Luzie was listening in fascination. “Serafina, you never told me that part. The vicomtesse is right, the story would be perfect for opera. But I could never…”
“Perfect, even if it’s not true?” Serafina protested. “Margerit thinks most of the story is nonsense.”
Chanturi chuckled dryly. “True history makes poor theater, as a rule. Invention is better. If you pass it by, perhaps I should suggest that one to Fizeir. God knows he could do with fresh ideas! If you will forgive me, I think the evening has already been long enough for me.” With a bow, he left.
The image kept hold of Serafina’s imagination all through the final act. Was there enough remaining of Tanfrit’s story to bring to life in such a place?
* * *
The thin winter sun struggled through the narrow window in Olimpia’s bedroom, such that late afternoon seemed more like dusk. The sunny rooms were reserved for painting. Serafina rolled over and squinted trying to gauge the time.
“Must you go?” Olimpia said. She twined their legs together and buried her face in the loose cloud of hair.
“Not yet, but soon.” Serafina reached across to adjust the wick on the lamp, bringing a warm glow back to the room, then relaxed across Olimpia’s body, drawing in her heat against the chill of the room. Their stolen afternoons were a warm refuge against so many things. There was nothing of her failures here, no struggle to find her place. But the mood had been broken and she sat up in the middle of the bed. The covers slipped off her bare shoulders as she fumbled for a ribbon to tame her hair until she could braid it.
“Just like that; don’t move.” Olimpia rolled off the side of the bed and snatched up the sketchpad that was never far from her reach.
The instruction was familiar by now. Serafina paused with her hands reaching behind her head as Olimpia’s hand moved quickly across the surface of the paper. “Do all your lovers have my patience?” she asked. Talking was permitted; moving was not.
“Mihail only visits for one thing and then he’s gone,” Olimpia said, pausing with her head tilted to consider the work. “And Renoz won’t ever stay still. If I can’t capture her in three lines, she’s done. Done.”
The last was meant for her. Serafina slid to the edge of the bed and held out her hand to see. It was only a rough sketch, the sort of study that littered the walls of the studio. Olimpia had captured her in midmovement: her elbows akimbo as she gathered up her hair into the ribbon, a single sinuous line following the arch of her back down around the curve of her hip to where her feet peeked out from the jumbled covers. The merest impression of dark eyes and a tilting smile. “You make me beautiful,” she said.
Olimpia took the sketch back from her. “You are beautiful. I make you see it.”
Serafina looked again. It was only charcoal on paper without the underlayer of Olimpia’s talent bringing it to greater life, yet it captured something more than a mirror did. “And what would I see if you drew mysteries for me?”
A shake of the head. Olimpia didn’t care to have her work described in mystic terms. “I’d rather learn you the slow way. It’s only fair.” She gave a little half smile.
“But when they come to you for portraits—” Serafina waved her hand out at the studio where several unfinished works stood under their discreet covers. “—you give them your visions?”
Olimpia shrugged. “Sometimes they get a true portrait; sometimes they only get paint. I tell them it depends on whether the muse is kind, but in truth it’s for my own reputation. Not everyone would be flattered by having their soul laid bare on canvas. Once I look, I can’t choose not to see, but I can choose not to paint it.”
Whatever inspired her—whether muse or fancy—when the spirit moved through Olimpia’s hands, it could open a window even for those with no special vision. They might not know what drew them to the portraits, or why one inspired love and another doubt. Serafina wondered idly whether Luzie would see something in the paintings that she couldn’t see in her own music. And Margerit…she had one of Olimpia’s sought-after portraits, but she’d never admitted its hidden power. There was more magic in the world than could be encompassed in Margerit’s theology. Some day she would see that. The cold air stirred across her bare skin and Serafina found her discarded chemise and pulled it on.
“Would you like to see my new project before you go?” Olimpia asked as she buttoned up her work dress and covered it with a paint-stained smock. There was a mischievous gleam in her eye as she led the way out into the studio.
She unrolled a series of pen sketches on the floor, weighting them with this and that. A bearded man astride a dolphin, a woman in Greek robes with her arm draped across the neck of a bull, a dark-skinned man dressed in a skirt of feathers and holding up a colorful parrot. Serafina recognized the pose in the next sketch and a sense of dread settled in her stomach. She had become more familiar with her body as seen through Olimpia’s hands than through her own eyes. Her limbs were sprawled across a carpet as they had been across the bed a short time past, but now with a leopard skin draped carelessly for modesty—she thought suddenly of the Queen of Sheba parading on the opera stage, but she, at least, had been given regal dignity. Serafina’s eyes traced over her rounded belly, her breasts bare and dark-nippled, her arms crooked around a pair of spears, her hair floating loosely and transfixed by a pair of ostrich feathers, her face…
She looked up at Olimpia, feeling the painter’s excitement and pride like a blow. “That’s not…that’s not me,” she said.
“Of course not,” Olimpia said. “It’s Africa. I thought I’d arrange them…” She stopped. “Serafina, what’s wrong? Maisetra Noalt said you agreed.”
“But not…not…” Serafina struggled to find words for her dismay. She fell back on something Olimpia might understand. “This was private. This was just for you.” She hugged her arms across the thin cotton of her chemise feeling the weight of other eyes.
Olimpia’s voice was suddenly quiet. “Serafina, I’m an artist. Nothing that comes into my hands is just for me. I thought you knew that.” She reached out to brush away an errant lock of hair and Serafina drew back. “You liked it when I put you in the banquet scene.”
The painting of the guild banquet had been different. That had been her, Serafina Talarico, the foreign thaumaturgist. “This isn’t me. It’s not Africa. It’s not anything but stage scenery.” Serafina heard her voice shaking. “It’s a painted whore for everyone in Rotenek to stare at. Do you think they don’t stare at me already? And now this is what they’ll see. When I agreed, I thought it would be…I don’t know. I thought it would be different.”
She realized that the betrayal was not in the exposure of her body, but that Olimpia could have looked at her so many times and seen this—seen a jumble of stage scenery and opera props. A dark-skinned canvas on which to paint someone else’s fictions. Even without true vision she had expected more. She hadn’t realized she was crying until her hand came up to brush the tears away.
“I’m sorry,” Olimpia said. “It’s not a portrait. It isn’t you. It was never meant to be. I re-use faces all the time.”
“This is the only face I have.” Serafina turned and headed for the bedroom to gather up the rest of her clothes.
“Wait,” Olimpia pleaded. “Don’t leave, not like this. Let me try again.”
Was she begging for the picture or for their time together? Those warm memories were slipping away already. They never lasted.
“Serafina…”
She turned and saw Olimpia standing, sketchbook in hand. That was how she would always picture her. In that moment, she knew she would never return to the studio.
“Serafina, I promise I won’t use that one. Give me the Africa you know instead. The one you want people to see.”
I don’t have one, she wanted to cry. All I have is… The vision of her mother rose before her, what her mother had been before the shrinking and fading. She did have that.
She reached back and untied the ribbo
n from her hair. There was no one to braid it properly and no time, but she fumbled to twist long rows to catch it back from her face—a style she hadn’t worn since a girl—and tied it in place again. The studio was littered with lengths of cloth and other oddments that might be useful when posing. She found a voluminous shawl of white merino, so thin and delicate it seemed to float in her hands. How had her mother wrapped it? Like so: over the shoulders and drawn up over the head. And what of Papa? He, too, was an anchor to her elusive past. She saw his hands always caressing one of his beloved old books with the strange writing she had never learned. She chose a volume from a table and tucked it into the crook of her arm then settled into the cross-framed chair placed where the light was strongest. It was a chair meant for sprawling and sultry looks but she sat erect, staring into a land she’d never seen except through stories.
This time there were no instructions, no brief touches to move an arm here, a fold of cloth there. Olimpia circled around to find the light she wanted then worked in deft strokes across the paper. Serafina could see the trailing wisps of fluctus echoing the movement of Olimpia’s hand. She’d always wondered how it would look. So this was to be a true image at last—Olimpia’s own way of saying farewell.
The movements slowed. A final stroke, a frown, a brief gesture with the charcoal that never touched the paper, a long out-drawn breath. “Would you like to see it?”
Serafina shook her head. “No, not until it’s finished.” She didn’t want to know what Olimpia had seen within her. Better to have her heart broken no more than once in a day. She set the book aside and unwrapped the shawl, then slipped her gown over her head and let Olimpia do up the buttons.
There was no further apology at their parting, only one last kiss, and then Olimpia murmured, “I hope you find it,” as she opened the door to the twilight chill.
* * *
Serafina had meant to be home for supper but the hour had passed along with her appetite. There was no hope of slipping unseen up the stairs with both Charluz and Elinur settled in the front parlor with handwork while Luzie practiced at the fortepiano. She almost wished for the days when there had been a stiff distance between them.
Her voice betrayed her, and then there was all their bitter sympathy to bear when she dared give them only a piece of her sorrow.
“Well I don’t know what you expected,” Elinur said as she offered up a crisp white handkerchief for the tears and a waspish opinion on the morals of artists. “Letting her draw you naked like that. No wonder if she thought you a bit loose.”
Charluz followed up with a cup of tea and her own opinion. “For all the time you’ve spent posing for her, I’d think she might at least have done a portrait for you. Now there would be a coup! I hear that Countess Peskil has been waiting two years to commission one from her.”
But Luzie shooed them away after a bit and, when they were alone, sat down beside her on the sofa. “It wasn’t just the painting, was it?”
Serafina shook her head mutely in confirmation and felt the other woman’s arm encircle her shoulder. It was a motherly gesture. She leaned closer not trusting herself to speak yet. At the far side of the room the clock ticked off the moments, sifting a stillness over the room. She drew a long shuddering sigh.
“Were you…” Luzie’s voice trailed off. “I have guessed that…that you are very lonely here.”
The close press of Luzie’s body became both uncomfortable and tantalizing. What was safe to confess? It was tempting to pour her heart out, but she had betrayed herself too far once before. Luzie wasn’t Jeanne, to sympathize with where that loneliness might lead. Serafina straightened up and moved a little apart, dabbing at her face with the sodden handkerchief.
“You must think I’m foolish, being put all out of countenance by a silly painting.”
“And will you…sit for her again?” Luzie’s hesitation betrayed her understanding but no word of condemnation followed.
“No,” Serafina said. “That’s done with. She’s going to use a different pose. There’s no need for me to return. Will you play for me?”
“Of course,” Luzie said and rose. “I have a new tune for…no, that one isn’t ready yet. I’ll save it for a special occasion. But I’ve been playing with some ideas you mentioned. About Tanfrit. Not a whole opera! But maybe a song or two. What do you think of this motif?”
Her fingers brought forth a spill of notes like the rush of water, echoed by threads of blue and green that wound throughout the room.
* * *
Tanfrit and the college were becoming rivals met on every street corner. In the space of weeks, Margerit had nearly disappeared from view, like a woman in the flush of a new affair. The urgency that had driven their studies in the wake of the castellum was set aside. Twice now the walk up the river to Tiporsel House had found the library empty and all plans swept away by the need to consult carpenters and masons. Serafina had found a note of apology suggesting passages and questions to review, but a knot of discomfort grew as she sat alone reading. Every face in the doorway felt like a challenge. Would she like tea? Did the fire need poking up? The servants were easier to ignore than Maisetra Pertinek’s polite inquiry if she expected Margerit back soon. She could hear the question they didn’t ask. Why are you here?
Why was she here? What was the use? She was no closer to any understanding of her own failures. What was the use of knowing why the Lyon rites worked for some saints but the Penekiz tradition was best for others? How did it help to know when to use Latin or Alpennian to set out a markein when the mystery she cared most about had no scope beyond her own heart? Why should she care if Alpennia were under siege from unseen forces? Perhaps she should return to Rome. She had learned enough to pursue her own studies now. There had been a letter from Paolo, passed through many hands, the last time she spoke to the bankers. There were difficulties in Paris. He had hoped to return by summer but that was not possible. She should not expect him before the fall at the earliest.
That was more notice than she usually had. There would be plenty of time to make plans. She needn’t chance the storm-cursed land route via Turin or Milan in winter, or the roundabout passage on one of the river barges all the way down to Marseille to brave a sea voyage. She could wait until late summer to set out and he need never know she’d been gone. Not that he would care, so long as she were waiting for him.
The maid came in to close the curtains on the darkened river view and trim the lamps once more. “Will you be staying to dine, Maisetra?” she asked.
Serafina tried to think back to the last chime of the clock in the hall. “Oh, no, I should be going.” It was growing late. She’d promised Luzie to be company for dinner tonight, with Issibet off visiting her sister and the others on a holiday trip to Akolbin. The house had been echoingly empty for days except for Luzie’s students.
The streets of Rotenek had never seemed a dangerous place—not the ones Serafina kept to—so she was more startled than frightened when a shadow emerged into the faint pool of light cast by the lamps to either side of Tiporsel House’s entry gate.
The man nodded to her. “Maisetra Talarico.”
In the pale glow his face was indistinct and she scrambled for a name. He wouldn’t have spoken unless they’d met. “Forgive me…”
He bowed more sharply this time. “Franz Kreiser. We met a few months ago at the Ambassadors Ball.”
Yes, of course she remembered now. She remembered the uncomfortable moment when Antuniet had given him the cut, and then the awkwardly persistent questions that she hadn’t known how to escape. She fumbled for something to say. “If you’ve come to visit Maisetra Sovitre or Baroness Saveze, I’m afraid they aren’t at home.”
“Ah, my loss.” Oddly, he seemed neither surprised nor disappointed. “In that case, perhaps I might escort you a little way on your path?”
He offered an arm to her and she could think of no reason to refuse. Or was there? She had so few dealings with men outside of the company of her
friends that she hadn’t learned the rules very well. She wished Jeanne were here to ask.
“I’ve been hearing interesting things about your studies. Maisetra Sovitre appears to be quite impressed with you.”
Had Margerit been discussing her with this stranger? Whatever for? The thought was deeply unsettling.
“There are…” His pause seemed calculated somehow, like a storyteller teasing his listeners. “…some curious questions I have been studying. I was hoping that Maisetra Sovitre might be able to assist me, but—”
In the dark she felt rather than saw him shrug.
“She is a very busy woman,” he continued. “And your name came to mind instead.”
Margerit should have asked her first, but it was warming to think she’d been considered a worthy substitute. “What questions were you investigating?”
He tucked her hand more closely into the crook of his elbow as they strolled down the Vezenaf. “I understand you have a talent for locating and observing the effects of a mystery at a distance. Have you ever tried scrying with a map? Some odd events have drawn my interest—mystical events—and I’m trying to trace their origins.”
Serafina remembered the long frustrating sessions with Paolo with his maps and books. But perhaps she had learned some skills here in Rotenek. What he asked seemed akin to what they’d done with the castellum, overlaying their visions on the map of the countryside. “I’ve worked a little with maps. Margerit will have told you: I can see things, but I can’t work mysteries.”
Mesner Kreiser made a dismissive noise. “The mysteries I want to trace have already been performed. It’s only a matter of determining where.”
Kreiser left her before they reached the Nikuleplaiz, with plans to meet in the church in a few days time. His puzzle was replaced by hunger as she opened Luzie’s door. The aromas that met her suggested that Mefro Chisillic had been coaxed into producing something more daring than her usual. Luzie’s cook favored old-fashioned Alpennian country dishes, intended to fill stomachs rather than tempt palates. Today was different. Serafina sniffed again as Gerta took her coat and Luzie called a greeting from the dining parlor. A hint of ginger and cinnamon, more garlic than Chisillic usually cared to add. Chicken? No, duck. Luzie’s favorite, though she didn’t care for the stronger flavor.
Mother of Souls: A novel of Alpennia Page 19