Marek (Buried Lore Book 1) (12 page)

More
miniature portraits lined the stairs, again of Zola with her stern face, her
bodice tightly buttoned up to her neck, her vibrant hair covered with a scarf.
She did not look beautiful in these. At the second floor there were several
doors leading from the landing and I was led to a room at the end of the hall.
The furniture here was also magnificent and I wished my father could see it.
The bed sat high off the floor and a battle scene was carved into the bed head.
Beside the bed was a writing table with curved legs, so highly polished it
caught all the light in the room. The floorboards were made from hardwood and
covered with thickly woven rugs. This room had a large window overlooking the
street, and from this height I could see several women over the high walls of
the monastery in long white robes and black pinafores, their heads covered,
walking the grounds.

‘There
are clothes here that will fit you,’ said Zola opening a wardrobe. ‘My friend
brought them here.’ I felt a stab in my
heart
as I
thought about another man, similar to my size, sleeping here. Was it jealousy I
wondered? I was attracted and indebted to Zola but I told myself that I hardly
knew her. She was a mystery yet I wanted to know her more. Despite her plain
dress, which was still far too elegant to wear in the forest, she looked
sculptured and my eyes traced her tiny waist. It took me a moment to
realise
that Zola was examining me also, and I was suddenly
aware of how I must look to her. I caught my reflection in a glass on the
dresser: wild hair, dirty face, a coat thick with sweat and pine.

Celeste
was given a smaller room, the walls papered in powder blues and bright yellows,
the
furniture painted cream. On the dressing table was
a mirror and silver-backed brushes. There was also a latticed partition placed
for changing and the chairs were covered in patterned fabric matching the
colours
of the walls. Both rooms looked eager for their
former occupants to return.

Celeste
didn’t look about her but headed straight to the window. Perhaps she was
looking for the quickest escape route if she had to leave suddenly. Her window
overlooked a small barren garden and the spindly remains of fruit trees
contained by high fences.

‘There
is a dress in your wardrobe. Wear it for dinner,’ Zola instructed coolly.
Celeste sat on the edge of the bed, with its white lacy coverlet, and stared
into her lap. I pulled the dress from the rail hoping it would lift Celeste’s
spirits. It was dark green with low shoulders and white piping. I was pleased
for her clothes to be replaced; her skirts were tattered at the bottom, her
front apron stained. There
were
soft black leather
shoes also made for a dainty foot such as Celeste’s.

On
enquiry, Zola advised that her water basins were
empty
as the river water carriers had stopped delivering while she was gone. Celeste
accompanied me readily and we took casks to fill at the town well. The marketplace
was busy with people from all walks of life, from the wealthy to the beggars on
the street who solicited passers-by. We were not approached by the latter as
our clothes suggested that we did not fare much better in terms of coin.

When
we were alone, I took the opportunity to reassure Celeste that everything would
be all right during our short stay with Zola. I also told her that I wouldn’t
release her to the tin people until I met them. If they were unsuitable I would
seek to enquire about other families for a temporary lodging. Then after I
returned from my sister’s, I would help her find her family. I could see from
her downcast look that she still had many doubts about her future. I questioned
her melancholy but gained nothing from the occasional shake or nod of her head.
Understanding her was like guessing the number of fish in a stream.

I
also suggested that she make an effort to be friends with Zola and take full
advantage of her hospitality, which included wearing the dress. Then, I
experienced a very odd occurrence. While holding Celeste’s hand to signify that
she could trust me, an image appeared in my mind. It was of Zola, her face
stretched into an unpleasant grimace, her small fingers pinching my arm. When I
released Celeste, the image was gone. Had I perhaps conjured that up
coincidentally or had I interpreted this through Celeste, who had somehow found
another way to communicate her perceptions and dislike for Zola? Either way, I
should have heeded this as a warning.

Celeste

I heard voices at the bottom of the
stairs. It was a man with a thick and unfamiliar accent. Zola was there too,
falsely laughing high and sweet. Her true self was vile and I vowed that I
would keep an eye on her every movement. She was impure and unworthy of
Marek’s
infatuation.

With
cold water and a piece of linen I sponged my hair and body with jasmine soap
that had come from the Kingdom of France. Zola told me the scent was the best
in the world but it was nothing like the mild sweet fragrance of fresh water
lilies, which my mother would crush and rub on my body as a child; the flowers,
she told me, made our skin soft.  I dried myself with another cloth then
washed my undergarments in the same bowl and hung them over a chair.

I
stood naked before the looking glass examining my small body. I was barely a
woman but neither was I the girl my mother had left behind. What would she have
told me? Would she have said that my time to blossom will come, or would my
mother have told me what I believed… that I would never be beautiful like her?
Or perhaps she would not have said anything at all, too interested in winning
the attention of another flighty street artist.

I
struggled with the new undergarments, which had been left with the dress: lots
of strings and holes to thread. Unable to fathom this ridiculous article of
clothing, I put it aside. I pulled on my old dress again but now that I was
flowery clean, the smell of the soiled fabric was offensive, even to me. I
removed it and for some time sat naked on the bed staring at the green gown,
eventually succumbing to its brilliance. It looked slightly awkward and
cumbersome on my frame and gaped at the front. The neckline was lower than I
was used to. There were powders and brushes also left on the table but I did
not know what to use. I left the room, and as I commenced the stairs Zola
appeared like the stars in the night sky, so dazzling were the jewels around
her neckline, her hair twisted high above her head.

‘No
no, you mute child!’ she chided. ‘That will not do for our visitor.’ She
grasped my arm and proceeded to lead me back to my room but I loosened from her
clasp and turned from her.

‘Do
you want to look ridiculous? This man could help you find your mother,
Celestina
.’

She
talked as if she knew my mother personally. I did not want to believe her but I
felt compelled to stop a moment. Zola knew my weak point like she knew
Marek’s
was his tender heart.

‘Well?
Where else will you go?
You cannot speak
,
you have no money
. Do you really think someone will hire
you? I do not think so. You will beg for food. I want you gone, make no
mistake. But
Marek
, you see, seems to care too much
about the little things so we will make do, what do you say? Now come along. I
do not bite children.’

She
was being provocatively artless – aware that I knew her secret. That she
could kill a man with her poisonous kisses. I followed her back to my room. If
there was anything I could agree on, it was the fact I had very few options.
Zola proceeded to undo the dress far quicker than I had tied it. When she had
finished with the laces, I still held the clothing tightly to the front of me
for modesty, but she grabbed the dress and threw it on the bed, unconcerned
with my discomfort at this exposure.

‘You’ve
done it all wrong. First you will need an undergarment to allow the dress to
sit well. Have you never had decent clothing?’

I
refused to give a response, which she did not wait for in any case. She
instructed me to wrap the small bodice garment around my torso then she
fastened it tightly at the back. She then slipped the dress over my head and
laced it firmly to fit my body. The top of my small breasts sat just above the
neckline. Next she pulled up my hair, and taking a silver comb from her own
luscious red curls, she twisted my hair up and fixed it to the back of my head.
She applied some powder to my face, and rouge to my cheeks and lips. I was
transformed from girl to woman.

Zola
stood back to admire her handiwork, her dark eyes evaluating me as if I was to
be sold. I felt embarrassed and ashamed of my simplicity, for I knew nothing of
the womanly ways.

‘You’re
ready.’ I followed Zola out. ‘Now stand tall, not all hunched over like a gypsy
beggar.’ Another disparaging remark disguised in flippancy.

We
entered a large room, which I had not seen before. It was furnished with
opulent lounge chairs and trays of food laid out on small tables.
Marek
stood next to a hearth wearing trousers fit narrowly
into high leather boots, a clean shirt and a tunic in gold brocade. He looked
incredibly handsome with his hair combed and pulled back from his face into a
tail. But what dazzled me most was the man standing next to him.

‘
Celestina
, this is Jean!’

Jean
was dressed like royalty. He wore a long hooded white fur coat lined with
satin, and his fingers were adorned with gemstones. He had piercing blue eyes
and his fair hair appeared windswept, or neatly disarranged. His skin had a
translucency acquired only by those of Church or wealth, or – unlikely in
this case – sickness. It was the crows’ feet around the eyes that
contradicted his wide-eyed child-like stare; and a certain bounce in his step
gave the illusion of someone much younger. I was embarrassed that my staring
would be noticed. I looked away too quickly.

‘We
have already explained to Jean that you are mute,’ said Zola. And to Jean: ‘She
is lovely. What do you think?’

Jean
circled me like prey.

‘Yes,
most interesting,’ said Jean, and I found myself capturing every expression in
his handsome face. ‘Perhaps one day she will find her voice again.’

At
the time, even if I could talk, I had limited vocabulary or understanding of
life issues to successfully partake in adult conversation.

‘What
sort of skill do you have?’ asked
Marek
, tearing Jean
away from my company, and I
realised
I was perhaps
now in the midst of three witches: three people whose dark arts were feared
throughout the land. Though I believed there was still time for
Marek
to be freed.

‘Let
me show you.’ Jean stared at a glass bowl on the table. Moments later it began
to rise on its own, floating before our eyes, higher and higher. Then it
stopped mid-air, before quite suddenly sailing high above us and smashing into
the wall into thousands of tiny fragments. Zola laughed and clapped and I was
surprised that she was not upset for glass was not so easy to come by. My
mother used to say that one day she would make so much money that we could buy
coloured
glass from Venice to adorn our necks and wrists.

As
if he had read my mind, Jean fixed his disarming gaze on me: ‘One day all the
money and pleasures of the world will be yours,’ he whispered before taking my
hand to kiss it. His lips felt cold. ‘You are absolutely delicious,
Celestina
… No! Do not drop your eyes away. Let me look on
you a moment longer.’

It
was awkward and foreign for me to stand there and be gazed upon like a side of
beef in a stall, and I wanted to run from the room. I noticed too that
Marek
was uncomfortable with this episode, and even Zola no
longer wore her false smile. ‘That is enough Jean,’ she said, lips pursed. I
realised
my hand was still resting in his and quickly
withdrew it wondering how I had allowed it there for so long. He reluctantly
moved his gaze to
Marek
.

‘In
just a day from now you will meet others with the skill,’ Jean said. ‘And I can
assure you that your sister’s hospitality will be like nothing you have ever
experienced, so adept is she in understanding the special needs of our kind.’
Then, he turned to me. ‘And I would hope that you bring this delightful
creature with you also.’

‘Thank
you,’ said
Marek
, cautiously. ‘But if we are to meet
others of my kind I do not believe it would sit well with Celeste. She is
frightened enough of our strange ways. I will be asking around the city to see
if anyone can assist her while I am gone. I must at least settle her somewhere
safe before we go, and that may take a few days.’

‘Pity,’
said Jean, raising his perfectly arched eyebrows. ‘She would be so useful…’

‘Jean!’
said Zola interrupting. ‘You talk too much.’ Then turning to
Marek
: ‘
Your
sister is anxious to
meet you. We cannot delay another day. If you would just let me take care of
the matter concerning Celeste. There will be plenty of time later for you to
help her find her family.’

‘I
am keen to meet my sister, Zola, but I must do this. And if my sister has
expressed urgency to see me then why couldn’t she be here?’