Revenant Eve

by Sherwood Smith

  “I will have to consult the Elders,” Elisheva said. “This goes beyond my learning. But before I do, I must ask. Did you tell Domnu Zusya that seraphs spoke to you?”

  “Yes. One did.”

  Elisheva whispered some words in Hebrew and touched the crystal at her neck, then said, “Demons do not speak in this world, or not that I have heard. Another thing that Domnu Zusya told us: He can sometimes hear demons, like a vast wind. He says that all across the western horizon they are gathering and facing east.”

  “How reliable is he?” Margit asked. “I know he’s the savior of my brother. I’ve been hearing that for all these years, as Jaska apparently preferred his company to being home. But a brute on the battlefield does not necessarily make a good mage, or a good man.”

  “I’ve been asked to listen as they question him,” Elisheva said. “The Eldest sent a message down from Mount Dhiavilyi a week ago, saying that he saw someone, or something, of great power. He saw it as a light, shaped like a crown, coming toward us. He told someone the same day you met his highness, your brother, that this crown of power had crossed the border into Dobrenica.” She glanced at the window. “The Eldest does not know if it be thing, spell, or person…and that reminds me. I must be at Ridotski House at noon, and it is half an hour’s walk.”

  “There’s no hurry,” Margit said. “I gave the order for the gig.”

  “It’s a kind thought, but to trouble a horse when I have two good legs?” Elisheva curtseyed.

  “I believe we should all go to Ridotski House,” Margit said, with a meaningful glance Aurélie’s way. “If you’re willing, Donna Aurélie.”

  Aurélie dropped a little curtsey, graceful and dignified.

  “Then let us go. I will give orders for wraps to be brought.”

  The two started out, then Aurélie said, “A moment—I will catch up—the ribbon is loose on my shoe.”

  The moment the other two were out of sight Aurélie bent, pulling aside the hem of her gown. But instead of retying her shoe, she checked to make certain the necklace was as flat as she could make it beneath her stocking as she whispered in English, “Until I know I can trust them, I do not want anyone seeing the necklace. It should stay well hidden now. What were they talking about?”

  “A Salfpatra, the one they call the Eldest, saw something or someone powerful coming with us, and they don’t know if it’s the same danger that Mord apparently sees.”

  “Is the powerful thing you?” Aurélie asked. “Except that you have no powers!”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

  She hastened after the others and caught up at the grand marble stairway.

  The gig was not a simple open carriage the size of a cart, pulled by a single horse, like the one Aurélie and Cassandra had driven. This was a stylish affair rather like en elegant sleigh with wheels, pulled by a team and driven by a liveried fellow complete to powdered wig, with another riding behind in order to open the low door and let down the two steps.

  The conversation was desultory—about a concert the week before. The cobbled streets were clean swept, and citizens with their carts and tools dressed in eighteenth-century clothes, with medieval-looking smocks and caps.

  Ridotski House had an impressive garden on either side. I was used to the broad sweep for cars that circled up to the entrance; instead, the front of the house was more a garden edged by roses at either side of a narrow lane.

  The house from the outside looked pretty much the same, but inside, it was very different. There were still Dobreni folk patterns painted under the ceiling, but they were actually embellished sayings in calligraphic Hebrew.

  The furniture was beautiful carved wood in Renaissance styles. I wondered if it had all come straight from Italy, as it had that Florentine flavor.

  Gathered were a small group of older folk: two nuns, a monk in a white cassock, a bearded man wearing a furry cap, and the familiar cherubic face of Shmuel Ridotski.

  The Salfmattas and Salfpatras looked in muted surprise at Aurélie until Margit said, “I desired Donna Aurélie to attend, as she is a concerned party.”

  The Princess Had Spoken. You could hear it in her tone, if not in the actual words. No one demurred.

  They settled in a circle, the format I’d experienced in my day. Though no one had told me, I now recognized that no one was foremost and no one least.

  Seated inside the circle was Mord, almost unrecognizable. Someone had taken him in hand. His long, tangled hair was confined neatly behind him, for the Jews of Dobrenica did not wear the payot, the long side-locks, with hair short in back. His coat was new, though severely plain. Not for him, apparently, the woven charms. His beard had begun to grow, giving him that ancient prophet look, and the rest of him was neat. He also had one of the small furry hats on his head.

  On the other side of the room stood a drop-dead gorgeous girl. She was dressed in subdued colors, like Elisheva, but if anything the gray linen gown with its subtle embroidery served to draw attention to her amazing red-gold hair and perfect oval face. Her pose was modest, head down, hands together, but she peered under her long lashes, taking everyone in. Most of all Mord.

  Elisheva went straight to her. “What are you doing here, Shoshanna?” she whispered.

  Shoshanna gave a smug simper. “Singing the blessing.”

  Soon after Shmuel signaled for her to begin, and the circle bowed heads—some crossing themselves, others not—Shoshanna began to sing. Her voice was pure and sweet and beautiful, but if it was aimed at Mord (and from the subtle way Margit and Elisheva and even Aurélie watched her, it was) she may as well have croaked like a bullfrog. He never once glanced her way.

  Could have told you that guy was a waste of time, I was thinking as the song ended.

  Shoshanna was thanked and sent to the sidelines, and the meeting got under way.

  I was worried about Aurélie being grilled—and about the necklace—but very swiftly the session took a startling turn. I suspect Aurélie could have danced around waving the necklace and no one would have noticed.

  The initial question came from the old monk in white. He spoke in Latin, and Mord answered shortly in Latin. Two, three of the adults spoke to him, and his answers were succinct.

  Unfortunately, my Latin is beginner-level and only reading. I picked out a word here and there—spiritus being the most frequent—and Nasdrafus, but there were subtle signs that Mord’s trenchant view of the universe disturbed some.

  Then Elisheva stepped up behind Shmuel and spoke. Not in Latin, though it was clear she understood it. She spoke in Hebrew. I think she was quoting something, either the Talmud or spiritual debates; that is, Halachic debates based on the Mishna. Beka had been telling me about these things not a month before I vanished.

  At any rate, Mord looked up, clearly startled.

  He answered slowly, and Elisheva responded.

  Back and forth they went. By the end of their exchange he faced her, intent, his hands gripping his knees.

  Five, six quick exchanges, and she stepped back.

  Mord lifted a hand half toward her, almost a gesture of appeal. Then he dropped his hand and his pale, sharp-boned cheeks reddened. He spoke in German, his attitude completely more open, reflective instead of trenchant, even careful. That signaled the rest of the group to begin asking their questions. Mord answered politely, but no matter who asked the question, he glanced toward Elisheva to see how she reacted.

  “What just happened?” Aurélie breathed.

  I almost said, If we were watching a film, I’d say he just fell in love. “Mord is experiencing severe attitude readjustment,” I responded.

  Aurélie smothered a soft laugh.

  No use reporting any of the rest of the conversation. Mord recounted everything that had happened on the journey, from the seraphs to the howlings, from forests to the flights of demons that only Mord could see in the distant skies. It was all news to the Salfmattas and Salfpatras, who indicated they needed time to pro
cess.

  The meeting was just breaking up when servants opened the door, and Jaska walked in, which caused a general rise and bow.

  Jaska was dressed like a prince in a brocade coat with turned back cuffs and wide skirts in the pre-Revolutionary style. His knee breeches were satin, his high heeled shoes buckled, though he certainly did not need the added height. But high heels turned a leg nicely, which explained why they were lingering in fashion. He walked with his sword cane still.

  He gave Margit a considering gaze. “If you’re finished with Lady Aurélie, I came to give her a ride back.”

  Margit said, in a voice meant for his ears alone, “She needs to closet herself with a seamstress.” There was question in her tone.

  Jaska whispered back, “It was necessary to come away without her wardrobe. Minister Fouché sent agents to arrest her.”

  “Ah,” Margit said on a long note, invisible question marks in the air all around.

  Jaska turned to Aurélie. “You’ve that Paris gown still, do you not? Margit can tell your maid to take measurements from it. Come!”

  Jaska led the way out.

  Before I lost sight of the room, I glimpsed Mord’s steady gaze tracking Elisheva as she and Margit were absorbed into the group of old folks. Shoshanna was left on the sidelines, pouting.

  Then Jaska escorted Aurélie to the front door where an equerry waited with an open carriage and a pair of matched grays to draw it.

  “I can drive,” Jaska said, dismissing the waiting footman.

  Aurélie was handed up, then he took his place beside her, clucked to the well-mannered pair, and they rolled toward the palace again.

  He didn’t launch into a biography, but bits of his life emerged as he pointed out places he remembered. The king had died in a riding accident when Jaska and Margit were very young. Their older sisters had either married or were about to when the twins were born, so the twins pretty much had the palace to themselves. The queen was Regent, and the government held in trust for Jaska by her and the Grand Council.

  He’d been tutored in the palace and attended the Riding School most afternoons, beginning at age ten. In his teens he was invited by his Polish grandmother to be finished at their military school in Warsaw. That was when he met General Kosciusko.

  The great triumphal arch was not yet on the other side of the cathedral. That would happen in 1813.

  They began to round Xanpia’s fountain, which was exactly as it is now, including the ghostly animals and creatures dancing around it. I watched the statue of Xanpia, beaming thoughts at her. Are we okay? Any hints on the danger part? When can I get home?

  The statue remained exactly that: a statue.

  Aurélie looked at the fountain, the high shooting water catching light in the sun. She smiled at the people who were there to get water and to chat. Xanpia’s fountain seemed to be the local Internet café.

  Jaska’s anecdotes got more disjointed as he interrupted himself to return nods to those who bowed and curtseyed. “I thought this would be over after I went out this morning,” he admitted as he turned up a narrow street of leaning, half-timbered houses.

  Aurélie cast a troubled glance at those smiling, curious faces as Jaska drove the horses up to the ridge on the north edge of the city, just below the graveyard. On the bluffs, the conical shapes of beehives poked up. There was almost no traffic here.

  “Now that we are alone,” he said, “I have some questions for you.”

  “Yes? I should like to learn some words in Dobreni,” she said. “It is terrible not to understand, especially when people speak before one’s face.”

  “I beg pardon for that.”

  “It happens.” She gripped her fingers tightly, and I saw Jaska glance down at her hands as she said, “Your questions?”

  She was looking not at him but at the wildflowers in the park, where one day would be a row of early Victorian houses. The Dominican monastery was not far off, its garden stretching upslope to the left.

  “I’m certain you heard,” Jaska began, “that Mord thinks we were shadowed by demons as we traveled.”

  “I heard that.”

  “He also said you were protected against them. Can you tell me how?”

  Aurélie looked unhappy.

  He pointed to Prinz Karl-Rafael Street, which bisected the city below. It was newly cobblestoned, with a fine gutter down the center.

  He said in a light voice that did not quite hide the hurt, “New drainage, as you see. Riev doesn’t stink, though it is near summer. The streets are clean due to our Minister of the Interior, my old friend Shmuel Ridotski. Night soil used to be carried off only on the south side of the city, where the palaces are. But now the people at Market End have a confederation. They gather it and sell it to the farmers. Every morning, the carts go down the alleys. These carts have many different names that would give you an amusing lesson in our language.”

  “Jaska, my protection is a secret thing,” Aurélie said. “My Nanny Hiasinte said it was important to keep it secret. And it brings me many dreams from the past, from when others had this thing. Whenever one of them broke confidence, terrible things happened. I’ve seen it in the dreams, and I believe these dreams are true.”

  Jaska fell silent as they drew even with the temple. Its square was filled with flowers. People went about shopping, the Jews identifiable in their sober colors with fine embroidery, wives scarved, men going to the temple wearing their small, round hats, the Dobreni version of the kolpik.

  He said finally, “I can understand, then, why you don’t trust me.”

  “I do trust you,” she responded quickly. “But I made a promise.”

  “I honor that,” he said, “and you for telling me. From this street and below is the market section of the city. It’s still somewhat problematical, though from city records, it’s improved vastly over the past two centuries. It seems to be a problem inherent in cities: the more they’re made pleasing and comfortable, the more people wish to live in them. And the more people, the more difficult it is to make them comfortable again.”

  He talked on like that for a time, then said, “Is your spirit, your duppy, still with you?”

  “Duppy Kim?” Aurélie asked the air.

  I touched them both. “I’m here.”

  He stilled, then said, “I don’t know if I’ll ever become accustomed to that.” He went on talking about the city, and I looked longingly at familiar buildings, pocket parks, gargoyles, and young trees that would in my day be gigantic. It was a while before I figured out that when Jaska said “accustomed,” he didn’t mean to my touch but to the fact that I was perforce listening to what should have been a private conversation.

  In other words, I was now the thing in the way of the two of them getting together.

  Xanpia, are you listening?

  No answer.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  WHEN WE GOT BACK TO THE PALACE, as soon as she was alone, Aurélie hit the mirror so she could see me. “This guest chamber, it’s not a servant’s room.”

  “No.”

  “I expected to have such, as I did in Paris. And on that ride, those people, they looked at me as they bowed to him.”

  “So? They’re curious about their prince being back. He went away a teenager and returned a man. They’re probably going to be talking about an official coronation soon, as he came of age while he was gone.”

  She made a gesture as if pushing aside the matter of coronations. “They’ll ask who I am.”

  “Yes.”

  “They’ll ask why he takes me out in his cabriolet.”

  “Yes. You mean he has little privacy? Kings don’t get a lot of privacy. They can close doors, but the people outside of them talk about what might be going on inside.”

  “I hate that.”

  “Think of it as a balance,” I said. “You know what can happen to kings if enough people don’t like what they’re doing. And you know what kings can do to people on a whim if they have that much power.” />
  “The Place de la Revolution, either way.” She rubbed her arms.

  There was a knock, and Viorel was back with a small army of seamstresses. They had indeed taken her French dress, but that opened a new set of questions. Should they use this new fashion, was it a morning gown or evening, what did the French wear for this occasion or that?

  I blurred out.

  As always, a change in situation snapped me back, in this case when a summons came: The queen had invited Donna Aurélie to an early dinner. They would gather in the Rose chamber when the clocks struck the hour.

  “What do I wear?” Aurélie exclaimed as soon as the footman was gone. “I cannot wear this same gown. But the only one finished is…” She sped into the next room, where gowns lay with bolts of fabric. These were basic, requiring lace and ribbon embellishments. The seamstresses had taken away chosen fabrics to put together more elaborate gowns, complete to embroidery.

  Aurélie took up a plain white muslin gown and then shook out a length of shimmering green gauze that was to be made into an under dress. She pulled it over her head and let both ends flutter to the floor. “Yes,” she said. “I learned this from Madame Josephine.”

  She hunted among the trims, and located gold edging. With quick snips, measures, and a few stitches, she made a simple headband to fit around her head, holding the gauze in place like a draped headscarf. Then she looped the ends of the gauze up and fastened them to the gold wrist bands she had made. The green draped in graceful loops from her head down her sides to her wrists, evoking that lovely Grecian look again.

  “It’s perfect,” I said.

  The clock rang then. She twitched her kiss curls below the edge of the green so they clustered charmingly around her face, and walked out, the gauze billowing.

  Jaska was waiting at the end of the marble landing, his demeanor changing when he saw her. Oh yeah, he was smitten. And now that he was home, he was way less guarded about showing it. “May I compliment you on your appearance?” He smiled.