But what was there to know? A man had a right to keep his life private.
There were two more little envelopes prepared for the finding charm still laid out on the table. Margerit picked one up, saying, “No point in letting them go to waste.” This time she began near the window and the trail of smoke first caressed the edges of the faded tapestry before flattening itself against the window, leaving a smudge of soot on the glass. She peered out, trying to see past the trailing ivy to the grounds beyond.
Barbara gestured to Tavit to undo the latch, noting apologetically, “A bit of air won’t do any harm, even on a day like today.”
This time the thread of smoke drifted out straight through the window frame and into the curtain of leaves, but whatever goal it sought was lost in the falling drizzle.
Barbara looked at the litter of emptied packets. “Perhaps on our next visit?” She motioned Tavit to fasten the window again.
“I wonder…” Margerit began. When Antuniet devised the charm, she had needed the smoke to point the way, given how uncertain her visio could be. But a visual sign was only an echo of the underlying fluctus.
Margerit picked up the unused pen that Mefro Montekler had found and examined her palm. “These gloves are already ruined,” she said, dipping the pen into ink and tracing the same symbols and words that adorned the scraps of folded parchment. When the pattern was complete, she laid the pen aside and cupped her hands together, whispering the charm into the space between. As she opened her fingers, a bright thread of fluctus escaped and drifted off through the glass and into the yard beyond. She grinned at Barbara. “A treasure hunt! Shall we follow it?”
Without Mefro Montekler to guide them, the closed-up house was a maze. They came out at last into what had been the gardens. Unlike the great houses in the city that turned their faces to the street, this one faced the river, and its private spaces spread out on the landward side to fade into orchards and stables and the other outbuildings of a property that had once been as much a rural estate as a mansion. Three more times Margerit cupped her hands around the finding charm and followed the trace of power with the others trailing behind her blindly.
The fluctus knew only direction and took no heed of the ground underfoot. Once it led them into the stable yard, until a wall blocked their path. At last it flickered out and abandoned them beside an old stone and timber cottage. They’d gone well beyond direct sight of the mansion, but still within its grounds. At one time, the cottage must have been made for habitation, but in some distant past it had become a shed for livestock, with a low stone wall added to form a yard.
“What now?” Barbara asked as Margerit looked around uncertainly.
“I don’t know. The mystery thinks there’s something here that would be useful to me. I rather doubt it’s a book this time! Not in a place like this. Antuniet’s ritual doesn’t specify books. I think there must be something of the user’s intent involved. But in that case I don’t know what we’re looking for.”
There was a gate hanging crazily off its hinges that let them into the little yard. The door to the cottage itself was long since gone and the opening let in barely enough light to see the noisome remains of straw bedding. Margerit ducked back out quickly and examined the yard from within. The wall had been built from odds and ends of stone: smooth boulders tumbled by the river, small worked squares that must have been repurposed from some other source, a tall broad slab that stood the full height of the barrier and might well have determined its course. On second examination, the shape of that stone became familiar and she went to crouch before it and touch the traces of carving that still showed through the moss.
A sharp stick uncovered the edges of lettering and the shape of an escutcheon above, though the device on it was only recognizable as bearing birds of some sort. Barbara joined her, scraping gently at the moss to reveal the beginning of the inscription. HIC IACET…
“No surprise,” Margerit said. “I wonder what churchyard they pillaged for this?”
“The stone is set deeply. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it marked the original grave. Let’s see whose memory we’re meant to call to mind.”
They worked more carefully now, picking the dirt and vegetation out of the lettering. The end of the line held only a single name. Margerit’s heart began hammering as it came clear: TANNFRIDA.
Barbara laid a hand on her shoulder. “She wasn’t the only woman by that name. Don’t assume—”
But Margerit had attacked the obscuring moss more frantically. Why else had the mystery led her here if not for this? The drizzle started again, but she took no notice of anything except what the stone revealed. The Latin was clumsy and ambiguous, abbreviated to fit the stone and not the standard formulas of a churchyard monument.
HIC IACET TANNFRIDA
DOCTORA UNIVERSIT’
ROTANACI CURAV’
SUSANNA SOROR
CARISS’ EIUS
“Doctora Universitatis Rotanaci,” Margerit breathed. “It must be. But…?” So many questions. Why here? Why did the dozzures at the university deny she had ever taught there? Tanfrit’s scholarship was legendary, even in the few scraps that survived. Why was she buried here in obscurity, commemorated only by Susanna, her most beloved sister?
“Why here?” she asked aloud.
Barbara offered a hand to help her rise. “You know what the legends say, that she was a suicide. They couldn’t have buried her in a churchyard.”
It wasn’t the question she’d meant to ask and the answer made no sense. “But those legends say she threw herself in the Rotein from a broken heart and was lost,” Margerit countered. “This isn’t lost.”
“It could be a cenotaph,” Barbara cautioned. “But no, not if it says iacet. And yet—”
They stared at each other in wonder, forgetting all the rest of the world around them. “This is it,” Margerit said abruptly.
“What?”
Margerit gestured back toward the Chasteld mansion. “This is where I’ll have my school. Don’t you see? It was destined. Academia Tanfridae, Tanfrit’s Academy.”
She could see all the objections tumbling through Barbara’s mind.
“It’s a ruin. It could take a fortune just to make the place habitable.”
“Then I should be able to get the property at a good price,” Margerit countered. “Think. The location is perfect: close enough to the city for day students but enough space for boarders. Close enough to travel from the city for special lectures. Plenty of room to set up a printing press or any other project Akezze can think of. We can—”
“Are you certain this is what you want?” Barbara asked. “Are you sure this isn’t just sentiment? There are other properties we’ve looked at that would do as well. Better, perhaps. You won’t get as much casual attendance for your lectures here.”
It was a question worth asking, Margerit knew, but the fire in her blood burned the same as it had the first time she created a mystery of her own. “What is the difference between sentiment and divine inspiration?” she asked with a smile. “Yes, I’m certain.”
Barbara nodded sharply. “Then let’s go see if Mefro Montekler knows anything about who Chasteld’s heir might be. Though if she doesn’t know, I’m sure LeFevre could have the answer for us by tomorrow.”
* * *
There was a cousin, Montekler had said. Or perhaps a great-nephew, she wasn’t sure. There had been letters from him in recent years, but no visits. Was he likely to be interested in selling? She’d shrugged and said he’d be a fool not to. She fell short of indicating that she thought anyone would be a fool to buy, especially not in front of someone who might be her next employer.
The riverman left them at the landing nearest to LeFevre’s office, then continued on, taking Tavit to fetch back a carriage. There was no need for misdirection here.
LeFevre was as doubtful about the Chasteld estate as Barbara had been, and less willing to be convinced by signs and portents. “Maisetra, I cannot advise it—though I do
n’t recall that my saying so has changed your mind in the past.”
Margerit had been carefully marshaling her arguments on the ride up the river. “The place is in poor repair, it’s true, but that should be to our advantage. And the location should be as well: too close to the city for a summer place, too far for a residence. Barbara says Chasteld’s heir has a house near the Plaiz Nof. He’d have no good use for the estate.”
“Unless he has shipping interests,” LeFevre countered. “If the river continues to run low, a speculator might decide that property in Urmai would be a good investment.”
Barbara had been holding her tongue but now she asked, “And what would my father have done?”
LeFevre studied her thoughtfully. “He would have bought it,” he said at last, “as a speculation.” But then a grin spread across his face. “And all the while he would have convinced Chasteld’s heir that he meant to turn it into a charity school or an orphanage and gotten a better price thereby.”
And then they both laughed, though Margerit couldn’t entirely see where the joke lay.
“So,” LeFevre continued, dismissing his qualms. “I will approach the new owner about taking this old ruin off his hands with the understanding that you will be thinly stretched to make it habitable for your students and that we are considering several other properties and must make a decision soon. If he has time to think, the price will be more than it’s worth.”
Margerit nodded, knowing how painful it would be if it slipped through her fingers.
“And then your work will begin. Who do you have in mind to see to the repairs? Who will oversee the property for you? How will you divide the expenses from your own?” he continued. “And who will see to your faculty? Or did you plan to do that all yourself?”
It was a real thing now, Margerit realized, not merely an idle conversation among friends. By the time the deed was in her hands, she would need to have begun on the answers to those questions. But it would prove a good distraction from useless worrying over the flawed mysteries. If she stopped to think too long, she might never regain the courage.
Chapter Eleven
Serafina
Late January, 1824
Serafina gazed out over the expanse of faces in the common seats and then up across the tiers of boxes. Maisetra Ponek had begged a favor from the manager to identify a box in the lowest tier that would be left empty on this, the final night of Fizeir’s La Regina di Saba. The angle was awkward and the singers were close enough that their painted faces looked like garish masks. It didn’t change the music, though.
Luzie was listening intently to memorize each note and phrase. Serafina thought back to the first time she’d seen an opera in Rome, slipped into Costanza’s box discreetly after the overture had started. She’d been introduced only to those who visited with similar discretion. She’d never been certain whether Costanza was more reluctant to introduce her as a lover or a cousin. What had they seen? She no longer recalled. Last year Margerit had brought her once, but she’d declined further invitations. The boxes required as many roles and costumes as the stage. Margerit hadn’t said anything about her performance, but neither had she insisted further.
Serafina didn’t know what to think of the music. Luzie seemed to think it good, but Jeanne’s opinions had been sharper when the subject came up in passing at Tiporsel House last week. Too old-fashioned, she said. Too safe. But how could one judge what was old-fashioned if one hadn’t seen the new? All music seemed flat now without the mystical currents held by Luzie’s every phrase. Surely there were other composers who could evoke them—others beyond the anonymous man who had written the mystery in Palermo. If she went to more concerts she might find them, but that would require…
Serafina’s attention came back to the performance as the scene changed to the court of Sheba and a tall dark-haired woman commanded the stage in garments evoking both royal robes and ancient splendor. She could be none other than Queen Makeda—no, Fizeir gave her the name Nicaula. Except for a leopard skin draped across her ample bosom like a sash, there seemed little of Africa about her and nothing of what Serafina knew of her homeland. But Luzie had intended this as a treat and the music was pleasant enough for what it was.
Her eyes wandered back to find Margerit’s box in one of the upper tiers on the far side. Margerit wasn’t there, but among the small cluster of faces she recognized Jeanne by the tilt of her head and the distinctive movements of her fan. Luzie noticed her gaze and followed it.
“Someone you recognize?” she whispered.
“The Vicomtesse de Cherdillac,” Serafina returned, and then added impulsively, “We could go visit during the interval if you like. Didn’t she invite you to one of her salons?” If she must challenge herself, why not now, for Luzie’s sake? They’d both dressed in their best for the evening so they wouldn’t be too far out of place. She could try to hold her tongue and not say any of the things that Jeanne’s friends found so unexpectedly amusing.
Jeanne was entertaining in something less than full state. It looked to be little more than a private party among friends and she welcomed them as such. “Maisetra Valorin! It’s been entirely too long! Surely you know Maisetra Noalt. No? Then you should, for the Noalts have built a beautiful new salle and will want to fill it with music as well as dancing. Maisetra Noalt, you simply must commission a piece from Maisetra Valorin.”
Serafina watched her friend dragged off to discuss business, or what passed for business in the opera house. That made it worth having ventured to the upper levels. She moved to one side of the box hoping to escape notice but Jeanne was relentless, pulling her over to join several of the other guests.
“Serafina, I should have guessed you’d want to see La Regina, you should have told me before. You’ve met my friend Count Chanturi haven’t you?”
She hadn’t, but she nodded as the man made an exaggerated bow over her hand and murmured, “Enchanted.”
“Are you enjoying the opera?” she asked him. It was a safe enough topic.
Chanturi waved his hand in a gesture that could not be interpreted. “Fizeir has delivered what we always expect from him. But I would be interested to know what you think of his ancient Abyssinia.”
What was she meant to say? It was impossible to guess. She was saved by the return of Luzie and her new patron who exclaimed, “And you must be my Africa!”
Serafina could manage nothing more eloquent than, “I beg your pardon?”
Luzie rescued her by explaining anxiously, “Your friend Olimpia is designing a mural for the ceiling of the Noalts’ ballroom.”
“The continents and the seven seas,” Maisetra Noalt proclaimed. “And you must be my Africa. Your friend Maisetra Valorin tells me that Olimpia Hankez has been painting you.”
“Not painting, no,” Serafina said, still floundering for a response. “Only drawings.”
“Then there will be no need even to trouble you to sit for her. It’s settled then.”
She wanted to protest, but would it lose Luzie a commission? She nodded mutely.
The venture achieved its second purpose when Jeanne invited them to stay, as the musicians began signaling the second act. “I scarcely see you at all these days! Has Margerit dragged you off to view her ancient ruin? And what do you think of Fizeir’s Sheba? You never did give Rikerd an answer.”
“I think that Maistir Fizeir knows different stories than the ones my mother did,” Serafina said carefully.
But Jeanne only laughed. “No doubt! He tells the story we expect to be told. You should have seen his Iulius Caesar! But I think dear Benedetta has done well in the role. Now hush, they’re starting!”
It was during the love duet toward the end of the second act that Serafina first noticed it: a thread of magic weaving in and out of the queen’s theme, just barely at the edge of perception. So he has the talent as well, she thought. Perhaps Fizeir’s popularity was not so mysterious then. She thought he must be blind to it like Luzie was, for the fluctus
came and went randomly, like the chance reflection of light from a ripple on water. Serafina leaned against the rail, straining to see better. There was something familiar about the flavor…or was that only the way of mysteries in music?
At her side, she felt Luzie shift restlessly. Had she seen it too? Was it only her own magic she was blind to? Serafina leaned closely to whisper, “What do you—” She hesitated. The dim light betrayed something akin to embarrassment on Luzie’s face.
“I didn’t know he would…” Luzie began.
Of course. No wonder the flavor was familiar. “You wrote that.”
“No. Not…” Luzie was shaking her head. “It was one of my little études. I sold it to him last summer. Shh.”
Was that how these things worked, Serafina wondered, settling back in her chair. Was music sold in the marketplace like sausages? She could see more clearly now which of the threads carried the power. The play of the two voices wove together. Only one carried that extra burden but she could see what might have been if the effect were more deliberate.
When the curtains closed again before the last act, Serafina returned to that thought. “You should write an opera of your own.”
She could see Luzie’s confusion as the others turned in interest.
“Oh goodness, no!” Luzie began. “That’s far beyond…”
Count Chanturi rose to pour wine for them all and offered a glass to Luzie saying, “What would you venture? A comedy? A history? Though I don’t know that I can think of anything in Alpennia’s history that would be worthy of an opera.” It was clear from the humor in his voice that he considered the idea no more than idle conversation.
“What about the story of Tanfrit?” Serafina asked. “Margerit has been telling me all the scraps she’s discovered.”
Chanturi raised an eyebrow. “Tanfrit?”
Jeanne tapped him chidingly on the arm with her fan. “One of Margerit’s ancient philosophers. Don’t you remember me telling you? They seem to have found her grave on that property Margerit bought for her college. You’d think she’d found a piece of the True Cross. It has all the makings of a great tragedy: raised to the heights of fame and honor, a tragically unrequited love and then at the end she throws herself into the Rotein in flood!”
Mother of Souls: A novel of Alpennia Page 18