Part 32 (1/2)
”It's snowing again outside, and we're making flimsy costumes for water nymphs.” Yelena tutted. ”Those dancers will catch their deaths of cold waiting in the wings; the drafts blow through there like a winter wind.”
”They'll bring their shawls,” said one of the other seamstresses.
Celestine was just biting off an end of thread when Yelena swooped and s.n.a.t.c.hed up her work, moving to the window to examine it. She gave a sniff. Celestine waited, silently praying that she would not be sent back to the latrines. ”St.i.tches small and mostly even. No snagged threads or puckering. I suppose it'll do.” She pa.s.sed the garment on to another seamstress and handed Celestine another length of blue taffeta. ”The same again. Only neater.”
As Celestine sewed, faint strains of music penetrated the workroom. She looked up, listening intently. A woman was practicing, using vocal exercises to warm her voice. Minutes later, a fortepiano began to play and the unseen soprano began to sing to its accompaniment.
”No slacking!” Yelena was frowning at her from the opposite side of the table.
”Who is that singing?”
”One of the soloists, who knows? Get on with your work.”
”Rusalka's Kiss is an is an opera?” opera?”
Yelena raised her eyes in a look of weary forbearance. ”This is is an opera house.” an opera house.”
”Who is the composer?” Celestine could not help wanting to know more. The fragments of melody seeping in were unfamiliar yet utterly enchanting.
”Kalenik. The Grand d.u.c.h.ess Sofiya is his patron.”
A Muscobite composer. That would explain why I've never heard his music before.
”No time for gossiping, ladies!” Grebin appeared, followed by half a dozen dancers. ”Here are your first clients.”
Yelena let out a sign of annoyance and, draping her tape measure around her neck, began to issue orders.
Celestine watched, fascinated, as the dancers stripped, s.h.i.+vering and giggling, allowing the costumers to fit the flimsy costumes, stoically enduring the pinning and marking with tailor's chalk, turning round and round again as Yelena surveyed the results with a critical eye. The lengths of taffeta Celestine had been hemming began to be transformed with a s.h.i.+mmer of green and silver sequins and ribbons artfully cut and draped to look like waterweeds. The first dancers left and more arrived. The daylight began to fade as more snow fell and Grebin brought oil lamps.
”Dress rehearsals start tomorrow at nine. You'll just have to work through the night to be finished in time,” he announced.
Celestine heard the other seamstresses groan in protest and looked down at her work to conceal the smile of relief. Tonight she would be warm in the workroom. The thought of sleeping another night in the snowy Water Gardens was too much to endure. And even though Grebin's brow was more furrowed and his wig more awry each time he appeared, the stage manager had food delivered to the workroom: hot cabbage soup with caraway dumplings.
”Peasant food,” said Yelena with a sniff.
Celestine said nothing but spooned down the soup eagerly. It reminded her of the food she used to help prepare at Saint Azilia's: robust, tasty, and filling. The last weeks of privation had taught her that there was much to be said for enjoying such simple pleasures.
The sky craft hovered above the city as the winter sun set, painting the snowy horizon with a lick of scarlet fire. Far below, the tiled roofs were thickly rimed with snow; even the painted tiles on the onion domes of the Cathedral of Saint Simeon were coated in white.
”So this is where you've been hiding, Lady Azilis.” The Magus leaned over the side of the craft, closing his eyes as he searched for that faint but telltale aethyric current of energy he had detected. ”Mirom.”
Linnaius landed his craft in a deserted park. He disguised himself in the long robes and fur-rimmed hat of a merchant and took to the streets of the city, prowling from square to square, in search of that elusive presence he had sensed earlier. He had been sure that he would see concert bills advertising the arrival of the celebrated Francian singer Celestine de Joyeuse, but there was no mention of her anywhere.
Did I stay too long in Tielen? I had to honor the promise I made to Eugene. I had to make sure that everything was in order at Swanholm.
Even if his successor were a mere doctor of science without a drop of mage blood in his veins, Linnaius had to be certain that he was entrusting his alchymical knowledge to a worthy successor, one who would serve Eugene loyally.
He entered a wide and gracious square dominated by a grand building boasting an ostentatious portico. Horse-drawn sleighs crossed and crisscrossed in front of its broad steps, the air noisy with the horses' hooves and the jingle of the bells on their harnesses.
Again he felt a sudden stab of aethyric energy, faint as a pinp.r.i.c.k, yet infused with an intense, radiant power. ”The Imperial Theater,” he murmured aloud and set out, threading his way through the troikas.
”Where are the silver sequins?” Yelena's voice, shrill and vexed, pierced the seamstresses' gossiping. ”Well? Don't tell me we've run out!”
One by one, the women looked up from their work and shook their heads.
”Oh, that's wonderful. And only seven more costumes to complete!” Yelena opened her purse. ”Maela, go round to the draper's on Khazan Prospect and buy more sequins.” She tossed her a coin. ”That should cover it.”
Celestine deftly caught the coin.
”Wrap up warmly; it'll be dark soon. And don't dawdle!”
Well m.u.f.fled in her thick cloak, Celestine hurried out into the twilight. The quickest way to Khazan Prospect was to take a shortcut through a winding alley around the back of the theater. The sun was setting and the alley was unlit. She hesitated. But what had she to fear? The Faie would protect her if anyone tried to rob her.
There it was again-but stronger this time. Linnaius retreated into a doorway and watched. In the purple dusk he saw a cloaked woman emerge from the stage door and, after a quick, nervous glance around, scuttle away into the night. Linnaius retreated into a doorway and watched. In the purple dusk he saw a cloaked woman emerge from the stage door and, after a quick, nervous glance around, scuttle away into the night.
He followed. She was moving much more swiftly than he and in the twists and turns of the foul-smelling alley, he almost lost her. He emerged, wheezing for breath in the sharp cold of the night air, on one of the main thoroughfares of the city, in time to see her going into a little shop.
He would just have to wait and detain her when she came out...
It was dark when Celestine left the draper's, the silver sequins wrapped in a twist of paper. The troika horses' hooves struck sparks off the icy cobbles as the sleighs swished past. She s.h.i.+vered.
What was that unsettling sensation? She glanced around, suddenly wary. Another frost haze was settling over Mirom as the temperature plummeted. It must just be the intense night cold, she told herself as she entered the unlit alleyway. She would soon warm up again by the stove in the snug workroom.
Silver eyes glimmered in the darkness.
She stopped, backing away.
”Wh-who's there?” she called, her voice trembling. She was too far along the alley to run back to the busy street. And if she called for help, who would hear her cries?
”I've been looking for you, Celestine.”
Another s.h.i.+ver ran through her body, so intense that she feared she would not be able to stop shaking. Those eyes of silver ice, so chill, so inhuman. Those eyes of silver ice, so chill, so inhuman. Now she knew who was blocking her way. And he had trapped her. Now she knew who was blocking her way. And he had trapped her.
”Kaspar Linnaius!” she cried, as she felt her fear turning to anger. ”Show yourself!” ”Show yourself!”
”I mean you no harm, Celestine,” came the hateful voice from the shadows. ”I only want to talk with you.”
”He's lying.”
The Faie had awoken to the danger.
The Magus came toward her, one hand extended. The hand that could summon storm winds with the slightest flick of finger and thumb.
Celestine continued to retreat until she felt her back graze against the blank tenement wall. There was nowhere else to go.
”What is there to talk about?” She kept her voice low in the hope that she would not betray how terrified she felt. If he had intended to kill her, he would have struck before she even knew he was there. So what did he want from her?