soaked through to the skin. She pushed herself upright, ignoring the ringing in her ears and the searing pain in her bones from the fall, and scrambled after the staff before it was swept away by rainwater. She pulled it back to her, coughing and spitting, and looked up toward the birds, wondering if they—and through them, the guards—had seen her. The metal animals were motionless. She lurched to her feet, exhausted, and pressed onward.

  When she reached the tall iron gates, she sagged against them, grasping a bar with her free hand, the other still numbly clinging to the twisted staff. She craned her head back to look up at the birds and yanked on the gate weakly.

  “Let me in!” she croaked against the storm’s howl. “The duchess . . . The baby is coming! I am the midwife!”

  The birds did not move.

  “Let me in,” the midwife begged, shaking the iron bars again. The metallic fowl rattled in place but did not turn to look at her. “Please, I have to help the duchess . . . I cannot fail them . . .”

  * * *

  The lessons with the duke had taken place in perfect tandem to the midwife’s caretaking of the duchess and her unborn child. While her belly grew rounder and fuller, her husband learned how to make fire, summon air, and shape water and earth to his will. Small things at first, like making plants grow and bringing water and fire to his aid in little, useful ways; but much to the midwife’s surprise, he was as he promised: an eager, voracious student.

  More quickly than his teacher was prepared for, the duke mastered complex spells and incantations, beyond what even she was used to performing on a regular basis. She hadn’t lied that her experience was limited, that her own knowledge of her gifts was primitive, but he had done extraordinary research for many years before finally crossing paths with someone who could teach him to synthesize the information he’d gathered. The midwife felt something uneasy growing within her in conjunction with their lessons, not unlike the infant growing in the duchess’ womb.

  Several weeks prior, she had been leaving the palace to return to her home, and the duke had seen her to the door, where the hired tram would take her to the outer reaches of the city.

  “Thank you for your guidance, good-mother,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. She glanced at him as the mechanical driver halted the trolley before the steps. “You are such a valuable resource and a great comfort, as ever.”

  The midwife curtsied. “Try to get some rest, my lord. Your wife will need you in top shape when the time comes. You must be strong, and stay awake, if the birth goes long into the night.”

  The duke smiled widely. “Oh, yes,” he chuckled. “I shall be sure to rest up. And you, good-mother, you must also keep up your strength.”

  “I’ll be fine, thank you,” she muttered, turning away.

  His hand closed like a vise-grip on her elbow, stopping her sharply. “You will not fail us, will you? We’re both depending on you, Corvina. For different reasons, of course. You will be greatly rewarded for our mutual success. But, of course, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, my lord,” she breathed. “I understand.”

  “And you also understand what is likely to happen if you fail us?”

  The midwife was silent. He released her, letting his hand run along the back of her arm as he did. Snake, thought the midwife. The duke chuckled and stepped back.

  “Of course,” he smiled. “You’re a very clever raven.” He turned to enter the palazzo and the midwife descended the stair, climbed into the trundling motorized trolley, and let the mechanical servant drive her to the edge of town.

  * * *

  The midwife sank against the gate, her breaths strained and desperate, the exhaustion from the hike almost too much to bear.

  “You have to let me in,” she cried, ban
ging the staff against the gate. It resonated with an unusually deep clang, deeper than it should have been. She glanced anxiously at the knotted head of the staff. The last time she had allowed the staff to sing with purpose had been the last time she’d been forced into exile. She swallowed the fear and old bruises and drew herself upright again, leaning on the gate for a moment before stepping back to get a good look at it.

  “I swore to protect that mother and that child,” she muttered, “and you’ll have to let me in before I’m too late.”

  The midwife hauled the staff back and slammed it against the gates. With a monastic gong, the gates exploded inward, the tin birds falling to the ground as easily as apples from a tree. Rejuvenated by the sudden surge of magic, the midwife hurried through the gates up to the palace door and, finding no one outside to admit her, repeated the process.

  The gong sounded again, shuddering in her bones as it did in the fancy window panes of the palazzo, and the door flew inward on its shrieking hinges. She burst into the foyer, a wild, half-drowned ghost, terrifying servants both flesh and metallic.

  In the duchess’ chambers, the lady herself was indeed in the throes of labor. Several chambermaids fretted over her with cool rags. The duke himself paced in the anteroom.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded, white-faced. His boyish confidence and sly manner of the past months were gone. “She’s in pain!”

  The midwife flung a hand at him and twisted her fingers in a strange gesture. His mouth clamped shut and he made a muffled exclamation, unable to part his lips. “Shush,” she said, her hair wild and wet, her eyes bright. “I am here. Now, go,” she added loftily, twirling her hand at him. The duke did an about-face and left the room. She went to the duchess and slid her cold, damp hand into the moaning woman’s hot, fevered one. “Sophia, my lady, I am here.”

  “Oh,” Sophia groaned, grasping her hand in joy and terror. “My baby . . . I have had such dreams, again. I fear these visions!” Her eyes fluttered closed again, her brow furrowing. “My belly was filled with dark clouds, a cold wind, and flashes of lightning . . . I dreamed that my baby will be taken from me.”

  “Sweet lady, do not speak of it,” the midwife soothed. “There is no time; we must work.” She glanced back, but the servants did not appear to have heard the duchess’ mumblings.

  “I have dreamed that there is no baby,” whispered the duchess, “and that there is nothing within me but a tempest!”

  “Sophia, be calm,” ordered the midwife. “I am here, now. You must breathe much, much deeper than that if you want to bring this baby to the light. Now, breathe!”

  She made another gesture, soft palm and open fingers spreading even wider, and the duchess sucked in a deep breath, exhaling in a loud intonation of pain.

  “Good! Again!” The midwife gestured, the duchess breathed again, and the chambermaids cowered against the walls, praying helplessly under their breaths, unable to tear their eyes from the scene.

  “Go see to the duke,” ordered the midwife, annoyed by the maids’ mumbling. When they hesitated, she slammed the staff against the marble floor and sent cracklings of electricity and cold air throughout the room, snapping at their clothes and hair. They shrieked and scattered like mice, racing out of the chamber, the door slamming behind them.

  The duchess breathed and cried out in pain, and the midwife began to speak in soothing, foreign words that overlapped and swirled about the room like the tide coming in to the shore.

  * * *

  In the antechamber, the duke and the maids stared at the closed door. From time to time, lights of varying colors would flicker out from beneath the doorframe. The duchess would scream in pain, or the midwife would sing strange scraps of melodies in peculiar tones. The duke fidgeted, ill to his stomach to hear his wife in so much torment, but paralyzed, unable to do anything to help.

  Hours passed, and the duchess’ crying died down into quiet, shuddering moans and mewls of agony. All the while, the midwife sang and chanted and hummed and spoke, though never in a tongue any of them recognized. After a time, the storm passed, and the rain slowed, finally stopping.

  The duke had fallen asleep and the maids had disappeared into the palace when the door finally opened. It swung outward, seemingly of its own accord, but the groan of the hinges startled the sleeping duke, who scrambled to his feet and lunged into the room.

  The duchess lay on the bed, her eyes wide and staring at the ceiling, her hair fanned out about her on the pillows; there was a look of utter wonder and love on her face. The sweat was still damp on her brow, but she no longer breathed or blinked.

  He could not take his eyes off of her, his beautiful Sophia, perfectly suspended in a moment of joy, perfectly still.

  There was a peculiar silence in the room as he stared at his dead wife. The midwife crouched in the corner, rocking back and forth, humming tunelessly.

  Finally the duke looked to her and saw that she held something in her arms—the baby. Had the baby died, too?

  “What . . . happened,” he managed to say at last, his voice low and very dry.

  “Shhhhh,” breathed the midwife, and at first he was not sure she had heard his question. He took a step toward her. “Shhh,” said the midwife again, lifting her head, her eyes the same pale, sky-blue they had always been, startling against her dark, shadow-cool skin.

  The infant in her arms was as bright as a star, as pale as the moon that haunted the sky somewhere beyond the storm clouds. It was small, premature, but sturdy-looking in spite of that, with a swath of dark hair across its round head.

  The duke was numb, his breath shallow as he stared.

  “I have never lost a child yet,” said the midwife, after a long pause.

  “It’s alive?” he heard himself say. The little thing was so small, he couldn’t see it breathe.

  The midwife nodded, slowly rising to her feet, shifting the small, bright child in her arms as she wrapped it in one of the blankets from the bed. It was the first time the duke had ever seen the midwife without her staff. The gnarled stick leaned against the bed post, just barely within arm’s reach from where she knelt.

  “This is your daughter,” she murmured, looking at the duke with a strangely distant, peaceful expression.

  His heart pounded. “My daughter. But Sophia—”

  The dark woman shook her head. “Your daughter was too strong for her. It happens sometimes. Your wife’s spirit is in her now,” she added.

  The duke said nothing. He moved to the door and pulled the bell rope to call the maids again. One of them arrived, gasping when she saw the corpse.

  “Please take my daughter to the wet nurse,” he said quietly. The midwife shifted the baby gently into the maid’s arms even as the poor girl began to weep. She scurried out, sniffling over the little girl in the blanket. The duke moved toward the bed, gazing at the cold, still body of his wife.

  The midwife leaned against the window, the rain-hammered glass cool and soothing against her skin. She was exhausted; she felt her eyes flutter shut.

  “You did everything you could?” asked the duke quietly from across the room.

  “Of course I did,” said the midwife tiredly. “Your daughter lives, my lord. Be thankful, at least, for that much.”

  “Yes, of course. But you did at least try to save my wife, didn’t you, Corvina?”

  She looked at him sharply, but he still stared sadly at his wife. “Of course I did,” repeated the midwife firmly. “I am sorry, my lord.”

  “Yes,” he murmured dazedly. “Yes, I’m sure you are.”

  There was a pause, and the midwife’s palm itched for the staff. She made as though to retrieve it, but quicker than she could blink, it was gone, and she turned in time to see it snap comfortably to the duke’s palm. He closed his long fingers around it slowly.

  “My lord,” said the midwife, startled. “May . . . I have my staff, please?”

  “I did try to tell you, didn’t I?” muttered the duke, still looking at
his dead wife. “I did. I asked you for very simple things, Corvina, and yet, you gave me nothing . . .”

  “Nothing?” echoed the midwife, staring at him. “Nothing? I taught you everything you wanted to know.”

  “You gave me nothing,” he repeated, slowly turning to look at her. “Nothing but psychorrax. Heartbreak. You have broken my heart, midwife. And I warned you. Now, I will break yours.”

  Psychorrax. They had screamed that at her in Greccia, when the power of her staff had caused the string of events that led to her exile. She had done nothing but defend herself, but the staff’s magic was unpredictable, and many men had died in the events that followed. The women had thrown stones at her and screamed heartbreak. Psychorrax!

  “No, please, please, my lord, this is not my doing. This is not my work!” The duke advanced on her. “My lord, mercy!”

  “My wife is dead,” he replied, oddly cool, his hand squeezing the gnarled wood over and over. “I have no mercy left to give.”

  The staff came down hard, and Corvina fell into darkness.

  1873

  A bell rang loudly somewhere above decks as Ferran exhaled the breath he’d been holding and smoothed his palms down his shirtfront.

  Okay, you’ve got this, he told himself. You can do this. You’ve practiced and you’re ready.

  He shut the door of the wardrobe, and the lamplight of the small but luxurious cabin caught the mirrored glass on the outside of the wood paneling as he turned to face his reflection.

  Nothing to be nervous about.

  At eighteen, dressing for dinner was an automated process for him, and it had been years since he required a team of trained valets to wrestle him into various fabrics and fits of proper clothes. He tugged his shirt collar upright to loop the dark green silk around the back of his neck and down the front again.

  The knot is just the icing on the cake. If I look just right, Father will believe that I can take care of myself, and he might let me go.