“A charm?” Aurelia asked, aware that she was blinking stupidly. She was outraged at the notion that bubbled up within her. “You know?”
“I do. And you must be a magician, too, or he would not trust you so deeply.”
“Why?” Aurelia demanded, feeling as though she had been stripped naked. “Why would he tell you? It puts him and me in terrible danger!”
“We serve the same causes, Mlle. Degard, those of truth and our beloved France,” Mme. Goltier said, folding her hands around Aurelia’s. “And I swear to you, mademoiselle, I am in as grave a danger.”
“From whom?”
A subtle noise near the bottom of the stairs interrupted them. Someone was sniffing the air. Surprised at her own boldness, Aurelia took the older woman by the hand and dragged her into the dimly lit sanctuary. They hurried along the side illuminated by Sainte-Chapelle’s famous stained-glass windows and all but fell into a pew that was occupied only by an elderly woman in a black lace veil. Over her shoulder, Aurelia saw a man enter. He wore a dark suit and had a shock of untidy hair. The way he moved his head told her he was Mme. Goltier’s enemy. He must have been following her by her very distinctive perfume.
Her hand flew to her bag. Within it, she had vials of rare oils that M. Rupier wanted her to study. Not only were they important ingredients in perfumes, but they had magical properties.
The strongest-smelling was sandalwood, but she needed more than that to hide Mme. Goltier’s signature scent. Among the other bottles were lemongrass and sweet bay. Quickly, she dabbed drops of the heady attars onto her small, plain handkerchief and anointed the other woman’s wrists and throat with it, all the while praying fervently.
“Mother Marie, preserve your daughters. Give us the protection your beloved son wanted for all the world.”
She wished fervently at that moment that she had Alfonse’s talent for Earth Magic, that she could form a wall of power around them to keep harm away. Instead, she used her Air talent to draw the fragrances from the oils and mix them between her gloved hands. The fresh perfumes took on a life of their own, forming a cocoon around Mme. Goltier. In a moment, there was no trace of the musky aroma that was her signature scent. Aurelia tucked the bottles away, then pressed her hands together in grateful prayer. She had never done magic within the confines of a church before. So it was true, what M. Rupier said, that God condoned the use of her talents for good. The relief she felt was truncated by the appearance of the dark-coated man in the nearby aisle. He hid his large nose behind a handkerchief. Aurelia remarked that he looked like a foreigner, with dark brows oversized on his square face.
He stopped beside the two women. Mme. Goltier kept her face buried in her hands. He sniffed at the air, his large brows making him look severe. In her mind, Aurelia willed him to go, to go away! It seemed an eternity until he did. She whispered her gratitude to Heaven.
It was not Aurelia’s day for confession, so she would not have to tell the priest that she might be sheltering a criminal. She wanted to know more, but an extended conversation in the pews would cause an acolyte to come over and chastise them. Mme. Goltier did not move until the service was at an end. Both women crossed themselves and rose.
“Come with me,” Mme. Goltier said. “I need to write all I know as soon as is humanly possible.”
Aurelia tried to withdraw, but the other woman put her arm around her and pushed her in the direction that she wanted to go.
They crossed from the Ile to the south bank of the Seine, passing through the fourth arrondissement, into alleyways where Aurelia did not normally tread. Discreet bronze plaques announced government offices that she had never heard of.
“We are not walking toward your apartment,” Aurelia said. She had been there only that morning with the bottle of perfume. “Where are we going?”
The face that Mme. Goltier turned toward her bore no trace of the celebrity singer, only a frightened woman like herself. “Please, do not ask me in public. Only wait!”
They turned up a narrow passage and were admitted through a creaking black-painted iron gate by a man in a severe suit. Mme. Goltier did not speak to him, only urging Aurelia up flight after flight of stairs.
“Well?” inquired a nondescript man also in nondescript clothing, who occupied the office they finally entered at the top of the building.
“Well. Give me paper and pen!”
“Who is this?” he demanded, looking at Aurelia.
“A friend. A true friend.”
Aurelia was quite forgotten as Mme. Goltier threw herself into the chair before a battered desk illuminated by one of the newest of electric lights. The anonymous man supplied a ream of paper and a box of writing implements. The lady seized a pen and wrote out page after page after page of small, close writing. Aurelia could not believe that anyone could possibly have that much to say. No author could compose at such speed and make any sense. She sidled close to try and read over Mme. Goltier’s shoulder, but the man gently urged her back. He gestured her to a straight-backed chair against the wall. Aurelia sat, fearful even to move from the spot.
Hours passed before Mme. Goltier put down the pen and massaged her hand. She smiled at Aurelia.
“Is that all of it?” the man asked, gathering up the papers.
“Every word,” the lady said. She looked exhausted but certain.
“France thanks you, madame,” he said, with a bow, the first human gesture Aurelia had seen him make. “If only we could protect you.”
Mme. Goltier rose and straightened her back. She took a handkerchief from her bag and wiped away a trace of sheen from beneath her nose. “Then this is likely to be the last time we meet, my friend. I have no choice but to go tonight, perhaps to my death.”
The man dipped his head. “Your service is deeply appreciated, madame. Go with God.”
With head high, the lady walked toward the stairs. Aurelia scrambled to her feet, and raced after her.
“What did he mean, madame?” she asked, her whisper hissing in the stone stairwell. “Where are you going?”
Mme. Goltier stopped and put her finger under Aurelia’s chin. The strong fingers trembled slightly. “Where I must, child.”
“How can I help you?”
“You have already done as much as anyone could. More.”
“But what have I done?”
“You gave me safe haven when it was needed.” Mme. Goltier smiled. “Come back with me to my rooms. I would like to have my story known, even if only to you and your good master.”
Night was wrapping Paris in its dark blue cloak bespangled with gems of the new electric lights and stripes of the old gas lamps. Mme. Goltier did not hail a cab.
“Within the confines of a carriage or a car, who knows what could happen? We are safer on foot.”
Aurelia felt as if she would burst with curiosity. “Please, madame, safer from what? What were you writing?”
“What do you know of my life?” the lady countered, with a sideways glance at Aurelia.
The question caused her to stutter, holding back the scurrilous gossip that Alfonse and she had pored over in the society papers. “Well, madame, I know you are very famous. I have never heard you sing . . .”
Mme. Goltier waved a hand. “I know what you are not saying. It is true that I have found affection in the arms of a man not my husband. Many men, if I am frank. But what do you know of the dance of nations?”
“Nothing,” Aurelia said firmly. “We border with a few. Some are our enemies, and some are our friends . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“But none are always one or the other. They do not trust one another. Every subterfuge is employed to make a friendship, but we know it will not last. That is the normal human condition. We deceive to gain our ends.”
Aurelia was taken aback at such a negative view of the world.“I am sure that is not true.”
> “Oh, but it is,” Mme. Goltier said. “Your Master creates airs that deceive all the time. You are part of that deception. You cause men to believe that women are more appealing than they truly are.”
“Madame!”
The lady smiled but kept her gaze moving around the crowded street. “Oh, it is all for a good cause. The sexes must mix, or our race is doomed. But I was asked to make myself appealing—and available—to a certain man. The Count Boris Ouspeskiy. He is a very well-placed individual in the foreign service of the Tsar, the confidential assistant of Count Vladimir Lamsdorf, Foreign Secretary to His Highness.”
Such things were beyond Aurelia’s experience, but she could not help but ask. “Why are you not Count Vladimir’s friend?”
The lady shook her head, smiling. “He is not interested in me, or any woman, but his secret is kept for the sake of foreign relations. Count Boris loves a charming lady who resists only a little. I am only his woman here in Paris.”
“And Count Vladimir negotiates with France?”
“No. France is like the belle who attends the ball, but no one dances with her. While we woo Great Britain, so does Russia. If we are not to be shut out entirely from the party, we must know what is going on between them.”
“What did you write out?”
“A great treaty is being negotiated between Britain and Russia. Count Vladimir came here in secret, to confer with his opposite number from the Court of St. James in my apartment, since it was bought for me by Count Boris. But the draft treaty was kept locked in a private office maintained by the government of Russia. I gained access under pretext of waiting in its anteroom for my dear friend, then entering as soon as the clerk left for a short while. Thanks to the oil provided for me by your master, I was able to read it and memorize it, though the effect lasts only a short time. I brought that information, as you saw, to those they call my handlers, in the French foreign office. Fool that I am, I realized only too late that I should not have worn my personal scent on my quest. It is too distinctive! The clerk who pursued me is a servant of the Tsar. He did not see me, that I swear, but he scented me. That was enough. If I was detected in that office, where I had no business being, I would next be mentioned in the society papers as a corpse found floating in the Seine, my purse and valuables missing. So sad! The notorious singer a victim of yet another robbery by apaches or other cutpurses in the dangerous, mad city of Paris.”
Aurelia shivered. This was a world beyond the small village where she had been raised. They crossed the Boulevard Opera, heading toward the lady’s apartments.
“But he did not catch you. Soon he must go back to Russia with the Tsar. Can you not stay out of his way until then?”
“Alas, no. Tonight there will be a ball given by Count Boris. I will be his hostess. If I do not come, suspicion will fall on me. If I do,” she said, her head drooping on her lovely neck, “I probably will not survive.”
“But you will, madame,” Aurelia said, with determination. “Since you serve our nation, I will help you if I can. Where is this ball to be held?”
• • •
In her most exotic dreams, Aurelia never thought she would attend a grand gala. Men in black suits with stiff white collars and ties or a host of pristine military uniforms danced with ladies dressed like a cloud of butterflies, in all the colors of silk that the designers at Hermès had ever devised. All of them wore different perfumes, the scents of which clashed and bumped elbows like so many coster boys at a market.
Many women in modest black dresses like hers huddled in the retiring room, waiting attendance upon their employers, dabbing a brow, anointing a cheek with fresh rouge, buttoning gloves up to past their ladies’ elbows and reapplying more perfume as their ladies wished. Privacy was to be had only in the small dressing rooms along the rear wall. With her master’s name as bulwark and shield, Aurelia claimed one of these as her particular province and waited.
Mme. Goltier swept into the retiring room. Her dress was of her favorite deep green, the same color as absinthe. The neckline was so low as to be almost indecent, yet it was scarcely lower than those of the other ladies present. She wore fabulous jewels at her throat and wrists, twinkling like a whole galaxy of stars. A jeweled fan hung by a silken cord from one wrist. And she bore with her the scent that was familiar to thousands, the aroma that was forever Mme. Goltier, the brilliant singer and woman of questionable morals. Only a few knew for certain that her heart as true as a saint’s.
As they were her guests here, all the ladies in the retiring room greeted her from their chairs or couches. She returned the gestures grandly. Aurelia could only imagine how majestic she must be on the stage.
Spotting Aurelia, Mme. Goltier swept toward her, in no seeming hurry, but bustled into the tiny chamber that Aurelia indicated. Once the white-painted door was closed behind them, she lowered her rouged lips to the apprentice’s ear.
“My patron has arrived,” she whispered, “along with his employer and that man. What can you do? I do not wish these to be the last moments of my life.”
Aurelia felt shy, but now was not the time to be hesitant.
“I thought deeply about what you told me,” she said. “Your scent is so distinctive that no one who breathes it will ever forget it. That is M. Rupier’s magic. Therefore,” she continued, taking from her handbag a small bottle, “I made one similar, but it is meant to make one forget.”
“How? How can it work?” Mme. Goltier asked. “I bathe in the scent. I wear it to bed. It is in my skin, as is every sin I have ever committed.”
For answer, Aurelia brought forth another bottle and uncorked it. Hyr flowed out of it in a stream of blue mist, then assumed his usual boyish form.
“What, a genie?” Mme. Goltier exclaimed, her green eyes wide with wonder.
“He is a sylph, a spirit of Air, and my servant. Do what you can,” she instructed him.
“Oh, it will be easy!” Hyr trilled. “She always smells so good, I would adore to consume her scents.”
“Hush!” Aurelia commanded, glancing toward the door. She hoped the other ladies thought they were merely gossiping. But eager to please, Hyr flowed around the lady, surrounding her like a veil. When he withdrew, Aurelia leaned close, and sniffed.
“It is a miracle!” Mme. Goltier said, lifting her hand to her nose. “I smell of nothing, not even my own body.”
“That will allow this—this spell,” Aurelia stammered, hesitant to say the word outside the safety of M. Rupier’s workroom, “to function without impediment.”
She offered the small bottle and waited while Mme. Goltier anointed herself.
“It is very like my own scent. Did M. Rupier instruct you so?”
“He was not in the shop,” Aurelia admitted. “There was no time. I prepared this myself.”
Mme. Goltier smiled at her with an expression Aurelia believed to be admiration. “You have initiative and courage,” she said. “You could be a spy.”
“Heaven forbid!”
Mme. Goltier laughed. “What must I do now?”
“Touch the man’s skin,” Aurelia insisted. “And anyone else you feel is a danger to you. Then return to me.”
“What will it do?”
Aurelia smiled. “It will deceive. All who touch you while you wear it will forget everything they know about you.”
Mme. Goltier laughed again, a trifle ruefully. “A fresh slate. Perhaps I should shake hands with all of Paris.” She shook her head. “Ah, but no, I am too fond of my fame.” She extended her hand to touch Aurelia’s cheek, who withdrew in haste. “Yes, you must not forget me. Watch over me, my guardian angels.”
Aurelia opened the door for her and trailed her into the ballroom. Mme. Goltier sallied forth, her head high, and made straight for the handsome man in uniform who held out his hand in her direction. The lady was careful to avoid contact with him. She follows
instructions well, Aurelia thought. It must be how she avoids catastrophe in her secret life.
The handsome man, who must have been Count Boris, introduced her to the Tsar’s foreign secretary, Count Vladimir, a slight man in faultless evening dress. Mme. Goltier gathered her poison-green skirts in her hands and curtsied to him.
At the secretary’s side was the dangerous man with the thick black eyebrows. The dignitary made her known to the man, who bowed, then straightened in haste, his large nose working. He had recognized the lady’s scent. Aurelia’s heart pounded in her chest. The man tugged Count Vladimir’s sleeve.
But Mme. Goltier was quick. She reached out and shook the man’s hand, surprising him. Aurelia just caught her words in between the sawing of the violins and the polite chatter of the guests. “Sir, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
In a twinkling, the man’s face changed from anger and suspicion to the beguiled expression men normally wore when first beholding Mme. Goltier. He was, from that moment, her devoted servant, Aurelia could tell. He looked her up and down and was charmed by what he saw.
“And there goes his memory!” Hyr cackled in her ear.
“Hush!” Aurelia said, hoping no one else heard. The man began to bow over her hand, clicking his heels and talking rapidly. Aurelia could not hear him, but Mme. Goltier fluttered her fan as if embarrassed yet gratified by his outpourings.
The elegant party went on around the small group like eddies dividing around rocks in their path. After a time, Mme. Goltier curtsied deeply and begged to be excused, deftly escaping a move by Count Boris to touch her. Aurelia could read the pantomime. Mme. Goltier regretted her departure, but she would return in but the smallest of moments. She hurried back to the retiring room.
“Oh, I thought I would die of fright!” she burst out as soon as Aurelia closed the door behind them. “He said nothing! I am saved. Well done, child, well done! Now strip me of this potion, or Boris shall forget me, too. Someday I may use the scent to escape him, but not yet. I am too fond of my apartments.”
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