Coronets and Steel

by Sherwood Smith

  Had consented to speak to me, I realized with a spurt of humor as I followed Theresa to where three elderly women in widows’ black sat enthroned on a sunny bench. They were overseeing the flurry of activity with the keen-eyed determination of conferring field marshals.

  Theresa led me to the oldest of them, a diminutive woman with a snowy embroidered headdress on her small gray head. With a respect ordering on reverence, Theresa introduced me to Grandmother Ziglieri first, and then to the widows on either side of her, whose names I didn’t register. I was too busy trying to figure out what to say.

  The three widows peered up at me, the one on the left nodding, the one on the right squinting nearsightedly. Grandmother Ziglieri regarded me, her wrinkled face impossible to read.

  The widow on the right said in a thin voice, “Yes? Yes? You come from Paris, the child says?”

  The nodding widow’s voice was dry, her German slow but clear. “Come! Sit with us. Talk a little.”

  “Thank you.” I sat on the stool that Theresa set before their bench. Though she hadn’t spoken yet, I addressed Grandmother Ziglieri. “Theresa tells me you worked at the palace under the old king, and that you knew the princesses.”

  The ancient woman’s face creased into a thousand new lines as she pursed her lips.

  The nodding widow said, “Yes, yes. So many pranks, Princess Rose! But so sweet . . . and Princess Lily . . . such a good child, always busy with her piano. But, oh, she could ride on her pony. Fearless, the both. And so pretty. Hair the color of yours . . . no, lighter . . .”

  Grandmother Ziglieri leaned toward me, her dark eyes intent as she spoke for the first time. “It was the Swedish blood, that yellow hair. You have it, too.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes,” I said, uneasy before that steady gaze. I hoped she wouldn’t ask me questions; I did not want to lie to her. I had this feeling those old eyes of hers could x-ray the inside of my skull. “Did you know the princesses as young women?”

  The nodding widow was almost bowing as her head dipped slowly forward and back; her headdress was embroidered with cherry clusters and birds. “No . . . no . . . we worked as chambermaids in the nursery. When Their Highnesses left the nursery—Grandmother Ziglieri was married by then, to her good Ivaniev—I went to the bakery to work because it was closer to my two little girls.”

  She went on in a meditative voice to talk about raising two girls, losing a third, then losing her husband during the war, all while working in the bakery. She reminisced over the formidable preparations they had made for royal dinners, and how impressive these affairs had been.

  I did not interrupt. When at last she paused I said, “Is there anyone alive today who knew the princesses when they were young ladies? Anyone who . . .” I braced myself. “Might have known Princess Lily before she disappeared?”

  “Ahhh . . . how sad that was . . . how sad.” She nodded gently, her eyes gazing long past the ever-shifting scene of frenetic activity going on around us. Finally she tsked two or three times. “Terrible sadness, to leave, and us open to—”

  “Tsh,” the right-hand widow hissed.

  The left-hand widow stopped rocking and blinked earnestly at me, her withered cheeks mottled with color. “You’re from Paris?”

  The abrupt shift in subject startled me.

  “I was there a couple of weeks ago. But please, what were you going to say?”

  Grandmother Ziglieri muttered something in Dobreni.

  The nodding widow raised a gnarled, work-worn hand, then said, “After, many years after—we found out that Princess Lily had died in the war, in Paris. So far from home, and no one to know and be with her. You knew this?” She touched my sleeve.

  “I know what happened to her,” I said with care. “But when she left Dobrenica—”

  “Ah.” The small, heavy-knuckled hand came up, palm toward me. “A bad business. She went alone, in the night. Quick-quick.” She whisked her hands across her lap. “Like that. She took none of her own people!”

  “Did you know any of them?”

  “No relations of mine were in that wing, you see. We’d mostly to do with the food, our family. Two uncles, bakers, and a great grandfather, a pastry-maker. He was trained in Vienna. But Princess Lily . . . oh, the scandal when she left, and none knew where she had gone. Everyone questioned by the king himself . . .” She shook her head. “Those were bad days. And not long after, the king died, and then the German soldiers came. Terrible, terrible days.”

  “So no one is alive who knew the princess then?”

  “But yes, some do live. I, myself!” She smiled, as if making a joke.

  Grandmother Ziglieri spoke in Dobreni again, but this time I understood most of the words. I think she meant me to. “Tell her about the Eyrie governess.”

  “Mina Hajyos.” The widow on the left rocked gently back and forth on her bench. “She said she knew nothing of the princess’ plans. But her family lives on Devil’s Mountain. She was . . .” A quick look.

  The nearsighted one cut in, her voice urgent. “Many said afterward that Mina Hajyos served the count all along. Paid in secret. She went back to the mountain and married. When the new duke went to England she stayed in Dorike on Riev Dhiavilyi.” I recognized that as Dobreni for Devil’s Mountain. “Where she became Salfmatta Mina.”

  “Salfmatta?” I repeated. I still didn’t understand that title yet.

  The nodding widow spoke up. “My niece’s two sons worked in the mines for a time. They were caught by an October snowstorm once . . . oh, four years back. Five. They took refuge in Dorike. They said Salfmatta Mina yet lives. She has a cottage near her grandson’s house.”

  Grandmother Ziglieri leaned toward me. “Her family’s roses always grow,” she said slowly. “They are from English slips. The only rose garden in the village.” Her gaze was intent, as if she waited for some word or sign—as if her words, so simple, carried some extra meaning.

  Madam Waleska approached, giving the old women a quick bob. “Are you finished, grandmothers? We must not be late to Mass.”

  “No,” Grandmother Ziglieri said, but when I rose, she put out her hand to halt me. Then she said in slow, heavily accented German, “You have the sight.”

  I stared at her, probably showing the perplexity I felt. I was certain I hadn’t been squinting like the widow on the right, who was being helped away by a patient daughter. “Sight?” I repeated.

  A tall, strong-looking middle-aged woman stood by, waiting.

  Grandmother Ziglieri said in Dobreni, “You have the—”

  But I did not know the word she used—and it wasn’t the noun in the dictionary for “seeing.” It couldn’t be something like Second Sight—I had an idea from stories I’d read as a kid that those superstitions went with crystal balls and chicken entrails, or whatever.

  “You will ask Salfmatta Mina.” She hobbled slowly away.

  I raced upstairs to put on a nice dress, hoping I could talk to the grandmothers later. But if I couldn’t, at least I had a name and a location: Mina Hajyos, in the village Dorike, on a mountain called Riev Dhiavilyi.

  The wedding was held in a medieval church as strange-eyed Byzantine saints gazed down with lovingly detailed expressions of benediction, their gold leaf halos glinting in the light of many candles. Incense spun slowly upward in the air, making me giddy again; my eyes stung from the smoke so that Anna’s ancient veil, with buds embroidered along the heel-length hem, and her white gown with pearls worked across the bodice, blurred until I seemed to see a simpler gown with no train, then an elaborate one with a long train, flanked by garlanded girls in high-waisted gowns, their arms full of flowers; I felt a sense of falling slowly down and down, as if I descended gently through the years, the centuries, past kneeling brides and grooms beyond count.

  The weird reverie broke abruptly when Anna and her tall, thin, and equally shy-faced husband faced us and walked arm in arm down the center aisle. The dizziness was stronger this time, making me grip the wooden ba
ck of the pew in front of me until I regained my balance.

  When I get home, maybe it’s time for a CAT scan, I thought unhappily as I followed the others out.

  But first, Gran’s quest.

  We rode the short way back to the Waleskas’ inn in flower-decorated wagons. People along the steep-roofed houses cheered or waved handkerchiefs, and a few girls and women threw bright blossoms down on us—mostly violet iris and rose-colored amaranth, but other flora as well, in every color except yellow.

  Almost all the guests wore festive costume. Everywhere were flashes of glorious color; crimson, emerald, turquoise blue vests, all embroidered with contrasting colors. Dyed petticoats of contrasting shades peeped from under lace-hemmed skirts, trousers sported dashing weavings of color down the outside seam before disappearing into boots polished for the occasion.

  Little kids ran shrieking around and around the perimeter of the patio at the inn as the guests crowded in, laughing and talking. The color, joy, the mixture of familiar and of strange customs was interesting, but the intensity of their happiness made me feel isolated and lonely.

  I thought of Alec, and then tried not to think of Alec, which made me think about not thinking about him.

  So I got up from the bench where I’d been sitting by myself. I forced a smile as the crowds parted instantly to make way for me, and helped myself to more of the spiced wine punch. Then I sat back down on my bench, my polite smile making my jaw ache.

  I concentrated on picking out words and phrases in the flow of chatter around me, trying to gauge the minute I could sneak upstairs without being noticed. Madam was too distracted to pay any attention to me, but Theresa did, and the middle sister Tania, so when I saw them eyeing me anxiously, I gave them a wave and smile, and watched relief ease their faces as they turned to the rest of their unending hostess chores.

  Supper was served before the long, golden sunbeams vanished behind the tall mountain above us. There was a variety of highly seasoned dishes, mostly pork- or mutton-based, with saffron-yellow rice, and then trays of Viennese-style pastry made with liberal quantities of cream or layered with the delicate sweet-sour flavor of topfen custard, and bread filled with nut- and rum-flavored layers of jam, dusted with cinnamon or powdered sugar.

  The light began to fade, leaving a clear night. My mood lifted as musicians emerged from the welter of celebrants and began to play. Most of the food was gone; at Madam Waleska’s gesture a number of the women descended on the long tables and cleared them off, following which the men carried the tables back inside the inn’s dining room.

  In the cleared space, the dancing began.

  First Anna and her Josip, followed by close family members on both sides. That was the signal for general dancing. The guys went first, stamping and leaping and shouting. Then the women got out there with their own dances, full of swinging skirts, twirling and clapping and flirting poses.

  There were also dances for couples, but the teens and young adults my age seemed to go for the sex-separate dances as often as the mixed, judging from the way they watched each other. Seeing those guys leap and twirl and rap their heels down in counterpoint to the galloping beat made me feel less isolated. I love to watch dancers as much as I love to dance.

  Wine and laughter and good food and the slow intimacy of twilight’s deepening to darkness charged the atmosphere with expectation. Grins flashed, glances met across the crowded courtyard as the accordions, mandolins, pipes, and banduras bound everyone together with the complicated melodies of Dobreni music.

  Then torches were lit and brought out. As the perimeter of the courtyard leaped back in yellow flickering light I noticed two men standing beyond the open gate beyond the pointy end of the terrace, where the two streets branched off at either side of the inn. These were shadowy figures, in workaday clothes and boots, and the angle of both faces zapped my nerves: they were watching me.

  I’m merely a tourist, I thought, and blinked hard to clear the punch-fuzziness from my eyes. I peered over dancers’ shoulders, trying to find otherwhere-focus in those shadowy sockets, but the smoke and haze around me were too strong.

  Anna appeared before me, breathing hard in her pearl-glistening white dress. “Come! Dance with us,” she invited, shyness banished by triumph and joy and wine.

  She took my hand and drew me into the crowd of women milling in the center of the courtyard. Everything else disappeared from my mind as the music started up, gay and tinkling with a clash and tap of tambourines.

  I turned to Anna, who put her hands on her hips. Resting my own fists on my hips, I mirrored everything she did.

  We danced face-to-face, laughing as I mastered some steps and missed others. We were the center of a circle; the music lifted us, twirled us in a flourish of belling skirts . . . and inspired to recklessness by wine, and torchlight, and the others’ happiness surrounding my own ambivalence, impulse sparked me to improvise. Music skirled, torchlight flickered and streamed; light as autumn leaves chased by wind, I began to chassée.

  Anna gave a crow of pleasure. Her friends clapped in time to the music. So I whipped into the steps of a tarantella, finishing with a twirling set of fouettés as they clapped in time. Then the music ended and a roar of approval sent a flock of pigeons clattering skyward from the eaves. I whirled in a double pirouette and came to rest in a dancer’s bow before Anna.

  At once I was surrounded by smiling and admiring women. Anna laughed and exclaimed in excited Dobreni, clapping her hands. I straightened up, grinning—until I caught sight of those two men beyond her shoulder.

  They’d come a few steps nearer, standing right at the gate. A third had joined them.

  I was in the peculiar position of being the only one who noticed them; the group of women dancers all faced the bride and me, and the wedding guests near the gate were either talking to one another or watching the women.

  The way the third man stood signaled threat. He wore a khaki military jacket hanging loose over a white shirt, dark pants and boots, and a cigarette dangled from his mouth. He returned my gaze with an insolent scrutiny for a few seconds.

  I turned to Anna to ask who that was—but as I raised my hand, pointing, he threw down his cigarette, leaving it smoldering in the street as he walked beyond the gate, the other two following. Anna and a few turned to look in the direction I pointed, but the men were already out of view.

  So Anna and her friends begged me to dance again, but I was afraid that while one might be a compliment to the bride, two would be overdoing it. When the music started again and I recognized the piece as one of the earthy stamping dances I’d watched a while ago, I took Anna’s hands and began it. As soon as she and the others had formed their circle I faded with practiced skill back into the group.

  Half an hour later I slipped upstairs and got into bed.

  And couldn’t sleep.

  Those men. Were they watching the dancing, or were they spying on me? Not for any good reason, whatever they were doing, I thought as I recalled that one with the insolent leer.

  “Sometimes,” I groaned, throwing back the covers and getting up without turning on my light again, “having an active imagination is a royal pain in the butt.”

  Royal.

  I had been watched, and followed, in Vienna because of my resemblance to Ruli. I’d assumed that all Alec’s people were out of the country searching, and that Ruli’s people didn’t have to search. Yeah, and what if I was wrong?

  I peered through a crack in the curtains. No one in the shadows surrounding the courtyard wall, as far as I could see. Directly below me the party was going strong, but I did not see the work clothes or the khaki of the three watchers among them.

  I frowned, looking around my dark room. The wardrobe! I hated the thought of someone getting at my passport and wallet again. The clothes I didn’t care about, but the papers . . .

  I opened the wardrobe, felt inside my travel bag, and pulled out the roll of my jeans and blouse, with the ID and wallet with my euros wrapp
ed inside like a hot dog in its bun. Two choices here: either I ask Madam Waleska to keep the stuff, which would raise all kinds of speculation, or I hide it.

  The wardrobe was topped by a narrow ridge of carved wooden decoration. I yanked a chair over then climbed up and felt above the carving. Behind the far side, between the back of the wardrobe and the wall, there was a few inches of space. The rolled cloth fit back there snugly and was completely invisible. Even a hand patting the top of the wardrobe would miss it. The rest of the few Ruli clothes I’d kept remained right in view inside the wardrobe.

  After that I was able to sleep.

  Next morning I did my warm-ups, dressed, and went downstairs, passing Theresa and Tania, who were cleaning dispiritedly in between serving the mostly subdued guests. Even Madam had less than her usual bustle, but she greeted me with customary warmth. Her husband looked pale as he polished and stacked glasses. It was nearly noon, and the relatives were beginning a slow exodus.

  I found a corner table to sit at, where the Waleskas’ relations scrupulously left me in splendid isolation. I studied my Dobreni dictionary as I ate cold leftovers for breakfast, then left.

  It being Sunday there was no chance of finding anything official open. That had to remain for Monday. This day’s exploration would be the palace tour. When the big cathedral bells rang a quarter to two I crossed the main square and joined the group of people lined up at the fence.

  As I had suspected, the tour was to be conducted in Dobreni. The people in line, all middle-aged, were citizens from the mountain reaches, except for two Romanians. They glanced my way with covert interest as they exchanged comments, but no one addressed me directly.

  The blue-uniformed guard chatted idly with the first man in line. As he lifted his arm to glance at his watch another guard came running out from the building visible inside the palace compound.

  This man slowed about thirty feet from the gate, walked with military correctness to the guard near us, then bent toward him to mumble a message.