“Yes, Valeir?” she said. “What is it?”
“How will it work to try to…to describe fluctus in pictures when I don’t see it?”
Serafina paused in laying out the drawings to answer. “Visio is the most common way of perceiving phasmata, if the word ‘common’ can be used at all. But even for visions it isn’t a simple question.”
From the corner of her eye, Serafina saw two figures slip quietly into the room. Not tardy students, but Margerit herself and a stranger in the dark clothing of a priest. It wasn’t at all uncommon for guests to observe the classes: parents who wanted to see what their daughters would be studying or simply the curious. And not surprising, perhaps, that a priest might be sent to examine what was being taught in the way of thaumaturgy. Margerit made a silent gesture to continue, so Serafina turned back to her topic.
“The depictio isn’t a true image. None of these are, any more than letters written on a page are the sound of a word.” She caught the eye of a plump, dark-haired girl at the far side of the table. “Helen, write your name on the board.” She nodded encouragingly to indicate that this was not intended as punishment.
The girl traced the letters crisply and precisely.
“Now in Greek,” she instructed.
With only the slightest hesitation, Helen wrote Ἑλένη.
“Now in Latin.”
Back to the more familiar letters: Helena.
“Now,” Serafina asked, “are those the same name?”
The students looked confused and uncertain.
“They’re not the same…” Valeir began.
Serafina returned to the dark-haired girl. “Who is your name-saint?”
“Sain-Helen,” she replied promptly.
“And if you read her life and miracles in Bartholomeus, what do you read on the page?”
Her eyes brightened in understanding and she said, “Sancta Helena.”
“Is that two saints or one?” Serafina asked. This time she directed the question to the whole cluster of girls.
“One,” they chorused.
Serafina nodded to indicate they’d done well. “So here you have a depictio that Maisetra Sovitre made during the Mystery of Saint Mauriz.” She returned to the images they’d been studying. “If I had represented that same moment of the ceremony—” She cast her mind back, though it hardly mattered in detail. “—I would have called the currents here more of a reddish-pink where she has green. I would have said it pulsed slightly, which she hasn’t indicated. And these lines here at the side are meant to indicate the aural part, but I rarely hear things during mysteries. Someone else who is a tactile sensitive might describe the same thing as a breath of warm air followed by a prickling as if an insect were walking on their skin.”
Two of the girls shuddered at that description.
“And yet the mystery is the same. The grace of God through Saint Mauriz is the same.” Serafina chose those words for the unknown priestly observer. Margerit was usually the one who insisted on the language of charis and miracles.
She returned to Valeir’s question. “So when we practice recording how we perceive the working of power, you will need to decide for yourself how to describe what you experience, for it will be different from anyone else.”
Abruptly she gathered up the pages they’d been studying and chose a different set. “Now let’s look at this little healing mystery and work through the depictio that Maisetra Sovitre has provided.”
It wasn’t the lesson they’d been meant to do. But in the presence of the visiting priest she thought it best to set the Mauriz text aside. The church could be remarkably jealous of ceremonies they considered their own and it would be hard to discuss that one without touching on its flaws.
* * *
“Your friend Maisetra Sovitre will be here in a little while,” Luzie said over breakfast. “She asked me to make sure you didn’t miss her.”
Serafina set her cup down with a clatter. “What?” Had she confused the day? And why would she pass messages through Luzie?
“She’s bringing her cousin to see about lessons. I suppose she didn’t want to wait until I have my schedule arranged, and I couldn’t very well put her off. I hope the girl can manage with once a week. Have you met her?”
Serafina nodded. “I see her down at the academy, though not often as she isn’t studying thaumaturgy.” She thought of sharing the gossip around the girl’s sudden appearance, but not with Charluz and Elinur present. “Margerit is very strict with her, so I doubt you’ll have any trouble.”
When Iulien had been settled at the fortepiano in the parlor and been quizzed on the beginning of a concerto to Luzie’s satisfaction, Margerit admonished her, “I’ll try to return before the end of your lesson, but if I don’t you’re to stay here and wait for me.”
Serafina stood waiting with coat and bonnet. “Where are we going? There isn’t time to go all the way to Urmai and back.”
“I’ll tell you on the way.”
The carriage rattled along the narrow streets, heading back toward Tiporsel House, but as they turned away from the river and up the steep rise to the Plaiz, Margerit explained, “I’m hoping you can do me a favor. I simply haven’t the time or patience at the moment—especially not the patience—and Father Tomos thought you would be acceptable. Though you mustn’t repeat what I said about patience! He was with me when we visited your class the other day.”
Yes, the priest. “Acceptable to whom?”
Margerit sighed. “I hardly know. The archbishop, but I don’t know who else is involved.”
A startled squeak escaped Serafina’s throat.
“They want someone with visio, someone who can make careful observations. But they still have no interest in my analysis, so I offered your services instead. I hope you don’t mind.”
The carriage brought them not to the cathedral itself but to the offices that stood along the east side of the Plaiz beside it. They were led to an upper room that had the look of a small dining chamber taken over for other purposes. Serafina thought she recognized Father Tomos, though she’d paid little enough attention to him at the time, but the older man was unfamiliar until she saw past the plainness of his cassock.
He nodded to them both. “Maisetra Sovitre, I’m sorry to hear that your duties won’t allow you to lend your assistance. Maisetra…ah…Talarico?” He stared at her curiously. “We have not yet had the pleasure, I believe.”
Serafina’s tongue froze in her mouth. How did one address an archbishop? She’d never thought to need to know. She dipped a curtsey and stammered something.
Margerit filled in the awkward silence. “I do regret that my duties to my college—after those to Her Grace, of course—leave me no time. Two years past, of course, I had fewer responsibilities.”
If the archbishop noticed the edge in Margerit’s voice, Serafina couldn’t see any reaction to it.
“Indeed,” he said. “Two years past the city guildmasters had not yet brought their concerns to me. Maisetra Talarico, has our request been explained to you?”
“Not…not in detail. I was told you wanted my visions…”
“We would like your powers of observation,” he corrected. “The guildmasters and I will be restoring and improving the original version of the Great Mystery of Saint Mauriz. We need someone with the sensitivity to assess the results as we work.”
So, Serafina thought. Margerit had won. Or…if not won, then at least the old men had belatedly come to the same conclusion she had. And though it was true that the college filled every moment of Margerit’s time, it was also true that her pride had been hurt by the archbishop’s refusal to accept her analysis. That analysis had been a masterpiece. Serafina had recognized it when she first saw it in Rome, knowing nothing of its origins. And they had treated it as a schoolgirl’s exercise. Even now, they hadn’t asked for Margerit’s analysis or her talents in design, only for her visio. But if visio were all they needed, she could be an acceptable substitute. Sera
fina took a slow breath.
“Your Excellency, I haven’t the skill that Maisetra Sovitre has in devising mysteries, but I have eyes to see, and I can know whether a mystery has achieved its purpose. If my poor talents can serve in her stead, you are welcome to them.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Barbara
October, 1824
When pressed to it, Barbara had to admit that she enjoyed the grand balls of the season. That is, she had begun enjoying them after the first few years, once the suitors had given up hope of her granting them anything more than a dance and a penetrating conversation about politics. Back when she had attended on the old baron, she had stood watchfully in the arcades and galleries, focused entirely on him and those around him. In those days, she’d wondered why he bothered with dancing masters and lessons in comportment if she were only to be a spectator. She’d denied it at the time, but she’d envied the bright and elegant figures in the center of the salles, knowing she had no entrance to that world except in Baron Saveze’s service.
Then the world had turned upside down and she became Saveze.
Barbara had arrived late and danced a set with Rikerd Ovinze, and then another with Perrez Chalfin, before seeking out her hosts to exchange pleasantries. With several daughters of an age for dancing, the Alboris had become part of the backbone of the season—these grand events designed to introduce a parade of accomplished young women to a similar parade of promising young men. The family’s connection to Lord Albori, the foreign minister, meant they could attract the cream of Rotenek society, despite not falling within the upper ranks themselves. She watched Renoz Albori move through the figures in a gown of apricot silk, overlaid with silver tissue. Her sister must have accepted an offer, or she wouldn’t have been allowed to outshine her.
“Another triumph I see, Verneke,” Barbara commented, nodding in Renoz’s direction. “Mihail, I’m guesing the rumors are true that your eldest has settled her choice at last. Is your cousin here tonight? I haven’t seen him yet.”
Mihael Albori harrumphed in acknowledgment. “Yes, though I beg you’ll allow him one evening without a word of affairs in France!”
Barbara smiled, knowing that Lord Albori himself had no such aversion. It was another hour before she found herself in company with the minister and, as she had guessed, he was deep in conversation over matters unrelated to the ball.
Estapez was asking, “Are you likely to be sent back so soon? I thought Perzin was to take charge of our interests in Paris.”
“He’s a good enough boy. Very sharp. But I expect Her Grace will want someone more experienced until matters settle down again.”
Barbara guessed correctly at which matters they were discussing when Estapez returned, “But he’d been ill for quite some time. Surely the French ministers have everything in hand?”
“You’re speaking of the death of King Louis?” Barbara asked. The question briefly drew their attention, and then the circle reformed and she was accepted into the conversation.
“Nothing is ever settled until there’s a funeral and a coronation,” Albori said. “There’s no judging a king until he’s worn the crown a while. We have no idea what sort of neighbor Charles will be.”
It was the sort of idle banter that Barbara knew was common in the clubs, but she had access to it only at events such as this, or around the council hall. That made balls even more of an attraction than the dancing did. Nothing of any importance would be decided in such a setting, yet she enjoyed being accepted into the debate.
She both wished Margerit were at her side and was glad to spare her what she would find tedious. Politics amused her even less than dancing. Barbara scanned the room and her eyes settled on a tall figure at the far side. Now there was another person who appeared only grudgingly in the Grand Salle.
Antuniet stood regally at the edge of the knot of admirers surrounding Jeanne. They had come to a compromise, where Antuniet would accompany Jeanne into society on occasion, then drift away to quiet corners when the press and noise became too much. They had their little rituals to maintain the truce.
Barbara watched one of those rituals now as Jeanne reached out briefly to touch the crimson pendant that always hung at Antuniet’s throat before returning to her audience. Antuniet turned to retreat to the far end of the salle where a glassed-in conservatory opened off toward the gardens and one might find some solitude even during the bustle of a high season ball.
Something in the way that Antuniet moved nagged at Barbara’s attention. When you had trained with the sword for more than half your life, you never stopped seeing such things: a change in balance, a shift in how one carried oneself. They had met to consult on the current set of alchemical gems several times in the last weeks. Had she stood too closely to notice? Her gaze followed Antuniet’s path across the salle. At first the impossibility of the suspicion baffled her. Yet the signs were unmistakable now that she looked for them. Barbara’s lips thinned into a grim line as she counted back. Without seeming to follow, she too drifted toward the far end of the salle.
How dare she? With everything…Barbara’s anger rose quickly to such a pitch that by the time she entered the conservatory on Antuniet’s heels she had distilled her demands down into two words.
“Who? When?” They were uttered with a quiet intensity not meant to carry to the other ears in the room.
To Barbara’s annoyance, Antuniet relaxed, as if a weight had been removed. She looked around the dim room at those other ears. “Is this truly a conversation you wish to have here and now?”
Antuniet inescapably had the right of it. Barbara said stiffly, “How early would it be convenient for me to wait on you in the morning?”
Good heavens, even to herself she sounded like she was arranging a duel.
“If you like, I think I could manage eight o’clock,” Antuniet said coolly. “In my workshop, not at home. That will give us an hour or so before the others arrive.”
* * *
Tiporsel House no longer kept to anything resembling society hours. Margerit had already risen and dragged her young cousin out of bed to go down to the academy for the day, so there was no need to dodge awkward questions about her own errand. They had promised each other—a promise often repeated but just as often bent—never to keep secrets, no matter what the excuse. But it was hard sometimes to find the line between secrets and mere suspicions.
Neither had Barbara meant to exclude Tavit from the nature of the errand, but it had been a late evening and Brandel was going to the palace for lessons, so it was natural to excuse her armin for the brief ride over. She dismissed the question of attendance for her return. Tavit worried too much.
The decision let her deflect her mind from the coming confrontation with questions to Brandel about his new duties.
“Have you come to an understanding with Maisetra Fulpi yet?” she asked. The two had squabbled a few times until Iulien had been made to understand that though she might be under Brandel’s watch, she could only ask and not command his attendance.
“Oh, Iuli’s a good sort, I suppose,” Brandel offered, reining his horse closer so they needn’t shout as they rode along the Vezenaf toward the Plaiz. “At least she hasn’t asked me to stand around while she takes tea like Marken does for Maisetra Sovitre.”
Barbara found the image almost enough to lighten her mood as far as a smile. “Being an armin is ninety-nine days of watching your charge dance and drink tea for one day of adventure.”
“I know,” Brandel said with an exaggerated sigh.
“Let me tell you of an armin’s duty,” Barbara said, launching into a story from the old baron’s time and then concluding with the admonishment, “Maisetra Fulpi will give you a good deal of practice, I think, in heading off trouble before it begins without provoking outright rebellion.”
And then they were at the gates of the palace and handed the reins to waiting grooms to go their own ways.
Barbara found Antuniet engaged in a desultory
inventory of her chemical stores. The great rotating furnace had been poked to just enough life to heat the room but there were no signs of a firing in the offing. Antuniet’s choice of the ground to face her was for more than privacy. This was her territory. Barbara breathed in the sharp scents of acid and sulfur that had become Antuniet’s signature.
The anger that had simmered on the ride over now flared up in the face of her cousin’s calm composure. Instead of the two questions from the night before, Barbara launched into, “Why? What in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing? Or was it simply an accident? I never would have thought you would be the one of the pair of you to go catting about on the side.”
It was an ugly question, but Barbara felt the desire to shake that bland composure.
“The Chazillen legacy,” Antuniet said simply. “That was my whole purpose from the beginning, you recall. I have a warrant from Princess Annek for my children to inherit my name and rank.”
“And what sort of legacy will it be?” Barbara demanded. “How many lives do you plan to destroy for the sake of that name? Your own for a start. I doubt Princess Annek has use for open proof of fornication in her court! Jeanne’s life as well, to be sure, though you’ll certainly distract from the rest of the gossip about the two of you. But you might have given a thought to my reputation. It’s been hard enough this year with that damned novel and the troubles in council and everything. And Princess Annek’s reputation as well, if she doesn’t do the sensible thing and simply cast you off.”
A rare smile quirked the corner of Antuniet’s mouth. “I rather think Princess Annek’s reputation will be enhanced by patronizing an alchemist who can achieve the most difficult of the Great Works. No other crowned head in Europe in the last hundred years can boast of an alchemist who achieved a homunculus.”
Mother of Souls: A novel of Alpennia Page 36