Tracing the Shadow (37 page)

“But I have commitments in Lutèce. I can’t just go off for a month, two months, and leave my choirs without their director.”

“You have assistants. Let them take over. And you’ve been working so hard, you deserve a break. You don’t want to make yourself ill.” Aurélie’s voice was so soft, so coaxing; how could he refuse? “Composers can burn out if they push themselves too far; you remember what happened to poor Capelian? You can relax at the spa in Sulien; I have a little villa there, overlooking the city. A rest will do you good.”

Celestine heard the Maistre give a gentle, indulgent laugh. “It’s impossible to resist you, Aurélie.”

“So you’ll come!” Celestine did not miss the triumphant ring in the diva’s voice, which was interrupted by the silvery tones of the little clock in the hall striking the half hour.

“Goodness, is that the time? I have a student waiting. Forgive me.”

“You see how busy you are, Henri? You must be more kind to yourself.”

Celestine guiltily darted away from the wall and busily began to shuffle through her sheets of music as the salon door opened and the Maistre appeared. Behind him, Celestine glimpsed Aurélie in a tight-fitting traveling costume of mulberry, her glossy black hair elaborately curled and arranged.

“Demoiselle Celestine, please go on through to the music room.”

Why was he speaking so formally to her? Was it because of Aurélie? Eyes downcast, Celestine had almost reached the door when Aurélie suddenly let out a little cry of vexation. “What am I thinking of? I’m leaving without the very piece I came to collect. Henri, would you be so good as to bring me a copy of
Faded Petals
?”

“By all means.” The Maistre went back into the music room; Celestine went to follow him, only to find Aurélie blocking her way.

“So
you’re
Henri’s latest protégé?” The diva gave her a hard, appraising stare. “Ah yes, I believe I heard you sing in the cathedral. A sweet voice, but lacking any real substance.” She stopped suddenly, gazing challengingly into Celestine’s eyes. “I saw the way you looked at him. You’re utterly smitten with him. It’s written all over your face. So let’s get one thing straight: Henri is
mine.
I understand his needs. An inexperienced child like you could never hope to satisfy him.”

Am I that transparent?
Celestine took a step back, dismayed that her rival had read her so accurately.
Are my feelings for the Maistre so obvious?

“Besides, you really don’t want to make an enemy of me, my dear. I have influence in every opera house and concert hall in the quadrant. I can put an end to your career before it’s even begun.”

Celestine was unprepared for such a blatant challenge. Even if she had found her voice, she would not have known what to say.

“And now that we understand each other,” said Aurélie with the sweetest smile curving her red-rouged lips, “I trust I will never have to raise this delicate issue again.”

“Here it is.” The Maistre reappeared, waving a folder which he handed to Aurélie; Celestine noticed how the diva closed her hands over his as she took it, caressing his fingers. “Let me escort you to your carriage.”

Celestine still stood in the hall as Aurélie stalked past her, leaving a waft of exotic perfume in her wake. As the Maistre opened the door, Aurélie flashed her a triumphant glance from beneath her strong, black brows.

She sees me as her rival! And she’s so famous, so influential, what chance do I have, competing with her for the Maistre’s affections?

Gauzia came clattering down the stair into the hallway, clutching her score.

Aurélie glanced around and saw her. Her expression altered, her tone became sweet and indulgent. “Why, if it isn’t little Gauzia!”

“Aurélie!” Gauzia replied, with a winsome smile.

“Are you on your way to the rehearsal, my dear? Let me give you a lift in my carriage.”

All three swept out of the house, the two women chattering animatedly about the Opera House. Celestine stood in the hall, feeling as if life had just passed her by.

CHAPTER 27

Garlands of fresh spring flowers were draped over every lintel and window of the Palace of Plaisaunces. All the drab, funereal hangings had been taken down and the courtiers had put aside their black clothes the instant the Queen Regent announced that the official period of mourning for her husband was at an end. Evenings that had been filled with contemplative readings from the Holy Texts by Grand Maistre Donatien and the hushed strains of slow and solemn music were free again for cards, masquerades, dancing—and for entertaining foreign royalty. The palace was abuzz with rumors about the splendid banquet that Queen Aliénor had arranged: The guest list read like a gathering of all the crowned heads of the western quadrant. It was little surprise that Prince Eugene of Tielen had declined to attend, as he was still mourning the death of his young wife—and, besides, Francia had not forgiven the House of Helmar for inflicting such a crushing defeat in the Spice Wars. And it was generally held (though no one said it aloud) to be a relief that the warlord Volkh of Azhkendir would not be making the long journey from his remote kingdom in the far north.

“My mother is calling it a spring banquet,” Adèle said to Celestine, showing her the list of guests, “but it’s really a marriage market at which I am to be sold off to the highest bidder.”

Celestine scanned the list and her eyes widened. “You want me to sing before all these eminent people? Wouldn’t it be better to ask a well-known diva, like Aurélie Carnelian?”

“I want
you,
Celestine.” Adèle put her hands on Celestine’s shoulders, gazing candidly into her eyes, and Celestine blushed. “Besides, who else can I discuss my mother’s choice of suitors with? None of my ladies-in-waiting dare tell me what they really think; they’re all too scared of Maman. I’m sure that she lines them up in front of her and makes them learn by heart exactly what she wants them to say to me.”

Celestine was much relieved to hear that Adèle preferred her to the Divine Aurélie.

“If only Papa could have lived a little longer. I’m almost certain he didn’t favor an alliance with Allegonde.” Adèle’s hands dropped back to her sides. For a moment she looked vulnerable and bereft. “But now that he’s gone…”

The realization that Adèle was still grieving for her father stirred bitter memories for Celestine. “Do you miss him very much?”

“Do I miss him?” Adèle went to a little ebony-framed portrait of the king and picked it up, staring at it. “I’m not sure if I ever truly loved my father. I respected him…but he was not an easy man to love. When Enguerrand and I were little, we hardly ever saw him. He was always so busy.” She carefully replaced the portrait. “Aubrey was his favorite. But strangely enough, I never hated Aubrey for it. I was…grateful to him, I suppose, for keeping Papa from interfering in our daily lives. And now they’re both gone.”

“Congratulations, Celestine.” The Maistre looked up from Princess Adèle’s invitation and smiled at her.

She looked away, biting her lip. The warmth in his grey eyes almost melted her resolve.
How can you look at me like that when you’re Aurélie Carnelian’s lover?

“This could be the making of you. This could lead to many invitations to sing abroad. Let’s review your repertoire, shall we?”

Helplessly, she felt herself being seduced all over again by his charm. In spite of her determination to stay aloof, she found that she had drawn nearer to him, looking over his shoulder as he flicked through a sheaf of songs, picking some, discarding others. “I see that the princess has marked ‘Spring Moon’ as one of her favorites; I’m flattered that she likes it—and so should you be, as I wrote it for you.”

He turned and gazed into her eyes.

“F—for me?” Why had he chosen this moment to tell her? She gazed mutely back at him, unable to find words to express how moved she felt.

“When it’s published, it will bear a dedication to you.”

“It’s to be published?” She was utterly confused now; did this mean that he might have feelings for her? Or did he just dedicate each piece that he wrote to its first performer?

Celestine glared at the Maistre’s new song, “October Seas.” Why was it proving such a trial? The poem, by Muscobite poet Solovei, was deceptively simple; it recorded the impressions of a lone woman going to the seashore every day and gazing out into the autumn fogs for a glimpse of her lover’s ship returning to harbor. “
In vain
” was the refrain of the last verse, “
I wait in vain.
”

“All the Muscobite poets seem to relish gloomy subjects,” the Maistre had said to her with a glint of a mischievous smile in his eyes as he handed her the music. “It must be because they’re too far north to see much of the sun.”

Since then, Celestine had been struggling to find the right way to convey the song’s subtle melancholy. When she concentrated on refining the purity of her tone, aiming to let the words speak for themselves, it sounded too detached. And when she tried to interpret what lay behind the words, she got in a muddle.

“Is her lover dead?” she asked, perplexed. “Or does she think he’s dead?”

“There are many possible readings.” The Maistre looked up at her from the keyboard. “But you must find the one that unlocks the music for you. It’s all to do with…love.”

Love.
She felt an involuntary shiver go through her. “
On the far horizon—
” she began, and broke off. This phrase was especially challenging as it skipped over the break in her voice. She took a breath and tried again. It was like trying to crest a high wave; each time she struggled, she fell back, floundering.

The Maistre left the fortepiano and came to stand close behind her, placing his hands on her diaphragm.

“Breathing. Control,” he said softly into her ear, one of his favorite phrases. “Push against my fingers as you release those notes. Slowly. Don’t strain. Let it sound effortless.”

She drew in a breath, then let the notes float out. All she was aware of was the firm pressure of his hands on her waist and rib cage.
He’s holding me. I can feel his breath warm on my cheek…

“Now try it again by yourself.”

He moved away from her, smiling encouragingly. Flustered, she tried to collect her thoughts. She reminded herself that he was merely instructing her, as he instructed his other pupils, young men as well as girls…

“Perhaps we’d better substitute another song,” the Maistre said at length. “Perhaps you’re not ready to sing this one.”

Not ready? What had he meant by that? Aurélie had put it more bluntly, calling her an inexperienced child.

And now she lay sleepless, restless with longing, unable to forget what it felt like to be pressed against his firm frame, to sense the steady beat of his heart so close to her own…

It was all to do with love.

Was he implying that she could not sing the song with true understanding until she had made love? She felt her cheeks burning. But what did love mean to him? Was it possible for two people to love one another deeply, chastely, and never surrender to the sins of the flesh? All she knew was that every time she was with him, life seemed so much more vivid and intense. She longed for him to touch her, kiss her…and yet she also feared where such intimate contact might lead. The girls had frequently been warned at the convent about men and their importunate needs and desires. If she were to surrender to the strength of her feelings, she feared that she would lose all control.

But he is Aurélie’s, and can never be mine…

In the first dawnlight, she found herself opening her father’s book. For a brief moment she glimpsed the names of holy saints, then the printed text blurred, re-forming to reveal the spells and glamours hidden within. Flicking desperately through the faded pages, she searched for a cure for the unassuageable ache in her heart.

“
What are you looking for?
” The Faie was gazing over her shoulder, translucent eyes wide and curious.

“A remedy,” Celestine muttered angrily, “to cure a broken heart.”
Or to remove a spiteful rival.
Even though she had not spoken aloud, the pages fell open at a potion that claimed to cause youthful bloom to fade and wither. Tempted, she lingered over the words, wondering if the spell would work…

“
Why would you want to do that?
”

“Because the Maistre matters to me more than anyone else.” She clapped her hands to her mouth. She had said it aloud.

“
More than your father?
”

“That’s different!” Even though the Faie had asked the question without any expression or insinuation, Celestine heard the unspoken reminder.

I have a duty to Papa…

“Are you feeling well, Celestine?” the Maistre asked. “You look pale.”

Why did he have to speak so sympathetically? One kind look from his soft grey eyes and she was quite undone. “I—I didn’t sleep well. The birds woke me early,” she lied.
If you only knew why I couldn’t sleep, Maistre…

He played a few bars and she recognized the introduction to “October Seas,” as gently repetitive as the wash of the tide on the seashore in the bay below Saint Azilia’s. She closed her eyes, remembering standing on the headland, gazing out across the grey sea. Before she realized what she was doing, she had sung the first phrase, letting the notes float into the misty horizon conjured from her memories. The Maistre continued playing, so she continued to sing, caught up in the notes’ desolate spell.

“
In vain
,” she sang. “
In vain…
” The last note faded away. She opened her eyes, awakening from the trance, to see the Maistre had risen from the fortepiano.

“When did you learn to sing it like that?”

She could not even stammer out a reply.

“Only yesterday I was thinking of removing it from the program.” He was speaking so fast in his excitement that she couldn’t quite catch all his words. “And now you’ve managed to capture exactly that elusive quality of melancholy I was striving for.”

His approval meant more to her than any amount of applause. And even though he could never be hers, at least she had the bittersweet pleasure of knowing that she had brought his song to vivid and poignant life.

“The time has come, Celestine, for you to choose.” The Mother Superior fixed Celestine with a stare so penetratingly severe that she began to tremble. “The sisters and I have tolerated your frequent absences from the daily services long enough. I have a letter here from Abbess Ermengarde asking me to take in one of the novices, Margaud, from Saint Azilia’s. She has a genuine vocation and is eager to take the veil.”

Celestine nodded, remembering Margaud, a solemn girl, two year’s her junior, with a sweet alto voice. She guessed where this discussion was leading.

“We have little enough room to accommodate our own sisters here. And we survive on the charity of our benefactors. But you are eighteen years of age. You must decide, Celestine. Do you intend to dedicate your life to God?”

Gauzia had not given the matter a second’s thought—but then, she had never pretended to have any kind of spiritual vocation. She had been sent to Saint Azilia’s against her will. But Celestine had begun to agonize over the decision.

The sisters took me in and cared for me when I was orphaned. But if I leave, I’ll be out on the streets again. I have no money, no family, nowhere to go.

“The very fact that you’re hesitating just confirms what I’ve suspected for quite a while; you don’t belong here.” There was a sour hint of triumph in the Mother Superior’s stern voice.

“I’m very grateful to the convent for all that you’ve done for me,” Celestine burst out. “But if you’re saying that I must give up my performing career, then I’m just not prepared to do that.”

“Celestine must stay here, mustn’t she, Henri?” Dame Elmire declared as she poured tea for her nephew. “We can’t have the poor girl wandering the streets.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t possibly…” Celestine heard herself say and was not entirely sure why she was arguing so forcibly against Dame Elmire’s suggestion. The thought of living so close to the Maistre was both seductively attractive and disturbing.

“Nonsense!” said Dame Elmire briskly. “There’s Gauzia’s room.”

“Isn’t Gauzia coming back?”

“Why would she want to?” A knowing smile appeared on Dame Elmire’s face. “She has her freedom, living with her fellow ingénues near the Opera.”

“I’ll do housework. And I want you to have any money I make from performing.” Celestine felt her eyes brimming with tears of gratitude. “I can’t board here for free, Dame Elmire.”

Dame Elmire thrust a broom into her hands. “If you’re not afraid of a few spiders, then you can start straightaway.”

The little trunk Celestine had brought with her from Saint Azilia’s lay open on the bed as she carefully folded her few clothes and laid them inside. She was required to leave behind her novice’s gowns and linen; they would be washed and handed on to her replacement, Margaud.

There came a discreet tap at the door and Angelique came in.