Songspinners

by Sarah Ash

  The last light within was extinguished and Jolaine came out on to the steps. Jerame saw her glance all around as she double-locked the door, as if making sure there was no one suspicious lurking in the shadows. Even as he escorted her away from the Museum, she still glanced furtively around, clutching her canvas bag to her tightly.

  They had already lit the candles in the crystal chandeliers at the Rooms and their brilliance spilled out on to the courtyard from the tall windows. Within, the tables were set out for cards and tea and a murmur of conversation blended with the more distant strain of country dances emanating from the ballroom. Jerame frowned. Maybe it was as well Orial had not accompanied them; he had forgotten there was a dance this afternoon.

  The periwigged attendant ushered them to a table in the alcove. He offered to take Jolaine’s wrap and bag but she refused, still clutching the bag possessively. Jerame hastily ordered tea and sat down, laying his gloves on the table.

  ‘What a pity Orial could not join us,’ Jolaine said, easing herself into a chair opposite his.

  ‘I’d – hm – been meaning to come and see you about Orial.’

  ‘Ah,’ Jolaine said. ‘So you’ve noticed too.’

  ‘Noticed what precisely?’

  ‘The eyes.’ Jolaine eased herself into a chair opposite his. ‘She has her mother’s eyes.’

  ‘But it usually skips a generation or two, often more.’

  ‘Then how –’

  Jerame looked up to see her gazing penetratingly at him. ‘You don’t think that I –’

  ‘It is possible, Jerame.’

  ‘But the Lifhendil inheritance only occurs in the female line.’ He had begun to twist his gloves into a knot.

  ‘Only shows itself in the female line. Who’s to say that a strain has not lain dormant in your family for years?’

  ‘You know very well I have no sisters.’

  ‘My point precisely. You are the first of your line to sire a daughter for generations. The Lifhendil blood could have passed to her through you – as well as directly through her mother.’

  ‘We have no proof.’ To hear Jolaine confirm his suspicions only increased his disquiet. ‘And I have kept her safe all these years, safe from the malign influence that music would exert over her. There is no certainty that she will develop the full-blown condition.’ Who was he trying to convince with this show of bravado? Jolaine had noticed Orial’s eyes too.

  The attendant arrived, bearing the tea-tray, and Jerame tried to fix his attention on pouring tea into the bowls. But his hand shook and he spilled tea on to the cloth; a spreading yellow stain on the crisp white linen.

  Jolaine leaned across and placed her hand on his arm.

  ‘You must not blame yourself. No one could have foreseen such a thing.’

  ‘But what am I going to do?’ For a moment his composure deserted him and tremblingly he took out his kerchief to wipe his brow. The distant strains of the country dance no longer sounded merry but distorted, grotesque.

  ‘It doesn’t have to end the same way,’ she said gently.

  ‘But we know of no way to halt the progress of the Accidie once it manifests itself,’ he said. ‘I’m a doctor, Jolaine, au fait with the most recent discoveries in medical science. Why do I feel so helpless?’

  Azare came into the salon carrying an elongated wooden case which he set down with extreme care. Cramoisy followed him, carelessly casting his new viridian jacket down on the couch, peeling off his kid gloves, finger by finger. But Khassian’s sensitive ears had caught a slight vibration of sound as Azare put the case down, the tremor of tuned strings.

  ‘What is that?‘he demanded.

  ‘What does it look like?’ Cramoisy was critically examining his appearance in the mirror.

  Azare knelt down and unlocked the case, opening the lid to reveal the ivory keyboard of a portable clavichord.

  ‘They call it an epinette here – isn’t that quaint?’

  The hollow tap of the protruding bones on ivory –

  Khassian stared at the epinette with loathing.

  ‘You said we have no more money. Why this extravagance?’

  ‘How am I to rehearse my recital if Azare has no instrument? What is he supposed to do? Hum the accompaniments? And if there is no recital, how shall I make money for us to pay the bills?’

  Could Cramoisy not see how it exacerbated his feelings of uselessness, to have to hear Azare play the instrument at which Khassian had excelled…

  Azare screwed the three legs into the case, stood it up and ran his fingers over the keys, setting up a sweet jangle. Khassian winced.

  ‘Needs tuning,’ Azare said, misinterpreting his reaction. Taking out a tuning key, he leaned over the case and started to tighten the tuning-pins securing the strings.

  ‘For Mhir’s sake!’ Khassian flung himself out of the chair and went over to the door. Only as he reached it did he realise that it was firmly shut and he would have to attempt an undignified struggle with the handle – or wait for Cramoisy to let him out like an unruly lap-dog.

  Orial slipped the gold-edged invitation from her apron pocket and gazed at it again. Her fingers smoothed the fine ivory card, traced the elegant black copperplate print:

  A Vocal Recital of Divers Songs and Arias, including a selection from the new opera Elesstar by Amaru Khassian.

  To be given by the incomparable Diva, Cramoisy Jordelayne, accompanied at the epinette by Oriste Azare.

  The recital will take place at eight in the evening on the fifteenth day of Afril in the concert room of the Assembly Rooms in the presence of His Worship the Mayor of Sulien.

  She pressed the card to her heart. A concert. A real concert – and she had been especially invited. The only problem was that Papa would never let her go.

  Well, she would ask him nevertheless. And if he refused, she would go anyway. She was old enough to know her own mind.

  Determined to have her own way, she went straight along to his office and rapped on the door. There was no reply.

  ‘If you’re looking for your father, he’s been called out to a patient.’ Sister Crespine was coming along the corridor in her cape and bonnet; she had finished her work for the day and was going home. ‘He said he would probably be late. You’re to sup without him. Cook’s been told.’ It seemed too good an opportunity to miss.

  Orial went to her closet and looked with dissatisfaction at her few gowns. Dowdy high-necked school gowns, girlish checks and sprigs. Nothing suitable for the Assembly Rooms.

  She wandered around the upper floor until she found herself in her parents’ room. Her fingers reached out to unlock the inlaid chest, to touch the delicate fabrics of Mama’s gowns. A faint faded perfume drifted out, dried petals of orange blossom and lavender sprigs, as she lifted up the folds of muslin. She rubbed the smooth satin of some blue ribbons against her cheek, lost in a memory of distant childhood.

  She carefully eased a gown out of the chest, shaking it loose from the protective folds of petal paper, and held it up against herself.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, looking with satisfaction at her shadowed reflection in the cheval mirror. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Orial?’ Dr Magelonne opened the door of the parlour and looked in; the fire had burned down to embers. Perhaps she had gone to bed.

  He was back much later than he had intended. He had known the old Mareschal many years; indeed he had helped him walk again after a hunting accident. It was difficult to get away without taking a glass or two of apple brandy and listening to the Mareschal’s hunting anecdotes.

  Cook had left him some bread and ripe blue-veined cheese; he felt too tired to eat much but chewed dutifully as he scanned tomorrow’s schedule.

  The last of the spent coals subsided with a soft hiss into ash. He started.

  The house felt odd. Something was not quite right. Perhaps he should let Orial know he was back in case she heard the footsteps downstairs and feared robbers had broken in…

  He tiptoed upstairs and tap
ped lightly on her door. No reply. Sleeping already. He opened the door a crack and gazed fondly in.

  Her bed was empty.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Assembly Rooms were packed; all the glitterati of Sulien had come in their jewels and feathered wigs to hear Cramoisy Jordelayne sing. Orial, overwhelmed by the elegance of the crowd, shrank into Khassian’s shadow, hoping no one would recognise her.

  Khassian, pale and austere, kept his hands concealed.

  ‘Listen to them!’ she heard him mutter. ‘Gaudy starlings, all whistling, jeering, chattering…’

  The noisy chatter suddenly hushed. Cramoisy was there, on the platform, in a suit of darkest kingfisher blue, embroidered with seed pearls. In the shadows Orial saw a man silently, discreetly, seating himself at the keyboard of a gilded harpsichord: Azare.

  A glace passed between the performers.

  ‘To start my recital I will be giving the first – the very first – performance of Elesstar’s aria, “O, Sacred Rose…”‘

  A murmur of interest greeted the announcement. Orial looked around uneasily. Cramoisy was taking a considerable risk in starting the recital with a new, unknown work – especially a work that was banned in Allegonde.

  Cramoisy began to sing.

  This was the first aria Orial had transcribed for Khassian; every note was graven on her memory. Till today this music had been an intimate secret shared with Khassian alone. To perform it in public seemed a violation of that intimacy.

  And then she found her antipathy melting, seduced by Cramoisy’s exquisite singing. Slowly drowning in waves of sound, Orial resisted… but resistance was no use and the music engulfed her.

  Stillness hung in the room like a seafog over the waters.

  Then came the applause. The audience shouted themselves hoarse, they showered flowers on to the stage until the boards were covered in green and white and gold: jonquils, lilies.

  Orial sat silent, sad that the purity of the moment had been spoilt.

  Cramoisy, smiling, dipped to pick up armfuls of the scented flowers, kissing his hand to the enraptured audience. He turned to Khassian, beckoning him with one hand.

  Khassian, if anything paler than before, stood up and with a single bow of the head acknowledged the applause of the audience.

  Orial heard excited whispers from the elegant women sitting behind her.

  ‘How pale he is…’

  ‘And yet uncommonly good-looking.’

  ‘They say he only just escaped the tyrannical regime in Bel’Esstar with his life.’

  ‘An escaped revolutionary, my dear, how thrilling!’

  Orial ventured a sidelong glance at Khassian; he seemed utterly oblivious to the whispered compliments, lost in some memory of past triumphs, maybe… or else merely accustomed to audience acclaim.

  And suddenly she knew the reason for his pallor. This was not just his first concert in Sulien – it was the first time he had appeared in public since the fire. Till now she had only seen him as the illustrious composer, unassailable in his craft. Now she saw how terribly vulnerable the fire had left him.

  Please let no one ask him about his hands.

  As was the custom in Sulien, the audience repaired to the salon for refreshments at the conclusion of the concert: tea punch was a favoured drink, lightly alcoholic yet refreshing.

  Orial stood in the shadow of one of the fluted columns, cupping a bowl of punch in her fingers. Cramoisy and Azare had retired to the dressing room. Khassian was surrounded by a crowd of eager admirers. She felt herself invisible. Maybe she should slip away now, before anyone noticed her…

  She set the glass bowl down on a side-table and began to move through the crowd.

  Someone blocked her way.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  She looked up, startled, to see Khassian had moved away from his admirers.

  ‘We must talk.’

  He ushered her towards an alcove, curved like a shell, painted pink and gold. As they sat down together, she became aware of eyes resting on her: curious eyes, envious eyes. Had anyone recognised her? Would anyone tell her father? She looked questioningly at Khassian.

  ‘Do not think, I beg you, demselle, that I am not sensible of your role in tonight’s triumph. Indeed, it would not have been possible were it not for the part you have played in transcribing my music so swiftly and so accurately.’

  She nodded, hardly hearing the compliment, seeing only his eyes, brown as tortoiseshell, gazing earnestly into hers.

  ‘I want to stage the opera here. In Sulien.’ His voice was husky with excitement.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘But it will mean a great deal of work – especially for you. Do you feel equal to the task?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes!‘ Orial heard herself agreeing before she had even thought about it.

  ‘How much longer can you go on keeping it from your father? You’re going to have to tell him.’

  Her father. The delicious trance was broken.

  ‘He would be so angry.’

  ‘But you’re a born musician. You should be studying at the Conservatoire. When the opera is complete, I shall write you letters of introduction to the Director.’

  So often she had dreamed of this. Here, at last, was confirmation of her deepest hopes and aspirations. A born musician. The words sang in her mind.

  ‘And you mustn’t leave it too late. You’ve so much to catch up on – and you’re already eighteen.’

  Orial had begun to twist one of the blue satin ribbons around her fingers.

  ‘How could I leave Papa? He has no one but me.’

  ‘If he truly loves you, he will let you go. For if he tries to hold on, he will just as surely lose you.’

  Jerame Magelonne had created his own personal shrine where he could be alone with his memories, alone with the few relics of his life with Iridial. He felt closer to her here, in the room they had shared, than in the eternal silence of the Undercity. And in the dead of night, when he was certain he could not be overheard, he spoke aloud to her.

  It was well past midnight. The blue-painted room seemed to mirror the starry spring night outside, the dusky folds of the silk hangings dusted with white-embroidered daisies and star-lilies. She had chosen the material herself, holding its softness up to her cheek, delighted with the delicacy of the embroidery.

  Now he drew aside the curtain that veiled her portrait and placed a lamp beneath it. The golden light warmed glints in her hair, almost lending the illusion of life to the dazzling eyes that gazed out far beyond the canvas.

  Rainbow eyes.

  ‘What am I to do?’ he asked her. He sat down in front of her, trying to evoke the fading memories of lost intimacy. ‘Oh, Iridial, what am I to do?’

  The painted image stared on into the far distance. Into eternity.

  ‘Should I have told her? Warned her? I didn’t want to cloud her life – when it was clouded already. And besides, there was no guarantee she would inherit the… the gift.’

  Even as he spoke the word aloud, he knew he had been deceiving himself with false hopes, false securities, all these years. Orial had the gift as surely as she was her mother’s daughter.

  ‘Have I done wrong in denying her? Would it have developed anyway, no matter what I did?’ And then, wrung out of him, ‘Does she have to die too?’

  A floorboard creaked outside. He sprang up and, grabbing hold of the oil-lamp, flung open the bedroom door.

  The landing was in darkness – but by the light of the lamp, he saw the pale figure of a girl, a slender girl in a gown of white and blue muslin…

  ‘Iridial,’ he gasped, and clutched his chest.

  The girl turned, looking over her shoulder.

  Eyes. Dazzling rainbow eyes, Irises a multi-coloured striation of prismed light strands, violet, sapphire –

  It was not Iridial but Orial – creeping in like a sneakthief, her eyes wide with guilt

  ‘How – could – you?’ He was choked with fury now. How could sh
e violate her mother’s memory, stealing one of her dresses to attend her secret assignation? Double betrayal. ‘Take it off! And before you go to your room, you will tell me where you have been. And with whom.’

  ‘I have – been at the Assembly Rooms. With Sieur Jordelayne. He brought me back in his carriage,’ The rainbows suddenly dulled with brimming tears.

  ‘You have been with – that creature? Listening to music? ‘

  ‘You never said I couldn’t listen to music outside the house! Never expressly. And it was so wonderful, Papa.’ Tears began to trickle down her cheeks. He had made her cry and he could not remember her crying in many years. ‘So wonderful I wanted to be a part of it. Punish me if you must – but please don’t keep me from the music. Please!‘

  Her words made him chill with sudden fear. She meant what she was saying. He had never seen her so in earnest before. And abject fear made him stern, impervious to her tears.

  ‘You will go to your room and stay there until I give you permission to come out.’

  The Sulien Asylum had been built outside the city on the edge of the River Avenne, a rambling, ramshackle bastion, its neglected gardens rank with strangling creepers.

  Jerame Magelonne stood before the massive doors, hand upraised to tug the rusted bell-pull. A thin wind blew off the river marsh, a mean wind, piercing and damp. He had avoided coming this way for the past thirteen years. He would not have come at all had it not been for last night’s scene with Orial.

  He gave the bell-pull a sharp tug. Deep within he heard the bell clang, a harsh, cracked sonority. Bolts were tugged back, clinking chains disconnected, the heavy door dragged open, grating over the uneven flagstones.

  A prison, Jerame thought as he crossed the inner courtyard.

  ‘Jerame!’ Ophil Tartarus, the Asylum Director, came out to greet him. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’