Mother of Souls: A novel of Alpennia

by Jones, Heather Rose

  “This is an opera!” he said, with an accusatory tone. “Whatever were you thinking?” He stood and moved toward the instrument in the corner without asking leave.

  She hadn’t brought the scores for the fully worked sections. That would have seemed too much of an imposition on his time. But he played around with the motifs, elaborating on them and extending them. Luzie relaxed and sat back, enjoying how his skillful hands turned the familiar phrases into something that one could imagine filling the opera house.

  “And is this your libretto?” he asked, turning the page to the lines of verse.

  “It’s a start on it. I’m not a poet, and for the most part I’ve begun with the music.” She had stopped denying the nature of the project.

  “Well you’ve set yourself quite a challenge,” Fizeir said, closing the notebook and returning it to her. “The story is quite inspiring, I agree. Perhaps in other hands…” It seemed he might continue in that vein, but instead he said, “I think you would do well to play to your strengths. And what in heaven’s name do you imagine you could do with it if you did finish?”

  “I…” There was nothing she could say to that. He was right, of course. What had she expected, that he would offer to find her a patron? Yes, she admitted, that had entered her fantasies.

  “Your work is very well suited to the chamber,” Fizeir said kindly, echoing her thoughts. “I rather liked those settings of Pertulif that you did.”

  Had he? Luzie thought. That wasn’t the impression he’d given at the time. Then, he’d suggested that those works were too ambitious and that she should return her hand to composing student études. It was as if…

  It was, she realized suddenly. It was as if even his praise was a weight tied to her hands to discourage her from aspiring too high. It was impossible that he was jealous of her work! The man was the most famous living composer in Alpennia. And yet every time she’d brought her work to him for advice, the advice had been to set her sights lower, to stay close to the schoolroom and parlor. To close her talent into a box and set it on a shelf rather than letting it out to fly.

  “I thank you for your advice, Maistir Fizeir,” she said, gathering her things to go. “I will consider it.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Margerit

  Late July, 1824

  Margerit balanced on the stepstool and poked between the volumes to see if anything had fallen to the back of the shelf. She looked down at Anna’s waiting face.

  “That’s it, I’m afraid, for alchemy. I thought I had a copy of the Trinosophia, but I might have lent it to Antuniet. Have you spoken with your father yet about attending classes?”

  “Not directly,” Anna said hesitantly. “I’ve talked about the academy, of course, but…”

  “Would you prefer me to talk to him?” Margerit asked. She’d been spending half her days this summer meeting with parents of the girls she had marked out as most persistent at her lecture series. The girls themselves might be eager, but their parents took some coaxing toward the idea of allowing a more extended education. Something beyond a few years of finishing school or safely tucking them away at a convent during the hazardous years before they were ready to come out.

  “Would you?” Anna asked. “I’m afraid he might think that I—”

  “That you were presuming? Not at all,” Margerit said briskly. “You are exactly the sort of student I had in mind!” She turned back to the shelves and ran her finger over a few spines. “Now what else might you be interested in? Some of the newer philosophers perhaps? Hegel or Mazzies?”

  Anna shook her head. “Jeanne…that is, Mesnera de Cherdillac thinks I focus too closely on philosophy anyway. I don’t suppose you have a copy of de Gouges’ The Rights of Women?”

  “The what? No, I doubt it.”

  “And Papa thinks I should read more Jewish writers. Mendelssohn?” she asked. “Or Rodrigues?”

  “Good heavens, I have no idea. Do you have titles?” Perhaps she was too closely focused on philosophy.

  Her next question was interrupted by the maid at the door, announcing, “Sister Petrunel has arrived for you, Maisetra.”

  Ah, the morning had slipped away faster than she thought. Ordinarily she would have received her here in the library, but she didn’t want to dislodge Anna. And Brandel should be at his studies here soon as well.

  “Show her to the parlor,” Margerit said. “I’ll be there as soon as I’ve gathered my notes.”

  “Or I can help you with that,” Petrunel said cheerfully, on the maid’s heels.

  Margerit pushed a curl out of her eyes and descended the steps carefully. “It’s no trouble Petra,” she said with a grin. The sight of her former governess always brought a wave of nostalgia and that sense of being under firm and confident direction. Not that she would return to those days…

  Her manners returned to her. “Sister Petrunel, I don’t know that you’ve met Anna Monterrez. She’s Antuniet Chazillen’s apprentice in alchemy. I’m keeping an eye on her for the summer while Antuniet is away. Anna, this is Sister Petrunel from the Orisules who’s to be headmistress of my college.”

  Petra nodded and Anna had already risen to dip a brief curtsey.

  “Monterrez? The jeweler’s daughter?”

  “One of them,” Anna replied, and then to Margerit, “I can find something on my own. Don’t let me keep you.”

  When they were settled in the parlor, Margerit took up their previous day’s conversation. “Now about astronomy—”

  They had been working their way through the planned curriculum, piece by piece. Petra was so thorough that Margerit sometimes despaired of her leaving the instructors themselves any choice in the matter. But only a few of them had experience in regular teaching. As Petra pointed out, classes were a different matter than presenting an evening’s lecture in a public salle. It was important to show that the students would be given a strong and solid program.

  “That girl seems an unusual choice for an apprentice,” Petra commented.

  Margerit laughed. “When has Maisetra Chazillen done anything in the usual way? But Anna is perfect for her. And she’s the sort of student I want. Serious and studious, but one with no opportunity to pursue a higher education in the usual way.”

  “Do you mean she’s to be one of your students?”

  “If her father agrees,” Margerit said. “That seems to be the case with so many of them! I think I have enough parents convinced for a respectably sized class. It makes sense to start with a small group, focusing on the girls with the most interest. With more, half might drift away and that would dishearten them.”

  “But a Jewish girl…do you think she will be comfortable?” Sister Petrunel seemed to be taken aback and was searching for some tactful objection.

  Margerit frowned. She hadn’t thought that Anna might feel alone in that way. “Perhaps I should ask Maistir Monterrez if he knows any other girls who might be interested.”

  “That wasn’t quite what I meant,” Petra said tartly. “Would she be permitted to study at a Christian school?”

  “I’d scarcely call it that,” Margerit protested. “It’s true I plan to cover thaumaturgy in the curriculum, and that means a certain interest in theology, but nothing formal.” The university dozzures might consider that to be too great a trespass into their own gardens. “I hope there’s no reason why Jewish students wouldn’t feel welcome.”

  Petra said slowly, “I suppose I had assumed…”

  Oh. That possibility hadn’t occurred to Margerit: that hiring Sister Petrunel and filling some of the teaching positions from the ranks of the Orisules might give the impression that her college was meant to be an extension of the convent schools.

  “I never meant it as a religious school, as such,” Margerit ventured, watching Petrunel’s face for reaction.

  “But you mean to teach thaumaturgy.”

  “As a philosophy, yes. And as a study of practices. I’d like—” She’d mentioned this only to a very few pe
ople. “I’d like to see if we can encourage the development of talents in that direction. You yourself said that it’s difficult for girls to get good instruction in thaumaturgy outside the convent. Even the ancient authors talk about the difficulty of passing on traditions when each mystery guild keeps its own secrets so closely. Everyone says Alpennia has a strong tradition of mysteries based on the work of people like Fortunatus and Gaudericus. But that’s centuries past. Where is the new work? Where are their ideas being taught and expanded? I know groups like the Benezets are said to teach their own members, but the guilds guard their traditions too closely. The university doesn’t encourage practice. Not in any practical sense. If thaumaturgy is to revive in importance to the state—”

  She hesitated, wondering how common that knowledge was. Princess Annek had privately encouraged her plans for the school but perhaps she hadn’t meant that support to be public. “Not just the Great Mysteries and the protections of the tutelas, but things that are useful. Like the healing mysteries you do at the convent. Think how much more could be done with more trained thaumaturgists. Or combining ritual with new agricultural practices. We’ve all heard about the failed ceremonies during the French Wars. What if Prince Aukust could have called on a practiced corps that could direct the guilds…?”

  She let the thought trail off, realizing how self-important it sounded that she might change the face of Europe on the basis of a group of schoolgirls.

  Sister Petrunel seemed to have something of the same thought, for she asked gently, “And what makes you think that you should be the one to accomplish this?”

  “Because I’ve been blessed with the skill to know who has talent. True talent. The sort that can be developed. Maisetra Talarico is even more sensitive. She can see traces of ancient mysteries that we’ve lost any ability to recreate. And I’m blessed to be surrounded by colleagues who understand that mysteries can be tuned like a harp or built like architecture. Not just rituals to be acted out the same way we always have. It’s important that we don’t waste those talents just because they happen to have been given to young women who are only allowed to dream of being wives and mothers.”

  “I see,” Sister Petrunel said slowly. “Quite an ambition. I hadn’t realized you were planning a school for sorcerers.”

  Margerit winced at the word even though it was said in jest. “That’s not what I mean. The thaumaturgy would only be one part of the curriculum—for those with the interest and skill. The rest of the girls should have a chance to expand their minds as well, no matter what subject they turn to. We shouldn’t be wasting mathematicians or legal scholars or historians either.”

  “Of course. Then perhaps we should continue discussing those parts of the curriculum,” Sister Petrunel said.

  * * *

  Barbara returned late from the council hall, but it made little disruption in the rhythms of the household. Aunt Bertrut and Uncle Charul were traveling for the summer—visiting in Chalanz for a while, and by now most likely ensconced at Marzim with the crowd of Pertineks. With no regular round of dinners or balls over the summer, Tiporsel House had fallen into the habit of dining en famille in the lower parlor overlooking the back gardens where the windows could be opened to catch the faintest of breezes.

  As the clatter of dishes quieted, Margerit listened to Barbara quizzing her cousin on the day’s lessons. Brandel had returned from his visit in Rapenfil full of family news and was enjoying the novelty of being treated as an adult among adults at the dinner table, expected to join in the conversations rather than keeping silent. Barbara was taking the opportunity of her irregular spaces of free time to drill Brandel on some of the more practical skills of an armin’s duties. He was practicing regularly with pistols now, as well as the sword, riding out past the Port Ausiz to shoot at targets when the parade grounds were empty.

  Academic studies were suspended for the summer as Chautovil was Aukustin’s tutor before all else and the Dowager Princess Elisebet’s household had removed to Fallorek. Perhaps Brandel would be invited to join them next year. Elisebet had not yet chosen to take further notice of her son’s school-fellow, but Barbara had admitted to having thoughts in that direction and it colored the form of Brandel’s less martial lessons. Not only courtly skills like dancing, but the subtler dance of how an armin followed his charge through a crowd, always at hand but never intrusive. How to move soundlessly in ways that whispered or shouted to those around. How to listen for the details of speech and address that gave clues to thought and intent, and might signal some more overt challenge.

  Margerit had come to appreciate the results of those skills, first from Barbara and then under Marken’s watch. But she’d never before heard them laid out as a lesson plan so baldly. She asked Barbara about it that evening, when they had retired to their room and she had dismissed Maitelen to finish brushing out Barbara’s long tawny hair on her own. It was still too warm and sticky for bed and the long, even strokes of the brush were a more comfortable intimacy.

  “Who taught you?” she asked as the golden wave fell loose and she lifted the brush again. “Those things you’re teaching Brandel, who taught them to you?”

  Her movements raised a scent of lavender and well-dressed leather and even a hint horses still lingering. She loved how Barbara’s presence evoked memories of adventure. It took her back to the first time they’d spoken, years ago in the park in Chalanz.

  “The baron taught me, though not in the same way.” Barbara tipped her head back to lean into the slow movements. “And, of course, he had other armins before me. They were willing to give advice once they saw I was to be more than a curiosity. The baron—” Now Barbara’s face twisted in not entirely pleasant memories. “He taught more by disapproval. He would say, ‘Attend me’ and then my only guidance would be frowns and sidelong looks.”

  Barbara could speak of it more calmly now than she once had, when the wound of his betrayal was more raw. Margerit had enjoyed far less of the baron’s irascible personality, but she could easily imagine how it must have been. She turned the conversation away from that sore point. “Is there any progress in the council?” She set the brush aside and began twisting the hair into a loose braid.

  A wry humor infused Barbara’s answer. “We seem to be on the verge of agreeing that administration of water transport has always been within the ambit of the common council. A commission has been funded to oversee dredging, though the execution will take longer to plan. That may be the best we can hope for.”

  Margerit tied the ribbon off and then leaned down to place a kiss where an old scar made the part in her hair jog sideways. “And will that be an end of it?”

  “No.” Barbara leaned back against her but their eyes met in the dressing table mirror. “The commons are being more sensible than we are these days. They can decide whether closing off the canals will make the slightest difference in how high the Rotein runs, and we can return to squabbling over toll roads or whatever the latest outrage might be. No more council until the season begins again, though. Too late for most to remove entirely for what’s left of the summer, but I expect the plaiz should be a little more empty for the next month. And what of you? Is the college taking all your time?”

  “Not all,” Margerit answered. “I have a new mystery to work on for the court. And there’s always time for you.” Summer heat or no, the bed was calling.

  * * *

  When Margerit stepped down from the carriage in front of Maisetra Valorin’s house, she could hear the faint sound of the fortepiano from the front walk. It was only student lessons, with none of the unsettling pull of Maisetra Valorin’s own music. Serafina must have been watching from the parlor window, for she opened the door before there was a need to knock and closed it again quietly behind her.

  “Will we have everything we need to start working today?” Serafina asked as they settled themselves on the cushions and the carriage jerked into motion.

  “I think so,” Margerit answered. “Princess Annek fina
lly found the time to draw up the remaining requirements for the ceremony.”

  It was only a minor mystery: some changes to the routines of the palace guards. They were accustomed enough to the ceremonial nature of their work that the additions would be no burden. Whether those changes would evoke any additional protection would depend, in part, on the participants. As with any mystery, the repetitions by enough different individuals were sure to catch the ear of the saints at some point. This was a subtle armor. Therein lay both its strength and its flaw. How many such rituals had been established in the past, only to be discarded by those who could see no immediate value?

  Indeed, most wouldn’t have thought developing them worth the trouble, except for the convenience of having a thaumaturgist attached to the court. When she had first been appointed, Margerit might have considered it a waste of her talents. And it was frustrating to hear the constant reports of failures and disasters across the land and face Annek’s refusal to set her to work on them. But in the past three years, she’d grown more appreciative of how Annek chose to use her skills. It was not enough to have power, it must be seen to be used and that use must be seen to be effective and successful. The palace rituals were—not exactly practice, but a foundation. Annek had hinted that others were at work on the Great Mysteries. Enough. Margerit was tired of battering at those doors. On these small things, she could apply her talents fully, and there was a chance to teach Serafina the more practical aspects of the art.

  Margerit realized how lost in thought she had been when Serafina asked, “It’s going well? The preparations?”

  “I’m sorry! Yes,” she replied hastily. “It’s only that there’s so much to do still. I don’t know how I’d manage without Sister Petrunel. You’ve met her, yes?”

  A nod.

  “You’ll like the new workroom, I think,” Margerit continued. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have had them finish it before the classrooms were done. But I couldn’t bear the thought of one more project on the library table at home.”