Blood Spirits (25 page)

The quotations were the usual compliments—her beauty, her good taste, her presiding at charity functions—but those were standard obit language, without giving any hint of the real person. The extensive quotes from Aunt Sisi seemed to be about someone else altogether, an ideal daughter who dedicated herself to good works, had excellent taste in opera and chamber music, and who was the favorite of her entire family.

I scanned rapidly for something about Alec. No quotes from him, nothing but a final paragraph saying that the paper joined the Dobreni people in commiserating with him on his loss.

By the time I'd read that, I'd finished my scrambled eggs and a couple slices of fresh-baked bread with nut filling.

Beka arrived as I finished my tea. I was glad to leave that paper behind.

She greeted me with a distracted air and waved me to her car, which was a recent hybrid. I grabbed Shimon's wife's coat, and we were off.

I waited until she'd pulled into the slow traffic, then said, “I take it you told Alec about my cash flow issues. Can you tell me what it means, ‘draw on'?” I quoted Alec's note. “Do we have to go to the bank and show them all my papers and my credit card?”

“Not necessary. The store will bill the bank directly, if you tell them to.”

“How do I know if I've run out of money?”

She slowed for a huge cart pulled by oxen with some kind of boots on their hooves, and threw a quick smile my way. “You won't. In fact, you could buy up a street or two, and you wouldn't run through it all.”

“How is that possible? I thought . . .” Did she know about the Dsaret Treasure? Of course she did. “I thought my family already got their share,” I finished, leaving it at that.

“Your family was sent your grandmother's portion of the Dsaret inheritance,” she said calmly. Yep, she knew. Then came the part that
I
didn't know. “But that was the royal treasury. You forget that your relatives also had their holdings. Not only the Dsaret mines, but here in the city. My family was instrumental in the rebuilding during the baroque era, with the result that, between the Ridotskis and the Dsarets, we own pretty much everything east of the cathedral, and as far south as the river. Even though rents have risen very little over the centuries, and it's only been about fifteen years that we once again got control of those funds from the Soviets, it nonetheless adds up.”

Her voice had flattened to calm and matter-of-fact, the way a teacher strives to remain neutral before the classroom, especially when introducing a potentially hot topic. I wondered for the first time if she felt about me the way I did about her: wary, not sure about trust.

I wondered if we both felt the same way about Alec. And what about
draska mea?

I said, “Do
you
think I was conspiring with Alec to kill Ruli?”

“You? Alec?” She shot me another look, her brows up. “Killing Ruli? Impossible.”

“You seem angry.”

“I am angry. But with someone else. Not with you.”

“I don't understand,” I said.

“Last night, my cousin Anijka came to see Honoré, while the rest of us were at Ruli's vigil. He saw her out. He insisted on using my great-grandfather's old cane to walk her out. On the way back, he reached that turn at the top of the stair . . .” She closed her mouth tight. “He fell. He got one hand on a banister, and so he only crashed to the steps, while the cane tumbled all the way down.”

“Did he trip over the cane?”

“That's what we thought, except for three things. First, his impression that something got between his foot and the cane.”

“You mean like a trip wire?”

“Or something stuck between the two, from between the banister posts. The second thing, Shurisko was in his room not ten meters away, barking in madness. That's what we came home to, actually. And third, the door to the garden was unlocked, and my mother distinctly remembered locking it herself.”

“So . . . you think someone did it on purpose? Tony thought the fire was on purpose. He came over to accuse me last night.”

“So I understand.” She looked down, her lips compressed.

“It sounds to me like the vigil meant to honor Ruli wasn't all that healing?”

“It was horrible, so full of traditional words, so meaningless when spoken with smothered anger. So many are angry with one another. Angry with Alec. Yet there are so many questions one cannot ask outright.” She flicked the fingers of her hand upward, rattling her bracelet as if waving goodbye to an unhappy topic. “It was very formal, very stiff, and very, very short. Let us talk about something else.”

“Is there a Dobreni history book?”

“Both the city and the palace libraries were destroyed by the Soviets. Although some books were secreted, they are seriously out of date. We're in the process of doing something about that.”

“When Honoré told me about his project, he mentioned what happened to the library.”

“We're still recovering from those years, in many ways.” She paused as she negotiated through the snarl of traffic around the enormous traffic circle where Prinz Karl-Rafael street ended. In the center was the shepherdess fountain. The figures were not moving. I watched as we threaded through people, carts, horses, autos ranging from the forties on, and the streetcar. “I hate driving the Xanpia roundabout,” she commented, “but it's the quickest way to Ladislas, and we don't have a lot of time. So. Even if you know nothing about us, what do you think ‘Dsaret' means?”

“Oh.”
Never saw that coming!
“‘ Tzar' or ‘Caesar' is at the root?”

“Yes. The oldest legends have it that the Dsaret family were custodians of the oldest mine. What was in that mine . . . has been debated.” Her tone was odd.

As she turned again and slowed in search of a parking place, I considered her words. “You don't just mean the usual things you find in mines. You mean something to do with the legends about Vrajhus and the Nasdrafus?”

“It might. Or it could be that this oldest mine that no one seems to be able to point to just means Dobrenica.”

We'd arrived in a neighborhood where the buildings had grand Edwardian fronts. This had to be the Rodeo Drive of Riev. She pulled up in front of a marble-fronted shop with fine lace curtains in the windows and discreet lettering in old-fashioned script:
Été
. Summer—a lovely thought.

There was barely enough space in front. Beka put the car into park and put her hands in her lap with a faint rattle of her bracelets. She was frowning at the steering wheel as if it was speaking a language she almost remembered.

Then she said abruptly, “You didn't tell us that you also saved Honoré's work. As well as the cats.”

“Sure I told you.”

Beka's smile was brief. “Perhaps we did not comprehend. Honoré certainly did not until this morning.”

I looked out at the shop, trying to deal with a weird mix of gratification and intense embarrassment.

“I would like to tell you how much that means to us all, but we really don't have the time,” Beka said, now brisk. She glanced at her watch, then sprung the car door, exclaiming, “Come.”

“Lead on.”

We went inside the shop, which was completely different from shopping experiences I was used to. There might be places like this in LA, too, but in areas where I couldn't even afford to park. We sat down, and the sales women showed us examples of all kinds of dresses. I picked out ones I liked. Then they took my measurements, and we talked about colors and fabrics.

Beka suggested a subdued silvery mauve shirt dress of soft wool for the funeral. It was very simple, few seams in the whole thing.

The sales woman promised it would be delivered before I finished my shopping. When I gave the address, she blinked once or twice, but made no comment. Her only expression was a minute smile, mostly a relaxing of the skin around her eyes, as I piled up the orders. I've always preferred one stop shopping, and if I like something, I grab it and go.

The woman thanked me, everything in French, as discreet as could be. The only reminder that I was still in Dobrenica was the greeting on leaving, an elided version of some kind of blessing, somewhat like the Austrian “Grüß Gott.”

After that, we rounded a corner and went up narrow stairs to a shop that didn't even have a sign. One glance at the swatches of fabric on display, and I suspected I was in one of those super exclusive places where the clothes are not only bespoke, but in some greater sense designed for the wearer.

As we mounted the stairs, Beka said casually, “I am assuming you shall attend the gala on New Year's Eve.”

“What gala? Oh yes, you mentioned it before. At the Opera House? I haven't been invited to that, either.”

“They've thrown the celebration open to the entire city, as so many have been working to get the opera house ready. Though Ruli was not particularly fond of life in Riev, one thing she loved was the Black and White Ball on New Year's Eve. It's a tradition here. Everyone wears black and white, in celebration of the old year ending and the beginning of the new,” she said. “This year the von Mecklundburgs were to host it—we trade off—and they had intended to combine it with the opening of the opera house. Even though construction isn't finished, they are holding it there anyway, to show the progress. Perhaps to inspire contributions. Anyway,” she said as we entered, “you need a ball gown. But getting one made in a few days, especially with everyone wanting one, is . . .” She glanced at the shopkeeper, a small, stout woman with a broad face who reminded me of some Russians I'd seen. The two exchanged gazes, a heartbeat too long. A signal.

Beka asked, “Madam Celine, is it too late to make a gown?”

It was like she was giving a cue, and on cue the woman replied, “We might be able to achieve something.” Her French was decidedly Russian accented.

I said, “I'll take any old thing off the rack—I don't really care.”

Beka was trying not to laugh. “There is no rack here. Ball gowns are made for the wearer, works of art.”

Madame Celine said, “If we might measure . . . ?”

Beka's lips pursed. Then she flicked a look at me.

I said, “What's going on? I'm not being set up for something nasty am I? No, wait—is this a place Ruli used to come to?” I was completely squicked out by the idea of them hauling out some fancy gown of Ruli's.

“She hadn't even come in for the first fitting. It was made up on her pattern. The gown is based on something Ginger Rogers wore in a film,” Beka said.

I stopped in my tracks. “Which film?”

“
Swing Time
, I think it was called. I know I've seen the film, but I don't remember it very well. It was a favorite of hers.”

“Not the gown from ‘Never Gonna Dance'?”

“That's the one.”

Okay, I had to have that dress.
Ruli, if you don't want me in it, now's the time to speak up
, I thought.

The silvery-white gown was deceptively simple in design but made up of many thin strips exquisitely stitched together, broadening out from the hips into a filmy skirt. The fabric was a marvelously supple, floaty, silk on silk, brocaded in the pattern of a stylized flower. Where had I seen that flower? Oh, yeah. Woven into the pattern on the Amaranth rug where Honoré had lain. And it was the same one carved into the hinges of that wonderful fake door I'd seen on my first day. A long chiffony black scarf draped in a scoop across the neckline to fall over my shoulders in two streamers to the hem.

I postured and twirled before the mirror. The skirt had the necessary swoosh for waltzing, but it wasn't poofed out with miles of petticoats, the way my eighteenth century ball gown had been for the summer masquerade. I wouldn't feel like a ship under sail when trying to walk.

So I agreed to everything and promised to return for a second fitting.

As we left Beka insisted on elbow length black silk gloves, so on we went to the anticlimax of underthings and accessories. We made our way down the street until we reached a shoe store. Beka said, “You won't find anything adventurous here, but the shoes are comfortable and classic in design.”

“Since my interest in footwear has been pretty much confined to sandals, ballet slippers, and fencing shoes for competitions, this is not a big disappointment.”

She laughed. “I wish I could take you to Italy. You would discover the beauty of good shoes.” It was the first genuine expression I'd heard from her.

The shoemaker measured my feet. I picked out one pair of high heeled pumps, which the earnest young man promised would be ready in time for the ball, and several pairs of satin covered flats that could be delivered later. A shawl, two coats—one a full length, incredibly soft thing and one short and practical—a couple of hats (a fuzzy one like Phaedra's), and a couple of new suitcases. I wondered what Madam Waleska was going to make of this stream of deliveries.

After the suitcases, Beka looked at her watch. “We have forty minutes.”

Back to the car we tramped. She maneuvered us into the thin but steady stream of sleigh, auto, foot, and occasional shaggy-horse traffic. We drove down a street parallel to the cathedral and the temple, pulling up in a tiny cul-de-sac with shops so small the doors and windows were about the same size. One was a café.

Inside, it smelled like fresh-ground coffee and onion-braised meats and steamed cabbage. Beka led the way between tiny tables where people sat eating, talking, or reading. No cell phones, no computers. The late Victorian décor had Corinthian pillars and flourishes against the ceiling. A wave of giddiness rippled through me, as if I'd slipped back in time. I had a sense that this café was very old.