And who would she be among them back in the city? Through the past winter and spring she had watched the careful dance the others performed, where the nuance of how every name was spoken and every movement made was dictated by the relationship of the dancers. If Paolo were here, would he be Maistir or Mesner? She didn’t know. Because Margerit had accepted her, Serafina had been granted that ambiguous rank as a scholar that set birth aside. She had learned the limits of how to dress and act the part. But that acceptance didn’t erase all distinctions.
Akezze, too, was granted scholar’s rank and Serafina had seen how little difference that made to those who knew her father had followed the plow. She and Akezze both were welcomed and celebrated at Margerit’s academic lectures and in the privacy of Tiporsel House, but neither of them had been invited to the private salons and concerts the others chattered of.
It had been like this in Rome, too. The city was full of strange wonders. As a girl, she’d never considered her family to be set apart. They’d been complete within themselves. It was Giuletta who disturbed that balance and made her doubt her place. She had tried to laugh along with Paolo at her own ignorance, at all the things she’d never learned that he took for granted. But it was Costanza who taught her just how much she lacked.
Costanza had knocked on the door one day, at the second-floor rooms they’d taken near Sant’ Agnese’s, when Paolo was off to Ravenna. Serafina had stared at this elegantly dressed figure, as out of place in that neighborhood as a peacock among pigeons, and stammered a question.
“Pardon me, Madame, have you lost your way?”
The woman had returned her stare, at first with a frown, and then with growing amusement. “I wanted to see just why it was that my cousin Paolo felt he needed to keep you hidden away. We’ve all been wondering about you.”
And that was how she learned that Paolo Fortese had a large and prominent family in Rome and that he’d never had any intention of introducing her to them.
“But he went so far as to marry you, my dear,” Costanza had exclaimed when she said as much. “That’s the wonder!”
That was their second meeting, when Costanza had directed her to knock at the back gate of a certain villa, and she’d been led to a table in the garden where wine and fruit were served by silent women whose eyes followed her every move.
Serafina had blushed hotly in confusion, realizing what Costanza meant.
“I see,” she said more kindly. “You aren’t that sort of woman. But my dear, Paolo isn’t that sort of man. He cares for nothing but his books. He’s the despair of the family. Such clothes! And he cares almost nothing for culture. Whatever did you see in him?”
Serafina found herself liking Costanza, for all her bold ways. “Paolo promised to teach me to work mysteries,” she said quietly. She couldn’t confess how he had failed.
Costanza had laughed, as if it were the greatest joke in the world. But it was a merry laugh. “And for that you married him. What a strange creature you are! Tell me.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Is he a good lover? I’ve always wondered.”
More blushes. Was this how women talked among themselves? Serafina had only known her mother and Giuletta.
“Paolo is…was…” It had been years since he had touched her.
And then Costanza had moved to sit beside her on the bench, and taken her face in her hands, and kissed her, the taste of the wine mingling on their lips and tongues.
“Paolo is a fool,” she had said.
And by the time Serafina had discovered that this was not how the women of Rome usually spent their time together, she no longer cared whether it was proper.
In Rotenek, Jeanne had become her guide to what was proper—and how improper things might be safely pursued. But there were always unexpected traps. Margerit’s life was full of them. These women moved so easily between worlds, each with its own rules and hazards. With the end of summer, she would be plunged into those hazards once more.
“I had a thought,” Margerit said, suddenly turning toward her. “I know you’d planned to come with me to Chalanz. But I imagine there are few things more tedious than someone else’s family party. Perhaps you’d rather return directly to Rotenek with Jeanne and Antuniet? They’re taking Akezze as well to shorten her road. You know how she hates traveling.”
“If you don’t mind,” Serafina said with a sigh of relief. “And then you needn’t explain me to your cousins.” She waved her hand to brush away Margerit’s concern. “No, I would only be in the way. If there is room, I’d be glad of the ride. But I haven’t a place to stay yet for this year.” She had a promise of a room at Tiporsel House until arrangements could be made, but they wouldn’t be opening the house until Margerit returned.
“Oh pooh!” Jeanne said quickly. “My house isn’t so small we can’t make room for one more!” There was a brief speaking glance between her and Antuniet.
They might as well have heard her thoughts, but it was still an uncomfortable offer. She knew she would be intruding on their privacy. She didn’t belong there, in a household that—for all its eccentricity—belonged firmly to the nobility of Alpennia.
“It is very kind of you,” she answered. And then, thinking ahead to the next challenge and forcing herself to a cheerful smile, “Perhaps you can do me a further kindness. Could we speak only Alpennian on the journey? Every time I try, it still comes out half French and I can’t count on the luck of a landlady who can meet me halfway again.” They all laughed with her, thinking on the potpourri of languages they had used to muddle through the summer. And so it was decided.
* * *
By the time they rolled slowly through the Port Ausiz into the eastern edge of the city, pushing through the stream of returning travelers and day-traffic in the narrow cobbled street, Serafina had steeled herself for the challenge of seeking new lodgings. But not three days into her stay—barely time to unpack her valise—Jeanne greeted her over breakfast with the news, “I’ve found you a place to live! Iustin Mazzies—Toneke, you remember Rikerd’s little protégée that I made all the rage in the concert halls last spring? It seems she’s married her composer.”
“Now there will be a stormy household!” Antuniet said. “It seems a bit far to go just to gain a violinist who can’t refuse to perform his works.”
“Oh no, they’re perfectly suited,” Jeanne assured her. “If they can find concert in that music of his, they can live under the same roof in perfect harmony! More harmony than his compositions can boast.”
Serafina laughed with them, though the substance of the joke escaped her. Inwardly she winced. How often did men marry, not for companionship, but to gain an assistant at no extra cost? “Does he feel any affection for her? Or is it only for convenience?”
Antuniet said sourly, “Most marriages are for man’s convenience and woman’s need.”
“If we all married for love, what a mess it would make of the world!” Jeanne’s tone was light, but with a brittle edge.
“You were married once,” Serafina ventured. “Was it all out of need?”
A shadow passed across Jeanne’s face briefly. “Oh, yes. But he was kind enough.” She shook her head to dispel the memories.
Had she broken some rule again? Serafina returned to a safer topic. “But what is all this to do with my plans?”
Jeanne reached out and touched her hand reassuringly. “So Maisetra Mazzies—Maisetra Ion-Pazit I should say!—had rooms with a widow. A music teacher, she says. Very respectable. She’ll be looking for a new roomer and—” Jeanne concluded triumphantly “—she speaks Italian! Iustin says she studied opera and composition as a girl. Evidently she gave it all up when she married until—”
Serafina could complete the rest. Until she needed a way to scrape together a genteel living.
“The neighborhood is quite respectable, though hardly fashionable. Out at the west edge of town near the Nikuleplaiz. I’ve dropped her a note to expect you; it’s all arranged.”
It�
��s all arranged. That might well be Jeanne’s crest and motto.
* * *
It was a cozy house—older but well cared for. Everywhere within the old city walls, the houses lay cheek by jowl, and here a profusion of styles faced each other across a narrow cobbled road. Serafina checked the note Jeanne had given her with the description. That must be it: the dark brick one with the ivy on one side. She drew a slow breath and steeled herself for the encounter. A pull at the bell was answered after some moments’ wait by a girl in a maid’s uniform who stared and crossed herself unthinkingly while Serafina scrambled for her bits of hard-won Alpennian.
“I’m here to see Maisetra Valorin. Is she at home?”
More staring, then the girl collected herself and answered, “Yes, Maisetra.”
There was no invitation to enter so she waited on the doorstep. Through the open door she could glimpse a cluttered entryway and stairs of some dark wood leading upward.
The mistress of the house appeared and greeted her with a puzzled look. “How may I help you?”
She was younger than Serafina had expected. A widow. Women could be widowed at all ages, and Maisetra Valorin looked much the same age as she was, though perhaps more careworn. She had the pale, creamy complexion so common in Alpennia that Serafina still found oddly like a marble statue. A few strands of mouse-brown hair peeked out from under a lace-edged cap. Her smile was tentative and curious.
“I understand that you have a room to let,” Serafina began.
The woman’s face fell and Serafina could almost believe it was sincere. “I am so sorry. The room’s already been spoken for.”
Serafina stiffened. It wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened. There had been more than one “misunderstanding” in arranging for lodgings among Paolo’s many moves. There was no use in protesting. She nodded and stepped back, but couldn’t resist a parting line, “I’m sorry to have bothered you then. I’ll let the vicomtesse know that she was mistaken.”
She had barely turned away when there was a clatter of shoes down the steps behind her and an urgent voice, “The vicomtesse? You were sent by Mesnera de Cherdillac? But then—”
Serafina turned.
“But then it’s you—you’re the one the room is promised to. But I thought…Oh dear,” the woman said in confusion. “But she said you were…a scholar from Rome, she said.”
Serafina replied evenly, “If to be born and bred in Rome is to be Roman, then yes, I am Roman. I will not trouble you further. Thank you for your time.”
“But…” the woman protested. “But wouldn’t you like to see the room?”
Serafina gazed at her trying to weigh the woman’s intent. Perhaps it really had been a misunderstanding after all. “Yes, if you would.”
She’d never lived in a house like this: warm wood paneling and bright-upholstered furniture crowding the rooms, with the clutter of all manner of activities scattered about. Margerit’s house on the Vezenaf was a different world entirely, stately and with an air of age and dignity. Jeanne’s home was something alike, but sparer, more orderly. It was a house meant for more than two and echoed in quiet moments. Here, even with no one else in evidence, the place felt densely inhabited. The air smelled of beeswax and lavender. Hints of something cooking drifted down the narrow corridor from the back of the house.
As they climbed the stairs together Serafina said, “The vicomtesse said that you spoke some Italian,” and switched to a more familiar tongue. “I must say it was what decided me to come.”
“Oh, yes,” the woman answered in return, after a confused hesitation. “I studied it when I was a girl. For the music, you know.”
Indeed, her words were flavored with the Tuscan one heard on the opera stage, but even so, the familiarity made the place feel more welcoming.
“The rooms are all small,” Maisetra Valorin offered. “But you needn’t share unless you want to split the cost. Maisetra Ponek has a room to herself as well. You’ll meet them all later. You have the use of the front parlor when I’m not giving lessons and the dining room at all times.”
There was barely room to turn around, it was true. Not much but a bed, a wardrobe, a washstand and a small writing desk, all in a honey-colored wood with gracefully curved legs. The desk stood beside a window that looked out over the street and the room sat high enough that one could see down to the end of the block where the road crossed a narrow canal. The view lent the room a more spacious feel. It was more than enough for her needs. “I’d like to take it, if you please,” she said.
Maisetra Valorin seemed startled by her decisiveness. “You don’t need to see the rest?”
“What of meals?” Serafina asked. “I was told that board was included?”
“It’s nothing fancy,” the woman said apologetically. She seemed incapable of offering any answer without an apology. “A good breakfast in the morning and then there’s always something for dinner, but it’s mostly soups and pot-dishes I’m afraid. My boarders often keep odd hours and the cook has to make something that will keep warm on the stove. You can have company or not for meals as you choose. Mefro Chisillic will usually know when the other guests plan to eat.”
They agreed quickly on the rent, a trifle more than Serafina had been hoping for, but the place was better than what she’d had last year. Cleaner, and one hoped with fewer mice, though it would be a much farther walk to Tiporsel House.
There were few things to pack. She’d scarcely unpacked from the journey back from Saveze. Jeanne insisted that she stay for one last dinner, and so it was dark before she found herself again at Maisetra Valorin’s door.
There would be a key, she’d been told. Between the odd hours of the guests and the scanty staff it made no sense to keep a maid waiting on the door. This time there was no startlement when the door was opened, though it was a different woman. The housekeeper, by her looks. She would need to learn their names: cook, housekeeper and more besides the maid she had met earlier who was summoned with a sharp, “Gerta!” to fetch up her bag.
Gerta gave her curious darting looks as she laid out the towels and brought a fresh pitcher and basin while Serafina unbuttoned her coat and changed her bonnet for a frilled linen cap more suited to indoors. Serafina pretended not to notice the maid’s attention until their arms crossed by accident in the unpacking and Gerta reached out and rubbed her fingers across the back of her hand.
“It doesn’t come off,” Serafina said sharply.
A frightened look crossed the maid’s face, knowing the act for an impertinence. Serafina frowned and dismissed her. Summer had been easier. The servants at Saveze had been too proud to treat their mistress’s guests with anything less than courtesy. She sighed and closed the door.
She was tired. With her things unpacked and put away, Serafina thought briefly of going down to the parlor where she could hear the strains of the fortepiano as Maisetra Valorin played, seemingly for her own enjoyment. But the bed called more strongly and it was a pleasant enough lullaby to sleep to.
Who was the composer? She could put names to some sacred music, but the rest she’d learned only in scraps. There—that was a piece Jeanne had played for them during the summer. Beethoven, she had said carelessly, assuming everyone would know. Now a more lively tune, one that Costanza had played for her once in a quiet moment, but she didn’t recall who she’d said had written it.
Sleep had nearly claimed her when the music changed. No, not only the music. The walls themselves were vibrating. There was a glow like moonlight, except that moonlight didn’t curl across the floor like mist, like swirling water. She could still hear the tinkling of the keys, but it flowed through her blood. In wonder, she rose and drew on her dressing gown to creep down the stairs toward the source of that music.
She stepped quietly so as not to disturb the player. Had Jeanne known? Was this one of her little jokes? There had been none of her arch humor in the suggestion of Maisetra Valorin’s place. And Jeanne wasn’t sensitive to this sort of workin
g. A music teacher, she’d said, as if the woman were nothing more. But surely a talent such as this would be common knowledge?
Serafina paused in the doorway, enough in shadow so as not to attract attention. In the glow of the lamps, Maisetra Valorin sat bent over her keyboard in the same dark gray dress she had worn earlier. The room held nothing but her and the music. The lines of worry that had marked her face earlier were smoothed away and softened. Something in her expression struck Serafina like a blow. The woman didn’t know. It was like the way you recognized a man was blind when you saw that he was tracking sound, not movement. Maisetra Valorin was hearing only the music itself.
The outlines of the parlor blurred in Serafina’s vision and she let out a sigh that was close to a sob. With a startled exclamation, the tune stopped. Earthly sights and sounds alike faded, but the currents that underlay them still swirled around her, slowly dissipating even as she dashed the tears from her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Maisetra Talarico. Did I disturb you?” Maisetra Valorin rose from the bench before the keyboard. “What’s wrong?”
Serafina shook her head. How could she explain her sudden jealousy? “It’s only that the music was so beautiful,” she said. And that was no lie.
“Oh, that was nothing really. Just a few scribblings.”
“Your own composition?”
She saw the woman nod hesitantly.
Of course it was. There had been no magic in the more familiar works. “Do you perform your compositions?” Serafina asked.
Maisetra Valorin shook her head with a little shrug. “Just little studies for my students and my own amusement. They’re not really that good.”
And that would explain her obscurity. Not everyone would have the ability to discern the effects of her music, but surely in a concert hall at least a few listeners would have some sensitivity. But if she’d never performed them publicly…
“Who told you they weren’t good?” Serafina wondered. Was her own judgment clouded by the visions? She knew so little about music.
Maisetra Valorin sat again on the bench and looked down at her hands. “I’ve shown a few pieces to Maistir Fizeir—our great composer, you know. He did me the favor to listen because I do some copywork on his scores. He said my talents are sound but I have nothing of genius.”
Mother of Souls: A novel of Alpennia Page 5