Scarlet in the Snow (22 page)

After a simple but excellent meal of fat sausages, potato mash and caraway-flavoured cabbage, I pleaded tiredness and went off to bed. Olga had made a cosy little nook for me in the cargo hold, where she’d rigged up sheets to create a makeshift tent, made a comfortable bed out of soft old clothes and provided a big fur coat for a blanket. It was quite dimly lit in the cargo hold, but they’d given me a lantern, and its soft golden glow made my little nook feel even more homely. Settling in amongst the bedclothes, the fur draped across my lap, I took out the art book and the dictionary, leaving the tin of sweets to one side. I wanted to try to translate what I needed without the help of the sweets first, for I had no way of knowing how long their effect might last, and it would be rather awkward if I should still be speaking Faustinian to Olga and Andel tomorrow morning.

I scanned the index of
Modern Art and Artists
, looking for names I recognised. Felix Vivian was there but only as a mention (the book dated from the year before the inaugural prize). In fact, he was mentioned only in the context of his father, one Richard Vivian, and, agonisingly slowly, jumping from book to dictionary, I managed to decipher the whole entry, discovering that Richard Vivian was:

a noted painter of landscapes. Messir Vivian’s work occupies an honoured place in the annals of Champainian art and he is also well recognised beyond, especially in Almain, where he holds such an honoured place that he has been given that country’s Distinguished Artist Medal. Once closely associated with the circle of disgraced Almainian artist Timon Gelden, a noted early patron, Richard Vivian is now the Vice-President of the Fine Art Academy of Champaine, while his son Felix is a promising artist and member of the Palume art movement, the School of Light.

Could Richard Vivian, Vice-President of the Fine Art Academy of Champaigne, be the sorcerer? It was possible. He held power in the art world, his son knew Ivan and there was that association with the School of Light. But would a father really turn his own son into a puppet – a soulless tool? It didn’t make sense.

I decided to look up the entry on the School of Light. Most of it was a discussion of artistic techniques, which I only half-understood. But there was also a list of the school’s more ‘prominent’ young artists, excluding Felix Vivian who at the time must not have been considered ‘prominent’, only ‘promising’. They were all young, most in their early twenties, but a few were even younger. That
was four years ago, of course, so Ivan would only have been about seventeen.

In my notebook, I wrote down the five names that seemed to correspond most closely in age to him: Sebastien d’Roch, Gabriel Fontenoy, Gaetan Theodorus, Charles Gauvain and Thomas Mandon. All five had already had their first exhibitions at the time, and were considered to have glittering careers before them. Apart from that, the entries noted that all five had quite privileged family connections: Gaetan Theodorus’s father was a well-known society painter, Sebastien d’Roch would inherit a large baronial estate, Charles Gauvain’s aunt owned one of the biggest stores in Palume, Gabriel Fontenoy’s godfather was a celebrated explorer, and Thomas Mandon’s older sister was a bestselling novelist.

I stared at the five names, wishing the book had included photographs. Sebastien, Gaetan, Gabriel, Charles, Thomas – which was Ivan’s real name? I had no way of knowing right now. But at least I had names to start my inquiries in Palume, as well as the Lilac Gardens, whatever they were.

It took me an age to fall asleep that night and seemed like I’d slept no more than a few minutes when I was jerked awake by a bump and a clanking, scraping noise outside. Going up on deck, my eyes still gritty and my limbs like lead, I discovered that it was bright daylight and that we’d arrived at the river-mouth port of Stereki.

Against my rather weak protestations, Olga and Andel packed some food for me and then Olga escorted me off the barge, to point out the place where I might take the
shuttle omnibus that conveyed travellers to the seaport on the other side of town.

‘I hope you find what you are looking for,’ she said, as we parted with a warm handshake. ‘For I see in your eyes there has been much sorrow and trouble, and I would wish on you the same happiness and good fortune we have.’

‘Thank you,’ I murmured, ‘thank you so much for everything and for . . . for not asking me any questions, when you had a perfect right to.’

‘Bah,’ said Olga lightly, ‘no-one has any right to force others to bare their heart.’ She took an envelope out of her pocket and pressed it into my hand. ‘By the way, Andel wanted me to give this to you. No,’ she said, when my eyes widened, ‘don’t open it now; wait till you have a moment to yourself.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ I said.

‘Then don’t,’ she said, smiling. ‘There’s one more thing I have to say. The difference between good magic and bad magic is that the first fits itself to you, and the second tries to fit you to it. Remember that and you won’t go wrong.’ She smiled at my disconcerted expression. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t know all your deep dark secrets. Only, there is a smell of magic about you, and I know that smell, even if my darling Andel doesn’t. Now, hurry up or you’ll miss the bus.’

‘You are both so very kind,’ I babbled. ‘I will never forget you.’

‘You better not,’ she said teasingly. ‘We’ll certainly be expecting news of you by and by.’ After a final wave she was gone, leaving me shaking my head and smiling.

As the bus rattled through the streets, I opened the envelope to discover that my extraordinary friends had given me a final gift far more valuable than the couple of banknotes I’d half-expected. Instead, there was an official-looking passport document on thick paper, in the name of ‘Sveta Popova’, complete with a most creditable facsimile of the Ruvenyan double-crowned lion seal. In my agitated single-mindedness, I hadn’t even considered how I was going to pass the Champaine port authorities’ check. Now I was even more glad I had at least repaid them a little, even if it was with that dull book.

At the seaport, I soon found a merchant steamer bound for Boucal, the Champainian port closest to Palume. I spent practically all of my money on the passage, but I could not worry about that, not when I was finally well and truly on my way.

The least said about the next couple of days, the better. I had never been on an ocean-going ship in my life, and it was not a pleasant experience. As soon as we were out of the harbour and into open water, I began to feel queasy. By the time we were a couple of hours away from land, my stomach was heaving and I was miserably, atrociously sick for the rest of the day and night and some of the next day. It was only during the last few hours of the voyage that I felt normal again, and after a thorough wash and a light snack, almost human.

Profiting from a moment when I was alone, I took out Luel’s box and looked at the comb and the handkerchief. They must have some purpose. Rather gingerly, I took out the comb. It seemed like nothing more than an ordinary comb. But then the sweets had looked like ordinary sweets until I had tasted them. Perhaps, like the sweets, the comb had to be put to use for its purpose to
be revealed. I raised it to my head and warily began to comb my hair.

And as I did so, there, spinning softly down into my lap, was a delicate silk flower – a little pink rosebud so finely made it looked like the real thing. Another rake of the comb and there was another silk flower, a pale blue peony this time. Hmm. Silk flowers were the sort of thing you pinned on a fine hat or a ball gown. And these looked like the very best, most expensive sort, imported from Faustina, where they were a traditional handicraft. But what use were they to me?

Next, I unfolded the handkerchief and shook it. Before I even had time to put it to my nose, tumbling out of the folds came a miniature case in cream morocco leather. I opened it and found it contained a beautiful little manicure set made of filigree silver and mother-of-pearl. And inset into the lid of the box was a tiny inscription that read ‘Made in the Faustine Empire’. I stared at the manicure case and the flowers as the germ of an idea came into my mind. These things were giving me a hint: not only must I change my identity, I must change my nationality.

Sveta Popova would do till I disembarked. But it wasn’t safe to continue with this name afterwards, or to be associated in any way with Ruvenya. The sorcerer’s spies were sure to be looking out for a Ruvenyan girl. But I didn’t feel I could pass as a Champainian in Champaine; I would too easily be recognised as a foreigner. I should become Faustinian.

I needed a new name. What better than to take as a surname that of our old Faustinian neighbour, the
kaldir
Dr ter Zhaber? And for a first name, why not Alexandra, my middle name? I knew it was also used in Faustinian. So I would be Alexandra ter Zhaber. Easy to remember, easy to fit into.

Now for my cover story. Who was Alexandra ter Zhaber, and why was she in Palume? Let me think – yes, Alexandra is an orphan seeking her only living relative, her father’s sister, Aunt Hilda ter Zhaber, who’s lived in Palume for decades and has worked as secretary to several artistic families in the capital – families associated with the School of Light. But Alexandra doesn’t know the present whereabouts of her aunt, which is why she has to go around making inquiries. My imagination sped on, clothing the bare story with all kinds of details, so that within a few minutes, Alexandra felt like someone halfreal, like a well-drawn character in a book. All that was needed now for Alexandra to step out of that book and become real was to take one of Luel’s language lozenges – the one marked ‘F’. But that I could not do until we had safely arrived in Boucal.

We finally docked there the next morning. It was raining, and disembarking in the midst of the mud and bustle of the port, in a crowd of noisy passengers, I attracted just as little attention from the officials as I had hoped, with my document hardly even drawing a glance before it was stamped. Clutching my holdall, I walked not towards the railway station, where most of the
passengers were heading, but into the ramshackle alleys behind the port. There I might be able to accomplish my identity switch, safe from prying eyes. I also hoped to find a pawn shop where I could sell the manicure case, for I did not have enough money to buy even a third-class ticket to Palume.

I settled on a quiet spot in a sheltered doorway and nervously opened the tin of sweets. I had no idea if these lozenges would work in the way I hoped, or how long the effect would last,
if
they did at all. Still, I had to try. With my heart banging against my chest, I picked an ‘F’ sweet from the tin, and quickly swallowed it before I could think twice.

At once, I felt my brain spasming and my thoughts becoming as shapeless as rags. In the next moment, a tingle started at my feet, running all the way through my veins, like the fizziest, sharpest sherbet, fast as quicksilver, right up through my throat and into my head, ears, eyes and tongue. Then my mind cleared, brilliantly, in the same way a landscape jumps into view when sunlight pierces fog.

Words bubbled to my lips. Faustinian words. Most wonderful of all, not only could I speak them, I understood them completely, instinctively, as though I’d been born to them. Excitedly, I took out
Modern Art and Artists
from my bag. Yes, I could read it perfectly now, without any need of translation. It felt completely natural!