The Enchanted Sonata

by Heather Dixon Wallwork

  By now, the shop bell was jangling non-stop with people coming in and out, all laden with news. Rats were clawing through the railroad gates. Ammunition was low or gone. And even worse news—the Palace was filled with rats. They skittered through the gardens, and had been spotted crawling past the windows and crouching on the roof.

  “Rats?” said Nutcracker, confused. “But rats haven’t breached the walls here in Krystallgrad, have they?”

  “There are lights on in the Palace as well, sir,” said the courier who had brought the news. “Not a lot. Enough to make a few windows glow. But it was all dark this morning, so it does mean someone besides rats are inside.”

  Nutcracker’s brows were low on his face, and his teeth went clack clack, grinding as he stood deep in thought. At last he said:

  “That’s where he is. The magician. Of course! Rats haven’t breached the wall. The magician brought them to the Palace.”

  Nutcracker folded onto his knees and placed a dozen jelly-and-coconut-shaped rat candies at the top of the candy map. “He has that song that takes him to different places, and all he would need to do is go to the forest where there are loads of rats, and use that song to bring them wherever. He controls them with his music.”

  “They’re protecting him!” said Clara.

  Nutcracker nodded, a whole-body movement.

  “He knows we’re after him,” he said. “And the Palace is a very good place to bunker in—nice and warm, lots of places to hide. And,” he added in a low voice to Clara, “if I were wanting to dethrone a prince, I’d want to have charge of the Palace, too.”

  Clara balled her toes in her shoes, face flushing.

  “All we need to do,” she said, “is get past the rats and get his music!”

  “Precisely!”

  “And then I could play that piano in the Gallery. If he does have the music and if it works—"

  “We can help you get past the rats,” came Zizi’s eager voice, as Alexei moved forward to the front of the crowd with a bag of strong-smelling candies, and handed it to Nutcracker. Clara’s eyes watered. “Rats have such a strong sense of smell, they can’t get anywhere near the nevermints. They’re better than bullets!”

  Nutcracker withdrew a white oval mint from the bag, awkwardly holding it between his thumb and wooden paddle, and he smiled.

  “By the stars,” he said. “This is absolutely brilliant. You know, we’ve been fighting rats with cannon and rifles for years and no one has ever thought of using something like this...it’s novel.”

  “I’ve been thinking about poisoned smoke as well,” said Alexei, just as eagerly. “There’s a chemical combination in our flashbang candies. It sparks up a whole room when you bite. Make it a lot stronger, and rats would be blinded. And other weapons, too—honeywax for the cannon operators, sticky chews that stick rats’ jaws together—”

  “Brilliant!” said Nutcracker. “We could make it standard issue for the soldiers!”

  “We?” said Zizi. “The person we’d have to convince is the Emperor. And good luck with that. He’s a pancake-head.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from everyone crowded around the glass counters.

  Nutcracker did not turn to her, but he had frozen. Clara’s temper flared and she whirled on Zizi.

  “Take that back,” she snapped.

  Zizi looked at Clara, confused.

  “Um,” she said. “Look around. It’s not the prince who’s saving the Empire, is it? He’s as useless as a toy in the Palace as he was when he was alive—"

  “I told you to take that back!” said Clara, ready to strike.

  Nutcracker quickly stepped between them, cutting Clara short.

  “I am certain,” he said, giving Clara a Look, “that the prince deeply regrets all the events that have taken place, and that he would do everything in his power to make things right. And if he would, then we should, too.”

  Zizi shrugged. Clara’s cheeks still flushed.

  “We have work to do,” said Nutcracker.

  “Soldier,” said Alexei, “We have the men, and we have the arsenal. We’ll get you through the Palace and to the magician.”

  Polichinelle cooks and attendants rushed to and fro, bridling horses in the Polichinelle’s delivery stable and loading the waggons. A special militia was being put together to get Clara and Nutcracker to the Palace, led by Nutcracker’s second-in-command, Alexei.

  “Right,” Nutcracker was saying, “our most vulnerable point right now is Krasno-Les—that’s a good fifteen hours away by rail, which means they’ll need the majority of peppermints, we have—so far—twenty-one crates, with seventeen border cities, with five on the southern border, that’s—possibly—twelve crates to send immediately on the St. Ana line, I think, with six going to Krasno-Les—”

  Nutcracker’s painted brows were furrowed and he stood a tall figure among the crowd, scooping down in all folded straights to the candy map, then swooping up again, pointing and commanding, all business and duty. He ordered the railways up and running, and already had Krystallgradians packing up peppermint shipments to send to the far cities, to fight off the rats. He measured risks and assets and time. He wasn’t a nutcracker then, he wasn’t even a prince. He was...an Emperor. Clara smiled, remembering his earlier words: I unite the Assembly and stave off rats with my impressive arithmetic. He surely did.

  Clara was so anxious she had to excuse herself from the hullabaloo, and eventually found herself on the roof of Polichinelle’s, leaning against a marble balustrade overlooking Shokolad Prospekt. Her eyes stung with mint smell, and the cold air stung her cheeks.

  Sun had already set, and the pinpricks of streetlamps were already glowing, creating constellations of light before her. The balcony Clara stood on was made for dining—with tables, pillow, chairs, and gas lamps in the shapes of flowers, hanging from strings over the tables. Clara had never seen anything like it. But then, she had never seen anything like Imperia. The glittering buildings, the translucent spires. Even the stars in the sky twinkled closer to the world here.

  And the music. Across the broad street, music emanated from the Krystallgradian Symphony Hall, a massive building of stairs and pillars. It was even larger than Polichinelle’s. It must have been the sort of symphony hall with more than just one theater inside. It would have schools for the ballerinas, room and board for the musicians, practice rooms and prop rooms and stages of all sizes. Just looking at it took Clara’s breath away.

  And the music! She lifted her chin, her eyes closed, just listening. Drinking it in. The music was a little muffled, as though playing from a closed music box, but Nutcracker was right: it was stunning. Flawless. It was hot soup on a cold night, the smell of perfume in a crowded city. Ah! There was the piano, peeking through the surface of the harmonies, then burying itself into the chorus of violins. The pianist was very good. Not as good as Johann, but...no one was.

  Two hours until her concert back home. They were cutting it awfully close. Clara supposed they had time for her to play the soldiers in the Palace back to life, but then she would have to go home, and let this symphony pianist play the children back.

  It hurt a little to think of leaving. Even for Johann Kahler.

  “Do you like the music?” came a gentle voice.

  Clara smiled. She recognized that voice.

  “I love the music,” she said, turning. There was Nutcracker, weaving through the tables to her side. He was smiling, too.

  “I knew I’d find you, if I just followed the music. That’s what this balcony is for, you know. Listening.”

  He joined her at the balustrade, and leaned over, listening with her. For some reason, having Nutcracker beside her made Clara feel...wrung inside. Standing there in the frozen night, Clara felt the time left in Imperia was more precious than diamonds. She wouldn’t have a chance to listen to the orchestra really perform. Or try a Polichinelle’s candy. Or know if the orphans would become children again, or if Pyotr ever found a mother and father. She
would never have time to ride the Trans-Imperian rail line as an actual passenger, hearing the chandeliers tingling with the clackety clack of the train.

  And she wouldn’t see Nutcracker again.

  That was a painful thought, the most painful of all, and Clara didn’t know why. She was fond of him, of course she was. She’d grown used to his solid pillar of a form beside her, his great teasing and how he made her laugh. And he’d kept her safe from the rats, diving into battle without a second thought. He was, in fact, the song she had composed on the spinet. Brave. Noble. Kind. Of course she had grown fond of him. Who wouldn’t?

  I have plans, Clara firmly thought. And it’s not Imperia. Clara had planned every detail out for the past two years, everything was perfect, planned, practiced. And now, she couldn’t throw her future away. Face burning, Clara fought the impulse to touch the locket at her neck. Nutcracker always noticed when she did. Instead, she swallowed, her throat tight.

  “Are you all right, Clara?” said Nutcracker.

  “Oh, me?” said Clara, quickly wiping her face. “It’s only—this music is so beautiful.”

  “Best in the world,” said Nutcracker proudly.

  “How lucky you are,” said Clara, “to go whenever you wish.”

  Nutcracker shrugged, an odd movement of one shoulder going up-down with a scraping sound. He leaned forward against the rail.

  “I, ah,” he said. “I—I don’t really go to the theater.”

  “Oh,” Clara teased. “They put on terrible plays?”

  Nutcracker smiled.

  “Something like that,” he said.

  And though he was smiling, he looked sad. So sad, his rounded shoulders hung low, and his eyes lowered to his hands. Clara hated seeing him like that. She cast a glance at him, smiled, and without a piano, began tapping the chords of the song she’d played the night before, this time on the balustrade. C, E, B. The jaunty march, the rolling arpeggios, the great climax into a rat battle.

  “And he’s brave,” she sang lightly. And then added, in case Nutcracker didn’t understand: “Your song. I’m playing your song on the railing.”

  “I know. Do you think I could ever forget it?” Nutcracker’s emerald eyes softened at her. “You never finished it, you know. Does it end well?”

  “Better than you could even imagine,” said Clara softly.

  Nutcracker’s eyes lit on the locket at Clara’s throat. Embarrassed, Clara quickly tucked it under the collar of her red Polichinelle coat. Nutcracker coughed.

  “That locket means a lot to you,” he said, after a long moment.

  Clara felt as though she hadn’t inhaled deeply enough.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “The world.”

  “Whose picture is in it? May I ask? I’ve been curious.”

  Clara hesitated, feeling even more wrung inside.

  “Oh—it’s,” she stammered. “No—no. I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s silly. You’d think it was silly, anyway. You said you’re not a romantic. So.”

  Nutcracker considered.

  “Well,” he said. “That is true. But. Well. I mean, I can grasp something of it, perhaps. I mean, if it’s your fiancé, he would mean a lot to you. I can understand that.”

  Clara felt a blush rising from her chest, up her neck, to her face.

  “No,” she stammered. “It’s—not my fiancé...yet.”

  “Oh,” said Nutcracker in a wooden voice. “Your beau.”

  “Well...no. Not yet.”

  “Not y— I’m not quite following, Clara. Who is he?”

  Tears pricked Clara’s eyes, a combination of hearing the piano emanate from the theater, the weariness of a long day, the anxiety of a concert deadline, and being pinned against years of dreams hopefully about to come to fruition. She was all knots inside. It was in this moment of exhaustion and weakness that Clara laid her soul bare to Nutcracker, and told him what she had never told anyone.

  “He’s...a pianist,” said Clara. “Johann Kahler.”

  Nutcracker said nothing.

  “You’d understand if you heard him play,” Clara said with the passion she’d caged inside herself, now at last unlocked and tumbling out. “He’s an angel. He makes the piano sound like an instrument of God. I heard him play when I was twelve and—I knew. I knew I would marry him. It was so vibrant and real. You’d understand if you just heard him.”

  Nutcracker said nothing.

  “There isn’t a better match in the world than he and I,” Clara fervently continued. “We both love music and we practice for hours at the piano and he’s a master and I’m—I’m pretty good, too,” she said, her blush deepening. She didn’t add how handsome Johann was, or how when he played, a hole that her father had left filled with music, and it didn’t hurt so much. Clara swallowed.

  “Well, anyway,” she mumbled. “That’s why I have to be back. I’ve practiced for years for this concert, and he’s going to be playing there, too, and—once he hears me play, he’ll—realize what I already know. It’s the last chance I have before he leaves for his concert tour. I—I know it sounds silly. Especially when children have been turned into toys and rats are breaking through walls. I know that’s more important. And I will do what I can to help. But to me, this is...everything.”

  Nutcracker still said nothing. The Krystallgradian Symphony Orchestra played on.

  “Well, all right,” said Clara, deeply embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I knew it would sound silly.”

  At last, Nutcracker found his voice.

  “No,” he said. “It doesn’t sound silly. It is silly.”

  Clara’s blush filled her to the brim, prickling the hairs at the top of her head.

  “Has he ever called on you?” said Nutcracker. “Ever? No? Walked you home from church?”

  “We—we were only just introduced yesterday!” Clara protested, feeling backed into a corner.

  “Oh yes, well,” said Nutcracker. “Better get fitted for your wedding dress, then.”

  That did it.

  “Oh, what would you know about it?” Clara snapped, louder than she should have. “You said yourself you’re not a romantic!”

  “Well if romance is this silly, I’m glad I’m not!” said Nutcracker.

  “You know,” said Clara with an unfriendly smile, “I’ve noticed that when people say the word silly, they actually mean the word stupid.”

  “Well,” said Nutcracker.

  There was a pause.

  Clara flushed, and pursed her lips tightly to keep her chin from trembling.

  “Go on and mock me,” she said, extracting herself from her place by the railing and weaving through the tables and chairs, away from him. “I don’t care. I don’t expect you know how it feels to—to bleed inside like this!”

  Nutcracker’s cheeks painted in redder than they’d ever been.

  “Quite right,” he said, his voice echoing across the roof in his infuriating polite Emperor tone. “I’m made of wood, after all. Wood doesn’t bleed.”

  “No. It doesn’t,” Clara snapped, and she left Nutcracker standing there on the balcony, running with angry stride, leaving him alone in the ice of the Krystallgradian night.

  Ice hung in the air, a crystal fog. It coated the buildings along the Krystallgradian streets and made them disappear in the distance.

  Clara sat at the front of a Polichinelle troika, a sort of cart waggon pulled by three horses side-by-side. The candy emporium had an entire stable of fine black horses and delivery waggons, and several had been bridled and harnessed for their journey to the Palace about thirty minutes away. The words Polichinelle’s Candy Emporium was painted broadly across the sides. They glided through the city on the runners, a silent procession of sleek black horses, Krystallgradian militia with their old military rifles and their jaws set, and the stinging aura of peppermint.

  Nutcracker had ordered everyone to wear a sack of nevermints over their shoulders, even Clara. They w
ere so strong that Clara could no longer smell them. Or anything else. They, in fact, stung.

  Clara was feeling stung anyway, still blushing and throbbing with anger and embarrassment. Nutcracker’s words echoed through her head. It doesn’t sound silly. It is silly.

  Oh, what did he know about it? His marriage had probably been arranged since before he was born. Why would he even care about people who loved or didn’t love? How could he understand the way she felt about Johann? How whole she felt with him? Zizi had been right. The prince was a pancake-head.

  And yet, something deeper in her, beyond her anger and insults, wrung her with silent reproach: he was right. And Clara didn’t know if that made her angrier or more ashamed or just sad. She kept her distance from Nutcracker, slipping into the regiment formation and orchestrating herself to sit on a troika by Zizi.

  Nutcracker kept casting glances at Clara, his green eyes unreadable, but Clara staunchly refused to acknowledge him. In the end, he kept his distance too, manning the front waggon with Alexei. Everything was uncomfortable and awkward and silly—no, stupid—and Clara told herself she was glad she would be going home soon.

  Krystallgrad looked different at night from the street, much different from the view on the speeding train. They crossed under tall, arching bridges; over a broad river (the Starii, Clara remembered); and passed fine storefronts of all sorts. Shops for jewelries, shops for boxes for those jewelries, shops for just gloves, shops for books, shops for pastries (“Not as good as ours,” Zizi quietly informed her), and one shop dedicated to just cigar cases. Fine townhouses extended beyond the shops, their chimneys an array on the skyline and disappearing into the fog. And above it all, the white, beautiful glow of the Imperial Palace. It shone through the mist and made it glitter.

  “Oh,” Clara whispered, the view taking her breath away. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s pretty, all right,” Zizi acknowledged, peering at the Palace ahead. “And dead full to the brim with rats. I hope we don’t run out of nevermints.”

  Clara looked at her quickly.