Part 31 (2/2)
He found him kneeling behind the altar. At first Andrei thought the old priest was praying but as he came nearer, he saw that he was struggling to lift out some object hidden beneath one of the floor tiles.
”Ah, Andrei,” he said blinking at him. ”Could you give me a hand?”
”We've got to go, Abbe. Any moment now, a tidal wave will hit our sh.o.r.es.” Andrei had almost drowned in the Straits and the terror of the approaching flood gave an edge to his voice.
”This won't take a moment. And with your strength, you'll lift it out with no trouble.”
”Listen.” A horrible stillness had settled over the deserted village. Hadn't the fishermen warned that the tide would be sucked out before the wave came roaring in?
”You go on, then, my boy. I'll follow.”
What sacred treasure was so precious the old man couldn't bear to leave it behind? The mission funds? Andrei knelt down and felt in the cavity, his fingers closing around a metal casket. He tugged hard, and at last it came out.
”Well done!” Laorans clapped his hands together in his delight. But another sound, a faint roar, could now be heard.
”Can you run, Abbe?”
Laorans opened a side door to the rear of the altar and beckoned him through.
Andrei tucked the dusty box under his arm and hurried after him.
”There's a little path up through the trees.” Laorans had to raise his voice to be heard above the sound of the incoming water. Andrei knew that he should not look back, but just put his head down and run. Yet some inner compulsion made him glance over his shoulder as the roaring grew louder. The ruthless tide had already reached the mission and he saw it smash against the white walls of the chapel, the force of the impact setting the bell clanging before the water rose to submerge it.
Ahead, Laorans stumbled over a tree root, falling headlong.
”Come on, Abbe!” Andrei heaved him up again, half-dragging him on up the hill. The relentless rus.h.i.+ng sound of the deadly tide grew ever nearer. If they didn't make it to the top of the hill, they would be swept away. And the water was flooding in faster than Andrei could run...
”Reports are only now coming in,” announced Chancellor Aiguillon to the somber-faced ministers, ”of a violent volcanic eruption in the Spice Islands a few weeks ago, followed by a tidal wave that has devastated the coastline of Serindher and wrecked many s.h.i.+ps.”
Alain Friard glanced at the Queen Mother in the ensuing shocked silence but Alienor's face was expressionless. At length she asked, ”Is this another ruse of the Emperor's, designed to undermine Francia?”
”That was my first a.s.sumption,” said Aiguillon. ”But after extensive inquiries, I fear that the information is correct. I understand that several Tielen spice s.h.i.+ps have been wrecked in the disaster, severely affecting Tielen trade.”
”So Enguerrand may be dead?” Every word was clipped and precise. ”And Aude with him?”
”We fear so, majesty. As well as Andrei Orlov and Count Alvborg.”
Friard waited in trepidation for the queen to show some reaction to the tragic news. But Alienor was made of sterner stuff; she had outlived her husband and elder son and although her face had paled, Friard noticed that her ringed hands gripped the arms of her chair. ”I will not give up hope until I have proof positive that my son is dead. But Francia must have a king. The quadrant is still unstable and unscrupulous leaders may try to take advantage of our situation. We will write to our daughter, Adele, in Bel'Esstar.”
Chancellor Aiguillon cleared his throat embarra.s.sedly. ”May I remind you, majesty, that if it were possible for a woman to legally rule Francia, then we would not hesitate to invite you to rule in your son's stead. But...”
Alienor fixed him with a look so withering that Friard winced inwardly. ”You have no need to remind me, Chancellor Aiguillon. Adele's husband, Ilsevir, is the next in line to the throne by marriage.”
”Francia and Allegonde united? Surely Raimon of Provenca has a stronger claim by blood to the throne. And he is a native Francian.”
”Are you daring to suggest that his right supersedes Adele's?” The queen's voice was chill with disdain. ”Surely Gobain's daughter outranks his cousin?”
”But the people, majesty, may not be ready to accept an Allegondan as ruler.”
”Joint ruler,” corrected Maistre Donatien quietly.
”Suppose Raimon opposes the idea?” persisted Chancellor Aiguillon. ”He could so easily stir up the Provencans. And he doted upon Aude. If he blames Enguerrand for her death, who knows what madness his grief might drive him to?”
CHAPTER 9.
Stage Manager Grebin seemed to delight in finding new tasks for Celestine to carry out, from emptying the ash from the dressing-room stoves to tidying up the dressing rooms. He was never satisfied with what she did, merely grunting when she showed him the clean latrines, or sparkling mirrors. The seamstresses and wigmakers kept a samovar hot in the upstairs workroom so there was a constant supply of hot strong tea for the backstage staff, with apple jam to sweeten it. The women ignored Celestine, chattering among themselves in their native tongue, sometimes looking at her with pitying glances and shaking their heads.
But come Friday, they all had to line up outside Grebin's office to receive their wages.
”Now I can afford to visit the public bathhouse,” Celestine told the Faie. She was so desperate for hot water and soap that she even suppressed her embarra.s.sment at having to go naked into the steaming green waters, alongside stout babushkas and giggling young girls who splashed one another and blushed as they compared the size of their budding b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Celestine ignored them, scrubbing the grime from her body, then sinking into the bliss of the warm water to soak away the stiffness in her aching back from the week's hard labor. She floated lazily, gazing up at the gla.s.s roof through the rising steam.
Little flecks of white were floating down and settling on the gla.s.s.
Snow. How long can I survive sleeping in a gazebo now that winter is setting in?
When Celestine arrived early for work the next day, the theater was in chaos; dancers filled the corridors, flexing and stretching their slender limbs in every available s.p.a.ce so that she had to weave and dodge to reach the cupboard to fetch her mop and pail.
Grebin had donned a curled grey wig in honor of the occasion and, with it tilted slightly awry, he was issuing orders with the precision of a general on the battlefield.
”They've started rehearsing a new production,” a stagehand told Celestine. ”Rusalka's Kiss, ”Rusalka's Kiss, or some such fancy t.i.tle. It'll be mayhem back here until the curtain goes up on the first night.” or some such fancy t.i.tle. It'll be mayhem back here until the curtain goes up on the first night.”
Celestine could not help stealing a quick look from the wings as a fortepiano began to play and the bare boards of the stage resonated with the rhythmic thud of the dancers' feet. It was curious, she thought, that they moved so gracefully yet their feet made such a reverberant noise.
As she was on her way to fill her bucket at the pump, Grebin appeared, his wig even more askew, and seized hold of her by the wrist, dragging her toward the costumers' workroom.
Inside, racks of costumes had appeared and tailor's dummies; the seamstresses were busily pinning braid and ribbons to a long tutu of silvery aquamarine net.
”Put Maela to work in Masha's place.” Grebin propelled Celestine to an empty seat at one of the trestle tables.
”But she's a cleaning girl,” complained the wardrobe mistress, looking critically at Celestine over her pince-nez.
”And Masha is still off sick with the pleurisy, Yelena. With twenty-four costumes still to complete, you need an extra pair of hands,” said Grebin, hastily retreating.
Yelena beckoned Celestine over. ”If you're to work in here, you must pin your hair up. Let me see your hands. Hmm. Scrub them in that basin. We can't risk you spoiling our work with dirty finger marks.”
Celestine obeyed. ”I can sew,” she said meekly. ”I was taught at the convent.”
”I'll be the judge of that.” Yelena picked up a length of pale blue taffeta and pa.s.sed her a pincus.h.i.+on and a reel of thread. ”I'll wager you've done nothing but turn and hem linen sheets, convent girl. Working with these light stuffs takes skill and patience. They fray easily. And if you make a mistake, it'll come out of your wages. Now show me what you can do with this underskirt.”
Celestine dutifully plied her needle and thread by the frosty light illuminating the workroom.
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