Rose 3: Rose and the Magician's Mask

by Webb, Holly

  Gus stared back balefully, his whiskers glittering. He was in an uncooperative mood as it was. He had been splashed in that rickety boat, and his dignity had not yet recovered. The romance of the journey over the inky waters had been lost on him entirely.

  ‘I’m so sorry to put you to such inconvenience, My Lord.’ Mr Fountain bowed rather haughtily.

  ‘Oh, no, no. No trouble at all. Gives the servants something to do, I suppose. Must apologise for the state of the house, that’s all. Not expecting guests. Sheets most likely damp. No flowers. Shocking.’

  Rose’s eyes had narrowed at the idea that this idiotic man’s servants might not have enough to do without unexpected guests, but as he waved a dismissive hand around his salon, she blinked in surprise. The room looked immaculate to her, and surely she ought to know. The arched windows were draped in velvet curtains, the kind which held the dust most dreadfully, and the ornate picture frames glimmered and shone in the candlelight. The room was spotless. Even the fire irons gleamed. At a second glance though, it was a strange, mixed-up place. The walls were covered in dark patterned silk, and lined with mirrors that reflected back the light from the absurd candelabra that grew out of them in rampant glass droplets, festooned withcrystal flowers. But between the enormous mirrors, thepaintings were all of bored-looking horses, in the mostEnglish-looking countryside imaginable. There was a portrait of a wolfhound, too, which bore a disconcerting resemblance to the ambassador.

  ‘Well. Tea. It is a little late, I know, but you must have tea, of course.’ Lord Lynton guided them to a delicate tea table, set with an enormous silver teapot, and delicate china cups, so thin they were almost transparent. ‘Do please pour.’ Lord Lynton waved a bony, languid hand at Rose, and she lookedround at Freddie in horror. But she supposed he was right. He didn’t know she was half a servant, and she was the oldest female present, so it was quite proper for her to pour the tea. She looked at it sadly as it trickled out of the silver pot. Thin, watery stuff, nothing like Mrs Jones’s strong black brew.

  ‘You didn’t by any chance bring any marmalade?’ Lord Lynton gracefully ignored Rose’s struggles with the enormous teapot, and let his eyeglass fall as he looked at them hopefully. ‘Enderby’s Orange Preserve? There’s a standing order at court, or there should be. I begged them to send it out with the official papers, but a jar broke over the Shipping and Trade Treaty a few years ago, and it caused the most unfortunate upset with the duke. Strange chap, doesn’t like oranges. Set us back a good couple of years, though really, the stains were hardly a problem. No one told you to bringany, then?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Mr Fountain shook his head.

  ‘Even the jam isn’t the same,’ the ambassador mourned. ‘I don’t know what they put in it. It just doesn’t taste right. How can you get raspberry jam wrong? I don’t understand it.’

  ‘Perhaps they poison it. I would,’ Freddie muttered to Rose, causing her to slop tea disgracefully into one of the saucers. She hastily poured it back in while no one was looking, and gave that one to Freddie. It wouldn’t do him any harm. Sarah in the kitchens did that to her tea on purpose, to cool it down.

  ‘How long have you been the British Ambassador?’ Mr Fountain asked, sipping his tea, and politely accepting a buttered scone from Rose. It was rather an odd shape.

  ‘Eleven years…’ Lord Lynton stared miserably at the cake stand, laden with decidedly foreign-looking pastries. Rose thought they looked delicious, but it was clear that the ambassador was craving seed cake, or something plain and wholesome and most definitely English.

  ‘Still, a most interesting posting!’ Mr Fountain attempted a cheerful tone, despite their host’s melancholy, which was somehow made worse by the candlelight dancing over the tightly shuttered windows. It was clear that the ambassador liked to shut away all sight of the watery city outside his little castle.

  ‘Barbaric people. Obsessed with magic and devils.’

  ‘Devils!’ Rose squeaked. No one had mentioned that.

  ‘Quite so.’ Lord Lynton peered at her through his eyeglass. ‘Not at all the place for gently reared young ladies,’ he added disapprovingly, inspecting her and Bella, and apparently deciding that perhaps they did fit into this category. Although he looked doubtful about Rose’s boots.

  Bella pinched Rose, and grinned an I-told-you-so grin, then smoothed Rose’s lace collar.

  ‘Things rise off the water, you know,’ he added. ‘Glooms. Spirits. The most unhealthy fluxes. How I have survived eleven years, I couldn’t say.’

  Mr Fountain nodded sympathetically. ‘Are you on good terms with the court, My Lord?’

  Rose looked up hopefully. Would they get to the plan now? Could they confide in Lord Lynton? Perhaps he even knew where Gossamer and Venn were staying. They only knew – or hoped – that the men were somewhere in Venice.

  ‘On such terms as I wish to be, with that gang of devil-worshipping merchantmen.’ Lord Lynton rang a small bell that stood next to his chair, and stared peevishly at the door until a black-coated servant appeared, carrying a lamb’s-wool wrap. ‘Ah. This is Francesco. My steward. He will help you with any questions you have about the place.’ His Lordshipswathed himself in the woollen shawl and sighed gratefully. ‘Pernicious cold. And the damp! It seeps right into my bones.’

  Rose watched him from behind the teapot, her eyes wide. There was something so absurd about this most fortunate man shutting himself away in a nest of wool and marmalade, and trying desperately to create England all over again inside these clammy rooms.

  *

  Rose woke the next day to a strange, clear, dancing light filling the room. Her immediate reaction was to panic – if it was light, it meant she was late, and should have been downstairs lighting the family’s fires an hour ago. Then she remembered where she was. In a beautifully carved wooden bed, in a grand bedroom, in the British Ambassador’s palazzo, in Venice. She sighed, still only half able to believe it. Tucked in a niche of the wooden carving, the china doll smiled down at her smugly, as though it approved of the change in their circumstances. Rose wondered for a moment if she should make the doll a new dress – a prettier one, so it didn’t look like a maid any more, either. She stroked the china hair lovingly.

  She ran an admiring hand over the silk coverlet that was rumpled around her, and snuggled further under it. Then she realised that actually the room was warm. She wriggled up on her elbows, an unstoppable laugh rising in her chest. Someone had lit the fire in her room. That, more than anything else – more than the ship’s officers calling her Miss, and Lord Lynton deciding she was a young lady, just about – made her realise how different things were now. A servant girl had crept into her bedroom, cleaned the grate, relaid the fire, lit it, and padded out again, all without Rose even opening one eye.

  A bossy little tapping sounded from somewhere behind her embroidered bed hangings, and Rose sat up. Perhaps she was late for something, after all? But then a small door hidden in the silk-panelled wall swung open, creaking, and Bella peeped through, still in her nightgown.

  ‘Can I come into bed with you?’ She was scrambling under Rose’s bedclothes before she’d even finished asking. ‘It’s chilly. I know Lord Lynton is rather odd, but he was right about the damp. Does this room have a balcony?’

  ‘I haven’t looked.’ Rose tried to see over to the window. She had opened the shutters the previous night, but had hardly been able to see anything, only a greasy black swirl of water. But the gentle lapping sound had rocked her in her dreams.

  ‘Mine does, but it’s too cold to stand out on it yet. We’re at the side of this house, but I could just see the canal. It’s full of boats already, all those curly black ones.’

  ‘Gondolas.’

  There was a scratching sound at the door, and a maid peered in with a silver jug on a tray. She had obviously already tried Bella’s room, as she nodded and smiled to see her, and there were two pale pink porcelain bowls next to the jug.

  ‘What is it?’ Rose whispe
red to Bella.

  ‘Chocolate. But with biscuits to dip in it, too. I like being abroad.’ Bella reached out for her bowl, and the maid practically purred. She kissed her hand to Bella as she backed out of the door.

  ‘Stop bewitching everybody, Bella, it isn’t fair.’

  ‘I can’t help it…’ Bella turned to stare at her with huge, beseeching blue eyes, and Rose’s mind felt strangely fuzzy.

  ‘Don’t!’ She shook herself angrily. ‘Don’t you dare.’

  ‘Well done.’ Bella sniggered. ‘I was trying really hard, too. You’re quite as strong as me, Rose, you just don’t think you are.’ She sipped the drink thoughtfully, licking away her chocolate moustache with a pointed pink tongue. ‘I do wonder who you are really. Magic doesn’t just happen. People like us spend years planning the best sort of marriages. Almost all the magical families are related to each other somehow.Freddie is quite a rarity, as his mama is not a magician. His family was rather inbred, you see, the most awful things happened to his Uncle Menander. They had to bring in new blood.’ Bella hissed the last words meaningfully. ‘So I simply can’t think how you ended up in that horrid orphanage.’

  Rose shivered. The warmth of the chocolate soakingthrough the china bowl only made her fingers feel colder. What on earth had happened to her parents? She was beginning to think that it must have been something dreadful.

  Lord Lynton did not put in an appearance at breakfast, so Mr Fountain and the children were able to discuss their plans, hushing themselves every time Francesco or the maids brought in another dish. Breakfast was the strangest combination of English and Venetian. Rose decided that she would not recommend that Mrs Jones imitated the kedgeree, which was made with something Mr Fountain thought might be octopus, instead of the usual smoked haddock. Rose mostly ate toast. She thought the raspberry jam was perfectly acceptable.

  ‘So Lord Lynton will take us to see the duke?’ Freddie asked, in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘No one can hear you,’ Gus pointed out. ‘We’re the only ones in the room, unless you think Gossamer has a spy concealed under the breakfast table.’ He reached out a claw to hook another piece of tentacle, and gulped at it enthusiastically. It hung over his mouth at the sides like a rubbery moustache.

  ‘Do you want mine?’ Freddie muttered, watching him disgustedly.

  ‘Later this morning.’ Mr Fountain nodded, magisterially ignoring Freddie. ‘Which is helpful. It could have been tricky to get an introduction otherwise, even with the king’s letters. Time-consuming, all that going through officials. Lynton says I should be able to talk to the duke directly. He thinks I’m mad of course, getting so upset about a mask.’

  ‘Didn’t you explain what it does?’ Rose asked.

  Mr Fountain shrugged. ‘No. I just said that it was valuable, and the king wants it back. I thought the truth might send Lynton into an apoplexy. The duke is a magician, at least, and should understand how important it is. More than anyone else would, I should think. Although…’ He trailed off, sighing.

  ‘You think he might be involved?’ Gus said rather thickly, through Freddie’s octopus kedgeree.

  ‘He could be. We just don’t know.’ He stirred his odd-coloured tea, watching it swirl. ‘What perplexes me is why the duke would want to mix himself up with Gossamer at all. Why is he letting him stay in the city? And I don’t see why he would allow anyone to use the stolen mask at the ritual. He must know its history, what it could do! No, there must be something we don’t see. We need to tread very, very carefully. We can’t just wade in and demand that the duke hands over Gossamer and the mask. What if he wants it back, for a start? There’s an argument that it should never have left the city in the first place. But I’m sure he must be aware that Gossamer is in the city. Any magician as powerful as the duke is supposed to be should have sensed Gossamer’s presence.’ He gave a delicate little shudder. ‘I can feel the blackguard. Smell him, almost. And the mask.’

  Rose nodded. She felt slightly sick, and she was sure it wasn’t because of the toast. They were getting closer.

  Despite being the most unfortunate choice for anambassador, Lord Lynton was at least dutiful. As Mr Fountain had said, he attended the duke’s palace every morning to exchange polite pleasantries, and flinch at all the magic, so obvious that even he couldn’t ignore it. He seemed mildly horrified at the thought of taking children with him to that morning’s audience with the duke, and he protested outright over Gus, but Mr Fountain waved the king’s letter of introduction at him, and he subsided. From then on, Gus made a point of sitting as close to Lord Lynton as possible, and purring excessively.

  ‘This is the Grand Canal,’ Lord Lynton explained, waving a hand gloomily as they glided towards the palace in an elaborately gilded and canopied gondola, which was the official carriage of the embassy. ‘The main waterway, you know. Would make a wonderful road, if only they’d fill it in.’

  Freddie snorted, and had to convert it hastily into a cough when His Lordship turned a horrified eye on him, lifting his eyeglass to examine him properly.

  ‘You see? Coughing already. Fluxes. And the noxious gases from the water. We’ll all be dead in days.’

  Even Mr Fountain had to stare very carefully at the church they were passing to hide his grin.

  As they approached it along the edge of the lagoon, the palace shimmered above a forest of mooring poles like a pinkish, painted cloud. Rose felt her stomach quivering as they were handed ceremoniously out of the gondola. She had been to the king’s palace at home, of course, but it had been strangely disappointing. Although it looked like a wedding cake, it had a strange sense of shallow but expensive grandeur, like gold foil over wood. Rose had been sure that a palace would feel more special. This palace, oddly fortress-like above its floating arches, sent out a waft of glorious, boastful enchantment. It promised to change the life of anyone who stepped inside.

  ‘She’s most dreadfully pale. It would be unfortunate if she were to be taken ill in front of the duke. Perhaps she should wait here with Francesco?’ Lord Lynton was peering down at her anxiously, like a mournful stork.

  ‘Oh no! No! I’m quite all right – it was only the sight of the palace… I shan’t disgrace us, sir, honestly!’ Rose turned away quickly to the water and pinched her cheeks to redden them up.

  ‘Artistic child, clearly. Just watch she doesn’t cast herself into the water. Is she poetic?’ Lord Lynton enquired, somehow implying that poetry might be catching.

  ‘Definitely not.’ Freddie smirked.

  At the top of the palace steps they were passed fromservant to servant through an endless string of grander and yet still grander rooms, all gilded and painted with the most extraordinary scenes.

  ‘Why don’t the people in the paintings have more clothes on?’ Rose hissed to Freddie, and clicked her fingers angrily in front of Bill’s nose. He was meant to add dignity to the party, and had borrowed a livery from one of the boys at the embassy, but his gawping at the scantily clad ladies was hardly helpful.

  ‘They’re mythical,’ Freddie said vaguely. ‘They only wear scarves.’

  Rose averted her eyes, and tried to stop Bella looking, but Bella was more interested in making sure that her best blue silk frock hadn’t been crushed by their journey in the gondola. Even she gasped, though, when they came to the audience chamber. Every inch of it was gilded or covered in the most enormous wall-paintings – even the ceiling – and the floor was tiled in extravagant patterns of inlaid marble. And at the far end of the room, raised on a set of scarlet steps, was the duke, sleepily regarding the courtiers arguing in front of him.

  After the first shock of being dwarfed inside this gold and multicoloured musical box of a room, Rose looked around them as they walked slowly forward, and blinked. A good half of the people in the room were wearing masks. Either white ones that covered their whole faces, leaving only their eyes glinting strange and dark behind, or jewelled and painted half-masks, all fitted very cleverly so that they seemed almost to move w
ith the faces beneath them.

  The duke, who had no mask, but was grandly dressed in a purple velvet cloak, looked mildly interested at the entrance of the little party. He beckoned to the man next to him, who was very plainly dressed in comparison to everyone else, clearly asking him who they were.

  Mr Fountain bowed graciously, but his elegant speech – which he had learned carefully from a phrase book – was ignored. The duke only had eyes for Gus, resplendent in his best topaz-studded collar, sitting demurely by Mr Fountain’s side.

  There were affectionate murmurs of ‘Gatto! Gatto!’ which Rose deduced must surely mean cat, and Gus ducked his head, and flirted his whiskers shyly, before delicately advancing up the carpeted steps to rub himself around the duke’s feet.

  ‘Charming animal!’ the plainly dressed man reported gravely to Mr Fountain, and Rose realised that of course, he was an interpreter. ‘He is yours?’

  Mr Fountain smiled and bowed again. ‘As much as ever a cat belongs to anyone, Your Grace. He is my familiar, a most talented creature.’

  The duke nodded and smiled as though this was a great joke, once it had been translated for him.

  Gus leaped onto the duke’s lap, and purred proudly. He had obviously decided not to reveal that he could talk, which Rose thought was probably a good idea, as the duke was already patting him quite possessively. But his charming manners had the duke ordering spindly little gilded chairs to be brought for Mr Fountain and Lord Lynton, and the children ushered gently over to the windows, to gaze out on the water.

  ‘Do you think it’s going well?’ Rose whispered to Freddie, casting a quick glance back over to the dais, where Mr Fountain seemed to be pleading with the duke, leaning close and gesturing sharply with his hands. The duke stared dreamily at Gus, his cheek resting on one hand as he listened. A dark-haired man in a mask with a long, strange beak of a nose was leaning over his shoulder to listen too, and the mask made him look as though he was frowning slightly. He glanced up and caught Rose watching, and somehow the frown of the mask deepened, and Rose felt him catch at her mind, and shuddered.