Mother of Souls: A novel of Alpennia

by Jones, Heather Rose

  “He was never banned,” Margerit countered. “Just discouraged. People thought his teaching would lead to heresy and sorcery but I don’t think I believe in sorcery.”

  “Kreiser does.” Serafina’s eyes glinted sharply in the faint light from the carriage lamps. “At least he talks about sorcery like something entirely different from church mysteries.”

  Margerit frowned. “I think sorcery is just what people call it when they don’t like the purpose of a mystery. Whether it’s a charmwife telling your fortune or the great mysteries in the cathedral, it all comes from the same source. It’s all by God’s will.”

  “And what about all the evil things creeping in through the cracks in the Mauriz mystery?” Serafina asked. “Do you think that’s God’s will?”

  “I think…” Margerit said slowly, picking her way around the theological traps. “…that people may act in God’s name and still do evil, either by intent or inadvertence. I think that even the saints can’t protect us from every unlucky circumstance. And—” She held up a hand to stop Serafina’s objection. “—I think we can’t always know what God’s purpose is in granting a miracle.”

  “That seems to be no answer at all,” Serafina said. “We just continue on as we please and if we succeed it must have been God’s will.”

  Margerit sank back into the cushions. “I don’t know. It’s beyond me. I’m only sure of the how and not the why. But what I do know,” she said, returning to the subject at hand, “is that we’re teaching the how and not the why. The mechanics have been the secret province of a few guildmasters for too long. Who even knows whether they have the right talents? I want to change all that. Anyone who has talent should have a chance to learn. I only wish I had a better way to find them.”

  “It isn’t enough to find them,” Serafina said. There was a wistful tone as if she had someone in particular in mind.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You could walk through the streets of Rotenek looking for signs of mystic talent, but that doesn’t mean that you could help them when you found them. There’s a girl I know—just the sort who could have benefitted from being taught, if she’d started early. But your school won’t help her.”

  “Why not?” Margerit demanded. “You know I’ve said I’ll take charity students.”

  “But she’s not the sort who would take charity. And she helps support her mother. She couldn’t simply leave all that behind to come to school. She’ll be a charm-wife and a good one, but even you can’t offer her the chance to be a thaumaturgist.”

  Then they were arrived at Maisetra Valorin’s house and Margerit had no chance to ask further.

  * * *

  In the last week of the term, in the midst of the scramble to finish in time, Margerit was startled in the middle of lecture to see Barbara’s face framed in the doorway, with Anna Monterrez at her side. Barbara never came down to the academy unannounced! Her first thought was of some disaster, but both of them wore broad grins that could mean only one thing.

  “Antuniet?” Margerit asked eagerly.

  “Safely delivered,” Barbara assured her to the cheers of the entire class. “A girl.” She seemed almost surprised at that.

  Margerit would have handed the class over to Serafina and been on her way in an instant, but Barbara laughed at her impatience.

  “It will be days yet before she’s receiving visitors. There’s no hurry! But I thought you’d want to know.”

  It might have been days before other visitors were welcome, but their wait was shorter. The next evening Margerit’s carriage had barely drawn to a stop before the steps of Tiporsel House when Barbara hurried out to join her saying, “We’ve been summoned.”

  Antuniet, true to form, had refused the physician’s orders to lie abed for the first two weeks and received them in the new-furnished nursery under the watchful eye of its attendant. If Margerit had thought that motherhood might change Antuniet, she quickly discarded that notion. It was Jeanne who cooed and hovered over the baby and brought it carefully for their inspection. Antuniet, looking drawn but satisfied—almost smug—presided over the gathering with the air of a queen holding state.

  “So you see you were wrong,” she announced to Barbara. “My alchemical child will not be the next Baron Saveze.”

  “No,” Barbara agreed. “The next Baroness Saveze. And quite a line she will have to live up to.”

  Unlike Antuniet, Barbara had gone quite soft and almost motherly in the presence of the baby. Margerit watched her and Jeanne with their heads together over the small bundle and nearly burst out laughing when she caught Antuniet’s eye.

  “Have you decided on a name?” she asked.

  Jeanne looked up and said, “Yes, do draw it out of her. I’ve had no success. I suspect we’re waiting on the mysterious messages coming and going to the palace all day.” She glanced at Antuniet meaningfully.

  “I had thought,” Antuniet said, “to name her Anna. But Her Grace has indicated that her support falls short of being named godmother.”

  And that name might have been confusing, Margerit thought, her mind turning at first to the other Anna in their lives.

  “And so,” Antuniet continued, “I have settled on Iohanna, in honor of Her Grace’s mother.” She looked over at Jeanne with a smile. “Of course, it’s a common name. I see no need to be a stickler for tradition, but I’m sure I can find a namesake to stand as sponsor.”

  Evidently the choice was a surprise even to Jeanne, for her eyes filled with sudden tears. “Iohanna Chazillen,” she whispered to the baby. “Do you like that?”

  “Do you still wish me to stand as well?” Barbara asked.

  Antuniet nodded. “If you are willing. Both of you.” She included Margerit in the nod. “With three such godmothers, what could stop her?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Luzie

  April, 1825

  A ripple of laughter ran around the table as Chisillic carried in the moulded orange crème herself and placed on the sideboard for Gerta to serve.

  “Now what’s this I hear about a shortage of oranges, Maistir Ovimen?” the cook asked.

  Luzie watched her father repeat the comic tale, gesturing with those familiar hands, the fingers now knobbed with age. His hands might have lost the ability to play, but not the ability to draw a performance from others, whether the small consort assembled for the Tanfrit or the diners around her close-crowded table. She exchanged a glance with her mother and smiled as the years melted away.

  Issibet was now chiming in with a counterstory about the hard years during the French Wars, and the part a particular shipment of oranges had played in ensuring the success of a production they had both worked on. Luzie had been too young to understand the significance at the time, but she’d heard the story many times in years after and could almost convince herself she remembered that treasured sweetness.

  She would remember this in the same way: how her brother Gauterd had made time from his contracted performances to join her production, how her parents had made the journey from Iuten not only to witness the debut of her opera, but to add to the preparations. Her father had stood listening to the rehearsals in an unused academy building for only five minutes before he’d bluntly suggested that the musical direction be put into his hands. And those hands had coaxed the oddly assorted group of musicians and singers into a partnership. Even Benedetta Cavalli had abandoned her demands and airs at hearing that Iannik Ovimen had taken the reins. Luzie had forgotten the respect her father had commanded in his time. And it had been that gesture—treating her work as worthy of his labor—that had meant the most.

  Half of her wished the boys could have been here—and Gauterd’s wife and children as well—but the other half was grateful to avoid that added distraction. And where would she have put them all? As it was she had surrendered her own room to her parents and imposed on Serafina to make space for her, while Gauterd commanded Alteburk’s room leaving the housekeeper to crowd in with the
maids for the duration of the visit. No doubt there had been grumbling where she couldn’t hear it, but the atmosphere was more like a floodtide holiday where everyone laughingly made do for the sake of being together.

  Though one might think there was enough music in their lives at the moment, with the performance only two days away, they gathered in the parlor in the evening, bringing in extra chairs from the dining room, and she accompanied Gauterd for violin concertos.

  “You were very quiet all evening,” Luzie said later as Serafina blew out the light and slipped under the covers beside her. “I hope that letter you received wasn’t bad news. You’ve hardly spoken since it came.”

  She felt Serafina’s arms go around her and moved closer.

  “Luzie…do you love me?”

  A small ripple of panic went through her. Every time her thoughts had brushed close to that question she had turned away. Why couldn’t they simply continue on like this? Enjoying the comfort of each other’s bodies in the dark? Sharing the wonder of the music? Knowing there was someone who would always be there for the joys and sorrows?

  “Serafina, I—” They had never spoken the word “love,” not for what lay between them. That word would make them more than friends. It would turn delight into something…something more frightening. Love belonged to another world entirely, another time, other people. “Oh, Serafina.”

  “Never mind,” came the voice in the dark. “It doesn’t matter.”

  But it did matter.

  * * *

  It had drizzled in the early morning when the entire household had walked together down to Saint Nikule’s for Easter morning services. Luzie had been in agonies, thinking it would drive away the audience, but by the time they emerged, so had the sun. As the company gathered later in the shelter of the old guildhall arcade and the sounds of the celebrations at Saint Mauriz’s echoed across the stones, those stones were dry once more.

  The first crowds began drifting out and down the steps of the cathedral. Her father signaled the opening notes of the horns and Luzie clenched Serafina’s hand tightly enough to hurt. But Serafina was already lost in her visions, looking around her in wonder at the colors of the music that Luzie could only imagine.

  They had drawn out the overture to have more time to catch the crowd. It would have been far too long in a theater, but Jeanne had insisted—the one time she had commented on the music itself. From where she watched, at one side of the stage area but still under the arcade, Luzie saw the first fringe of curious listeners deepen until there was no light between the bodies. After that, there was no telling how many had gathered.

  The crowd had not been left entirely to chance, of course. Jeanne had carefully planted hints and suggestions. And there were those who had been included in the secret. The horns shifted into the triumphal march and voices rose as the chorus emerged in a procession from behind the temporary curtains, wearing archaic university robes. The ancient stone arches formed the perfect backdrop for the story. And there was Madame Cavalli, commanding the stage with Tanfrit’s opening aria.

  Luzie had expected the performance to feel excruciatingly slow. It always felt that way in rehearsals. But now the music stood in time as a single whole. To begin was to exist in eternity and to conclude all at once. It seemed they had barely started when the first act finished with the duet between Tanfrit and Gaudericus, and then Theodorus adding his baritone counterpoint of jealousy under it all for the concluding trio. She held her breath. There was applause, only a scattering at first, as they hadn’t the cue of a curtain to mark the interval, but then growing to a respectable noise. This was the test: would they stay? The opera house was as much a grand parlor for visiting and display as it was a performance venue. Here, they had nothing but the music to hold people’s attention.

  Perhaps not only the music. Calls started up from the edges of the crowd hawking food and drink. The audience shifted, loosened, drifted, but they didn’t leave. Not most of them. Luzie saw Jeanne moving gracefully among the front ranks, chatting and smiling, a word here, a laugh there. If only she had the confidence to do the same! She turned to Serafina, realizing that their hands were still gripped so tightly her fingers had gone numb.

  “What do you see?” Luzie whispered eagerly.

  “I see a spell being woven,” Serafina whispered back. Her face twisted in thought. “It needs— No, save that for later. Did you see when Gaudericus first appeared and he recognizes Tanfrit and sings about how their minds will join as one—I swear there were women in the audience who almost swooned. And then when Theodorus began to sing, they—”

  “Shh,” Luzie interrupted. “We’ll be starting again soon.” She had seen her father signal to the musicians. Had the interval been so short or had it, too, sped by without her noticing?

  Later, she would find it hard to remember the second act. She remembered the shiver that ran through the crowd when Theodorus offered Tanfrit the forbidden book, singing of the joys of learning and knowledge in a sinister echo of the first act’s love duet. She remembered the way Serafina’s breath caught when the chorus of university dozzures lifted their voices up around Tanfrit, predicting her fame and glory in the song “No woman past or yet to come.” She remembered the way the audience stood gathered, rapt, impatient throughout the second interval until she feared they would begin demanding the final act before the singers were ready.

  It began with a stirring in the blood like a tide pulsing in her veins. Tanfrit’s aria “I offer up to you,” Gaudericus recoiling from the gift, proclaiming his dedication to the purity of learning, “I pledge myself to you alone.” Tanfrit’s echo of the theme, despairing at having lost his love along with his trust. Theodorus taunting her after she spurns him, joining the procession of dozzures, leaving her alone on the Pont Vezzen. And then the climactic aria as Tanfrit chooses to throw herself from the bridge, “Let the waters rise up and wash away my sorrow.” Benedetta’s voice soared above the crowd, not in a cry of despair but an anthem of triumph. As she raised her arms, calling on the Rotein to receive her, Luzie could feel the surge of the water, the pulse of waves, rising, demanding, taking her into their embrace.

  The music washed over and through her. There was a hush, and then the lone voice of a bassoon taking up the processional music in a minor key as the chorus returned, lamenting the flood that had washed through the city. So many lost. The body of Tanfrit found floating in the waters. Gaudericus lifting her up and singing “I pledge myself to you alone,” dedicating his scholarship to her memory, while in the background the chorus of dozzures, led by Theodorus, reversing the message of “No woman past or yet to come,” into a lament for feminine weakness, tested past its limits by the rigors of intellectual life. They had argued over that until the last, she and Serafina. But the opera was a tragedy, in the end.

  The strings, like the waters of the Rotein, rose up and covered the last notes of the singers to mark the finale. Applause, like a pattering of raindrops, scattered among the crowd, rising to a cloudburst of sound. Luzie found herself breathing heavily, as if she had run a race. Her father turned, signaling the singers to return for their bows. And there was Jeanne, dragging her by the hand out into their midst and cries acclaiming the author, and the bewildering knowledge that they were cheering for her. For her and Tanfrit. There was no need even to think of Fizeir and how people would compare the two. It didn’t matter. Nothing could compare to her Tanfrit. Nothing.

  * * *

  Someone must have made arrangements. Someone must have seen that the sets were packed off and the music collected. Someone must have hired the upper rooms at the Café Chatuerd, and that must have been done well in advance. Jeanne, no doubt. Luzie moved in a daze as the crowd finally thinned out and they drifted in a small crowd across the Plaiz to the café. She had dined in the lower rooms on occasion, but never climbed those sweeping stairs to that chamber of crystal and gilt chandeliers, with the city spread out beneath the bowed windows.

  There was champagne
and tables of pastries and a circle of admiring and excited faces: the musicians and singers, the patrons and close friends, all her family, both of blood and residence. There were speeches. Luzie was content for others to make them. Her father went on at length about her talents. Count Chanturi—Jeanne hadn’t told her before who her mysterious patron had been—proudly took credit for recognizing her genius. Madame Cavalli held forth on the honor of creating the role of Tanfrit, though it was hard to say whether she felt she was being honored or conferring that honor. And then Luzie could not escape being pulled into the center of the room while everyone raised their glasses in toast and she stammered a few incoherent thanks before retreating once more.

  Then a stream of well-wishers. At every turn, a word of congratulations, a compliment. Jeanne had gathered a careful selection of the cream of society. She recognized Mesnera Arulik, the Marzulins, the Peniluks, Count and Countess Amituz, Lord and Lady Marzim, even—to her shock and surprise—Baron Razik, Efriturik Atilliet himself. At a slight cough behind her she turned…and froze. Maistir Fizeir stood paused at the top of the stairs, still in the sober black suit he must have worn for Easter services. His expression was fixed, like the smile painted on a puppet. He bowed stiffly.

  “Maisetra Valorin.”

  Had he seen the opera? She didn’t dare ask. But if not, why was he here? His eyes flicked briefly off to her left. She glanced over and saw Count Chanturi watching them. The count raised his fluted glass briefly in salute.

  “Maisetra Valorin, I must—” He took a breath. “I must congratulate you on your success. You have a rare talent.”

  Before she could do more than dip a brief curtsey in acknowledgment, her father was there at her side, clapping him on the shoulder.

  “Fizeir! Good to see you again! What have you been up to while I’ve been kicking my heels in the provinces?”

  Luzie made her escape. Serafina found her by the pastries. Picking off the layers of a flaky mille-feuille gave her something to do with her hands, though she wasn’t in the least hungry.