by Sarah Ash
‘I am rather proud of this outfit.’ Cramoisy turned around to display the full effect. ‘See the cut of the jacket – lapels and cuffs trimmed in black and magenta to match the striped breeches.’
‘But your voice –’ Orial said.
‘Not quite restored yet. The doctors have told me to pamper it. So I thought a little Sulien steam treatment might do the trick. But there I go, babbling on – when there’s someone here who is eager to see you too.’
The Diva drew back with an elaborate gesture to reveal – Amaru Khassian standing in the doorway, watching them with a slight, wry grin.
‘Amaru.’ Orial could not move. Her feet seemed glued to the floor. ‘I – I didn’t expect –’
And then she flew across the room and into his arms.
Cramoisy insisted on taking them out to dinner at one of the most expensive restaurants in Sulien.
When they had dined and were sitting on the terrace, sipping qaffë and nibbling sugar-dusted almonds, Cramoisy drew out a tissue-wrapped package and placed it in front of Orial.
‘What’s this?’ she said.
‘Open it.’ Cramoisy gave Khassian a sly wink.
Orial untied the gold ribbon and unwrapped the tissue. There lay a necklace and earrings of black and ivory pearls – her mother’s pearls.
She glanced first at Cramoisy and then at Khassian.
‘But how ever did you find them?’
‘I have my methods,’ said Cramoisy archly.
‘You bought them back? You shouldn’t have.’
‘Put them on. I want to see you in them!’
Orial, blushing, did as Cramoisy asked.
He gave her a long, appraising look – and then clapped his hands together.
‘Perfection. Isn’t that so, Amar?’
‘Hm?’
Orial saw Cramoisy nudge Khassian sharply.
‘Yes, yes. They look very becoming.’
After they had brought her back to the Sanatorium, she stood in the hall, still fingering Iridial’s pearls, listening to the phaeton wheels rolling away into the night.
The pearls felt cool and smooth against her skin. What had preoccupied Khassian tonight? Why had his attention wandered? Perhaps he had been bored, longing for the evening to end.
Perhaps he had felt it was a mistake to come back.
‘Someone to see you,’ Cook announced. ‘I’ve put him in the parlour. You won’t be disturbed in there.’
‘Someone?’ Orial came running out after her. ‘Who? Who is it?’
But Cook had retreated into the kitchens.
Orial opened the parlour door – and saw Khassian standing at the window. She felt her breath catch in her throat. Why had he come?
He turned as he heard the door open.
‘Demselle.’
‘So formal, Illustre?’ She came into the parlour and shut the door, gesturing him to a chair.
‘So bemused.’ He sat at the lace-covered table; she sat opposite. ‘When I returned to Bel’Esstar, all that had happened here seemed like… like a dream. I began to wonder if I had imagined it all. And now, I come back and find you still here – and I have to believe it really happened.’
Maybe this was prelude to a proposition… maybe he wanted her to work with him again?
‘… those other lesser miracles that followed in the wake of the Rose.’
‘Other miracles?’ She had not been paying attention to what he was saying, she had been watching his face intently, noting the tawny flecks in his eyes, the pale sickle scar on his left cheek.
‘Cramoisy has found his voice again… and I…’
‘You?’ She could tell from the light in his eyes that he had a secret he was longing to share with her.
‘Look.’ He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a pencil and paper. He gripped the stub of pencil and clumsily, painstakingly, began to trace out clefs. She watched his face as he worked, saw how the muscles in his cheeks were drawn taut, how every fibre of his body strained to control the movement of his hand.
‘See?’ He stopped with a gasp of exertion. ‘It’s damnably slow – but I’m getting there, Orial, I’m getting there.’
‘It’s… very good.’
All her hopes, so swiftly raised, were dashed again.
‘If I persevere, there’s a chance I might get something scribbled down that Azare can transcribe.’
‘So… you won’t be needing me any more.’
‘As amanuensis? It would be selfish of me to ask you to fritter your life away transcribing my music – when you have music of your own to write.’
‘You’re just saying that because – because you don’t want me.’
He reached out across the table to touch her hands with his own.
‘No. I’ve had time to reflect on our encounters – our musical encounters.’ His hands tightened around hers and she felt a new strength in the fingers. ‘The way I compose is so different from yours, Orial. Forcing you to think my way, to write my way, was wrong. You have to find your own voice, unhindered by my music. Can’t you see?’
She shook her head; her eyes had filled with tears.
‘Then why are you here?’ she said in a whisper.
He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a card edged in gold.
‘What is this?’ she said in a whisper, taking it.
‘Read it.’
The Demselle Orial Magelonne is cordially invited to attend the first performance of the newly revised opera Elesstar by Amaru Khassian to be given at the Orangery in the Winter Palace.
She looked up from the smooth white invitation and saw his eyes.
‘The opera – our opera.’
‘Prince Ilsevir has requested three performances to be staged in the theatre in the Palace Orangery. All the performers will be handsomely remunerated – which may go some way towards making reparation for so many ruined lives.’
‘Such a change of heart.’ She tried to gulp back her tears. Selfish, really, to be thinking of herself when so many had been brought to the brink of despair.
‘Ilsevir is greatly changed since Girim’s death. He often asks me to tell him about Acir… and about you.’
‘Me?’ Orial said, confused.
‘None of this could have taken place if it had not been for you, Orial,’ he said softly. ‘Your courage gave me the strength to write the opera anew. Please say you’ll come and see it? Cramoisy will be mortally offended if you don’t see him give the performance of his life.’
Orial broke away from him and went to the window, gazing out over the grey-green hills, the terraces and crescents of weathered rose-stone.
What had she been expecting? Cramoisy had been right all along, although she had refused to acknowledge it until now; for Amaru Khassian the music would always come first. They had shared a unique meeting of minds – and he had come to offer her the chance to share in that experience again; the music was the only way he could express his love and gratitude.
She could not refuse.
Besides, it was the first opportunity in her life to fulfil her long-cherished wish: to attend an opera.
‘Very well.’ She turned around to face him, smiling through her tears. ‘I accept – with pleasure. But you must promise me one thing. That you will come to the Temple again before you leave for Bel’Esstar. Tomorrow.’
The young Lotos Priestess walked through the Undercity; as she passed the portal to the Hall of Whispering Reeds, a gust of steam stirred her hair, stirred the petals of the star-lilies she carried.
‘And then the extraordinary genius of the Lifhendil was revealed to us when the ancient mechanism was triggered…’
Within, Jolaine Tradescar was explaining her discoveries to a group of visiting Antiquarians from the University of Can Tabrien. The Priestess smiled secretly to herself as she went on her way to lay star-lilies on Iridial’s shrine. There she lifted out her cithara, tuned it carefully and retraced her steps.
Priests and Priestesses had
gathered by the springs; she bowed her head to them and took her place. Settling the cithara against her shoulder, she took up the plectrum and struck a flurry of notes.
Orial lifted her head and sang. She sang the music she had been born to sing, the thread that linked her with the distant musicmakers of the past.
And as she sang, she scanned the assembled watchers… until she caught sight of a man standing aloof from the others, a man whose utter stillness told her that he was listening with rapt attention.
He had come.
Her clear voice rang out, piercing the drifting mists from the steam, darting like a dragonfly into the higher registers, lifting towards the light.