“Soldiers! There are ladies present!” a voice snapped, and Clara knew those harsh, steely tones. That had to be General Drosselmeyer. The soldiers immediately silenced. Their eyes caught Clara and Zizi, and the ladies of the orchestra, and they brightened.
“Hello,” said one of the soldiers, grinning at Clara.
The piccoloist sniggered. And she really did snigger.
Among the confusion and pother, the foreboding General Drosselmeyer appeared, and the soldiers parted, giving him a wide berth. He held himself ramrod straight and dignified, his one grey eye flaring, the layers of medals on his chest flashing. Even his footfalls rang intimidation against the floor. Clara fought the impulse to lower her eyes.
“What is going on?” he snapped at the room.
Clara and Zizi and all the musicians began talking at once.
“You’ve all been nutcracker soldiers—”
“The magician with flute—”
“The fairies—”
“And toys—”
“But the spell—”
“Miss Clara broke the spell—”
“That’s Clara, right there—”
“There are rats here in the Palace!”
“What!” said Drosselmeyer. “What! What what! What!”
Clara almost felt sorry for him. He looked utterly lost and confused, and his voice broke with each what! The army seemed to notice, and they looked a cross between helpless and annoyed.
“Where is the Prince?” Zizi cried. “He’ll explain things.”
“Yes!” Drosselmeyer snapped. “Where is the Prince?”
“Here I am.”
Nutcracker’s voice echoed firmly through the Gallery. He stood at the tall doors, a little scratched and covered in rat blood, the regiment flanking behind him, and he entered with such a commanding presence that every soldier in the room straightened to attention. Clara smiled, seeing him.
“What!” said Drosselmeyer.
“Soldiers,” said Nutcracker, striding to the middle of the Gallery. “There are rats here in the Palace that need to be taken care of. And they’re breaching the walls in the border cities. I need to have a Palace regiment formed, as well as Derevo, Lode, Lesnov, Krasno-Les regiments to leave immediately on the next trains with nevermints. Ah—Lieutenant Polichinelle will fill you in on the purpose of nevermints. Soldiers, will you help me drive the rats away?”
The soldiers responded with a rousing yell, their rifles in the air. Clara had to cover her ears.
Drosselmeyer stared at Nutcracker.
“General,” said Nutcracker, striding to him. “I need your help most of all. Many of the soldiers in the Palace are still toys. I expect the spell only works within earshot. Could you orchestrate the, ah, orchestra to bring all the toys in here, and Clara can play them back to life?”
Something flickered in Drosselmeyer’s cold grey eye. Perhaps it was surprise. But Clara sensed it was more than that...a sort of stunned admiration. With the scrape of his boot, Drosselmeyer shocked every and bowed sharply to the prince.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
Nutcracker’s wooden face registered the expression of someone who just had a piano fall on his head. He blinked rapidly, then recovered with remarkable speed. In the glittering sunrise, Nutcracker led the army at a charge from the Gallery, and into the Battle for Imperia.
* * *
The next several hours happened in a blur. Zizi and the musicians brought Clara a never-ending supply of toys from all the halls, rooms, and staircases. Rats were faced, hunted, and killed, their corpses thrown onto carts in the courtyard. Clara played sʎoʇ ǝɥʇ ɟo ɥɔɹɐɯ over and over. Each time, soldiers sprang to life in a cacophony of voices. Palace attendants cried aloud as they became human again, and Drosselmeyer commanded. By the time the sun shone in noonday rays through the glass ceiling, the Palace was emptied of rats, full of servants and soldiers and even the smell of baking pastries. Attendants hurried down the halls, tsk-ing and cleaning; attendants in spectacles with clipboards made tutting noises as they analyzed the cost of repairing rat scratches on the walls and widdle-stained rugs.
By afternoon, the sun shone down through rays of cloud, illuminating a new Imperia. The sound of trains and distant cannon and gunshots faded to the clanging of church bells. A cry arose, growing throughout the city as the wires clackety-ed of nevermint news and soldier solidarity. Clara joined the rush of servants and attendants who ran to the Palace entrance to see Nutcracker returning.
Clara’s heart thudded and her fingers throbbed as she stood at the top of the Palace steps, watching as Nutcracker rode in, sitting awkwardly on his horse with his legs stiffly pointed out, the regiment behind him. The cheering of all the soldiers and servants in the courtyard was deafening and beautiful.
Drosselmeyer stood beside Clara, which made her nervous, but he said nothing. Clara only saw that his grey eye shone.
When Nutcracker’s eyes caught Clara, they brightened.
In the midst of the crowd, Nutcracker dismounted as awkwardly as he rode, and the moment his feet hit the ground, Clara fell to her knees in a deep curtsy.
“God Save the Emperor,” she said.
To her surprise, Drosselmeyer fell to his knees beside her.
“God save the Emperor,” he echoed.
Spreading out from them like a great wave, the attendants, soldiers, Krystallgradians, all fell to their knees in one chorus:
God Save the Emperor.
God Save the Emperor.
God Save the Emperor.
Nutcracker looked at the sea of Imperians around him, all bowing, and his painted eyes became shiny. Clara knew he would not be called a pancake-head ever again.
Clara played sʎoʇ ǝɥʇ ɟo ɥɔɹɐɯ until she was exhausted to the bone, the lively, joyful melody etching itself upon her soul. Her head pounded, her fingers ached, she needed a good three days of sleep, and she couldn’t be happier.
No sleep, of course, would be had. Not with all the excitement in the Palace. Soldiers filled the halls, bowing and smiling at her when she passed, and when she found the kitchens, was delighted to see Zizi and the Polichinelle attendants working to make food for them all. It smelled like every kind of pie—sweet, savory, egg, meat, nut, nog. Soldiers hovered around, flanking Zizi, holding bags of flour for her, handing her spoons. Zizi laughed and teased with them, an absolute flirt, and they took it like invisible kisses.
Except for one soldier, who glowered on the other side of the kitchen, casting dark glances at the bevy of men around Zizi. Alexei stirred and stirred a pan of boiling sugar with aggression. He hardly noticed Clara until she was by his side.
“How are you, Master Alexei?” said Clara, noting his expression.
Alexei glanced again at Zizi, and said nothing.
“The soldiers seem to like Zizi,” said Clara.
A muscle in Alexei’s jaw tensed, and Clara thought: ah-HA.
“You should very probably do something about that,” she said.
Alexei quickly looked at her, but Clara was already walking away.
She took a warm pastry as she left the kitchen and searched for a place somewhere in the Palace to eat it, but discovered that every sofa and chair in the Palace had been taken away to be cleaned and repaired. So Clara stood in the corner in one of the quieter halls, her back against the wainscot, nibbling the lemon flakiness.
It was here that Nutcracker found her.
“Clara!” he cried, delighted. Without reservation, he scooped her up and spun her around, nearly hitting an attendant, who squeaked and hurriedly exited. Clara dizzily stumbled as he set her down, grinning.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, folding up to sit down on the floor. Clara spread her skirts and sat next to him, beaming. She couldn’t help it.
“The rats are being fought away?” said Clara.
“As fast as we can send soldiers and nevermints to the cities. Every wire we get is good news. Krasno-Les has driven the rats back, Lesnov is already repairing t
heir wall, we’re having nevermints made in factories all over, and even the Indomitable Sisters have let us know they’re safe. Illegally let us know, I might add. I suspect by the end of tonight—well, probably tomorrow, today could be a little optimistic—every rat will be running back to Rat Territory with their tails between their legs. It is a great triumph, Clara.”
Clara sighed sleepily, thinking of their adventures of the past two days. She fought the impulse to lay her head on Nutcracker’s arm—even sitting down, he was too tall for her to lay her head on his shoulder. Another thought came to her mind, and she frowned.
“Nutcracker,” she said. “Erik Zolokov—”
Nutcracker’s smile was immediately wiped off his face.
Clara said nothing more, sensing Nutcracker’s sudden change in mood. Erik Zolokov had been bound up and escorted to a heavily guarded prison within the city. He’d awoken, well-bruised, and had been taken without a word. It almost felt a little too easy. He would have a trial soon, before the coronation.
Clara had almost forgotten about the magician in all the excitement, but now, thinking of the enchanted music, remembered. He had so much darkness inside him, but could somehow compose music with so much light. Clara didn’t know how to feel.
“Will he be executed?” she said.
“That is the law,” said Nutcracker, bringing his knees up to his chest. “Imperian Lawbook, page eighteen section one. An Imperian that willfully kills another must stand before a seven-shot firing squad, or in especial circumstances, hanging.” Nutcracker stared at his knees, and after a moment, added: “Unless…”
“Unless?”
“Unless he’s pardoned by the Emperor.”
For a moment, the hall was so silent, the only sound was the distant clatter of the kitchens. Clara didn’t know what to say.
“He deserves to die,” said Nutcracker at last, but it was sadly, not angrily. “But he’s broken, Clara. He has such incredible evil in him and...so much talent and good. His music...”
After a moment, with difficulty, Nutcracker added:
“My father wouldn’t have wanted him executed. So.”
Clara touched Nutcracker’s arm.
Nutcracker cried as though the sobs were ripped from his soul, like a thorn buried deeply for six years and scarred over. Painted tears slipped down his face and into the crack between his head and torso. Clara curled around his arm, pressing her cheek against the wood and weeping with him.
It was not a long cry. Clara had cried much longer when she had been sobbing the night before, even though her pain wasn’t nearly as deep as his. Thankfully no servants had swept through the hall, and so no one but Clara saw their soon-to-be emperor in Nutcracker form, crying.
“Wouldn’t have done that around anyone but you, Clara,” Nutcracker said in a much lighter tone, as though the heart’s thorn had been removed in that one moment. He wiped his face with his wooden hand, which did little. “Well. Anyway. About the spell. We sent the music to Brechenmacher—that’s the best pianist in Imperia—and had him play it. Clara, it did nothing. He played it very well, yes, but he couldn’t break the spell. He was so angry he burst into a rage and threw the bench at Drosselmeyer!”
“My word,” said Clara, trying not to laugh.
“And his understudy wouldn’t even try. Ran off. Ha. Clara, I honestly think you’re the only one who can do it. Perhaps there’s something more to the way you play. Perhaps...because feel it. You’ve—experienced everything and you want to break the spell as much as I do.”
Clara tilted her head, thinking of everything she and Nutcracker had gone through, and how much she had come to care for Imperia and the children. Perhaps the person who broke the spell had to go through that.
“I—I know you’re worn out and haven’t slept in ages,” said Nutcracker. “And you’ve already done so much for me.”
“I don’t mind doing more,” said Clara honestly. “I’ll play until everyone’s had the spell broken. Including you.”
“The telegraphs are clacking like mad, Clara. News is out that you can break the spell. There’s a great lot of parents queuing in the streets and—”
Clara quickly got to her feet.
“I’d better hurry, then,” said Clara.
“Ah. There’s quite a lot of them,” said Nutcracker.
“Yes, you said.”
“There’s the soldiers, too.”
“I expect so.”
“More are coming on the trains.”
“I suppose they would.”
“Considering the numbers,” said Nutcracker, “it would probably be best if you played the theater piano. I’ve sorted it out. Capacity there is three thousand, considering if we could fill the theater in thirty minutes and then empty within that same amount of time, and approximately seven-hundred and fifty toys, that is, children, arrive with their parents on each train, and the trains are arriving every ten minutes...ah.”
He paused, and added delicately, “It means you, ah…” he coughed. “You probably won’t be able to get much sleep for...a while.”
“I will sleep,” said Clara, “when I am dead.”
Nutcracker looked upon her with such fondness that Clara’s knees felt a little weak.
“Well,” he said, standing. “I would certainly not wish to hasten that, Miss Stubborn. Ah—I mean, Stahlbaum.”
Clara laughed and took his offered arm.
* * *
Nutcracker hadn’t been joking. Clara kissed her dreams of a hot bath and a long, downy sleep goodbye, exchanging it for long hours at the symphony piano bench—a mix of joy, fingers aching from pressing the piano keys, and catching moments of sleep in between the ushering. Whenever she felt too worn or her fingers felt as though they could not play any longer, she would see the hopeful eyes of parents, filling the aisles and stairs and stage, their arms full of toys, and Clara drew new lively strength.
She played sʎoʇ ǝɥʇ ɟo ɥɔɹɐɯ, and the parents who had been ushered in with toys in their arms found themselves suddenly laden with children. Some parents accidentally dropped their older children on the floor. The theater echoed with cries, with laughter, with the exciting squeaking and shouting of children. Clara was weary, but was glad she experienced these moments. Parents fell to their knees, kissing their children’s faces. Grown men cried. Clara cried herself, and helpful Imperians gave her handkerchiefs, which Clara used as children were reunited with their parents over and over and over again.
Soldiers, too, were turned back, filling the theater with a raucous chatter and jovial thumping on the back. Clara couldn’t help but admire these uniformed men, who saluted her, slung their rifles over their shoulders, and immediately left the theater to rush back to the battle at the borders.
When Mother Svetlana brushed onto the stage with a bevy of Indomitable Sisters, beige pillars among the grand room, their arms full of toys, Clara was delighted. The orphans!
And it wasn’t just them—Pyotr had come too, and he hobbled as quickly as his crutch could take him to Clara, burying his face in her skirts with a great hug.
“The sisters say,” he squeaked, “the sisters say when we’re all children again, we can go across the street to Polichinelle’s and pick out three candies each! Three! At Polichinelle’s, Miss Clara!”
“Lucky!” said Clara, delighted.
Someone cleared their throat behind Clara, and she turned to see the mousy couple whose piano had taken her back to Imperia. They stood to the side of the stage, awkward and shy and intently curious, both pairs of glasses gleaming in the vast light of the chandelier. Clara had forgotten all about them, and was suddenly embarrassed about it. They’d been whisked away to Imperia, caught up by the enchanted music and the Battle for Imperia and...were probably quite angry with her.
“Ah, hello,” said Clara apologetically. “Look, ah. About, ah. This whole thing—”
“Quite all right, quite all right,” said the man. “Really, you may borrow our piano at any time.”<
br />
“Yes,” the wife cut in. “Why didn’t you tell us you were playing a magical spell that would bring us to this incredible world to fight an army of rats and turn toys into children? We would have understood!”
“Um,” said Clara. “Well. Thank you, I’m sure you would have. Look, I can play you back home—”
“What?” said the wife, paling. “No!”
Her husband smiled at Clara’s stunned expression.
“We’d like to stay, as a matter of fact,” he said. “We’ve felt, for a while now, not quite at home in our world. To be true, we don’t have any family to speak of. Except each other.”
“And it’s lovely here,” said the wife. “Well—besides the rats, of course. Werner thinks it should be easy to find an occupation as an accountant here. We’ve already been making inquiries.”
An accountant, Clara thought. Of course he is. She smiled, but something panged in her, thinking of staying in Imperia. Was it...wistfulness? Clara suddenly felt sad, knowing that once everyone was turned back, she would leave.
“We wanted to tell you thank you,” said the man. “That’s why we came. We didn’t know if we would see you again. So, ah, thank you.”
“Oh,” said Clara. “Well. Happy to upend your lives anytime.”
The couple beamed.
For the orphans, Clara played the song all over again, feeling the music reach inside her and pluck at her veins. She grinned as the nuns gasped in a collective voice, mixed with squeals of children, some laughter and some cries, a lot of thumps, and running, and By the love of Saint John don’t sit on the chairs like that! Alyosha! Clara grinned and paused, noticing the husband and wife were still there, wistfully looking at the rosy-cheeked children who ran across the stage, crawled over the theater chairs, tugged on the arms of the nuns.
“Hwell done, fairy-blessed girl,” said Mother Svetlana, giving Clara an awkward, large hug and a rare, jolly smile. And that was all she had time for, snapping about with a Don’t touch those curtains! Do you think curtains are swings? You hwill not receive one ounce of a Polichinelle candy if you do not get down this INSTANT!—
The Enchanted Sonata Page 22