CHAPTER 20

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“Maistre de Joyeuse’s new anthem is ravishingly beautiful, Celestine.” Gauzia twirled around the girls’ narrow convent cell. “I can’t believe that he wrote it especially for me to sing. It’s such an honor.” She stopped for a moment in front of the little mirror and tweaked an errant curl back into place.

Celestine listened in silence, slowly dragging a comb through her hair. She could not be sure whether Gauzia was so excited that she could not contain herself, or if she was rattling on expressly to provoke her.

“We’re leaving for the final rehearsal at ten. We’re taking a carriage to the Forteresse. I suppose that means you’ll have to manage without me somehow at Saint Meriadec’s today. Though I heard the Maistre say that one of his younger students was going to play the organ in his place. We won’t be back till late, after vespers.”

Another lesson canceled—and he had not even taken the trouble to tell her himself. And what was with this “we”? It sounded as if there was more than a master-student relationship between Gauzia and the Maistre.

“Of course, all the most important members of the Commanderie will be there: the Inquisitor, Captain de Lanvaux, the Grand Maistre himself. And it’s even rumored that Prince Enguerrand will attend. Sergius is his patron saint…” Gauzia stopped. “Listen to me, chattering on.” Gauzia gave Celestine a condescending smile. “I must save my voice for the rehearsal.”


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Heart troubled with conflicting emotions, Celestine entered the chapel of Saint Meriadec. As she went into the vestry and took off her grey lay sister’s hooded cloak, she felt that the cloth was damp. It must have started to drizzle as she walked through the streets and she had been so preoccupied that she had not even noticed.

“No Gauzia today?”

Celestine recognized Angelique’s voice and turned around, grateful to see a friendly face. “It’s her big moment. She’s singing at the Feast Day in the Forteresse.”

“I see.” Angelique nodded, handing Celestine her choir robe. “I imagine she’s pretty insufferable right now.”

“She mentioned that there was a new student playing for the service today.” Celestine changed the subject for fear she would say aloud what she really thought of Gauzia.

“He’s only seventeen but very talented.” Angelique gave Celestine a mysterious smile. “I heard a rumor from the older sisters that Captain de Lanvaux discovered him in Armel and brought him to Lutèce to study. So you share the same patron.”

Another of the captain’s protégés? Celestine was intrigued, in spite of her dejected mood.

The candles were lit in the choir stall glasses, for even though it was only four in the afternoon, the greyness of the sky outside made the light too dim to see to read the music. And as the choir began to sing, they were accompanied by the insistent patter of the rain against the stained-glass windows.

Maistre de Joyeuse’s deputy had been dispatched to conduct in his master’s place. Placid in temperament, he favored careful, easygoing tempi, taking no risks with difficult phrases. Celestine kept glancing surreptitiously toward the organ loft. Frustratingly, it was impossible to see anything of the new organist from her position in the choir stalls. And after a while, she forgot that a novice was playing, so competent and unobtrusive was his accompaniment. But when the time came for him to play alone at the end of the service, a paean of notes came tumbling out into the dimly lit chapel, lighting it up with the brilliance of its fanfares. The exuberance of his performance wiped all other concerns from Celestine’s mind; she moved slowly as they filed out, entranced.

“Jolivert’s ‘Chromatic Prelude,’” whispered one of the elder sisters. “That piece is fiendishly difficult to play!” Celestine strained for a clearer look at the virtuosic organist but saw only the back of his dark head as he bent over the console.

In the vestry, the sisters began to chatter excitedly as they put on their cloaks. “What a magnificent technique! The boy’s a real discovery. Such talent, so young…”

“We’re leaving, Celestine,” called Angelique. But Celestine stayed at the open vestry door, listening until the last blaze of notes died away. She was curious to see the gifted young musician with whom she shared a patron. After a little while, the lamp in the organ loft was extinguished. The bellows boys emerged from beneath the console, play-punching each other in a mock fight, and scampered off, yet still there was no sign of the organist. Had he already slipped away out of one of the rear doors? Disappointed, Celestine pulled up her hood and left the vestry—and almost bumped into someone crossing in front of the altar.

“Excuse me,” he said.

“No, the fault was mine.” The sacristan was extinguishing the candles; in the dreary rainlight slanting into the shadowed chapel, she saw a tall, lean young man clutching a folder of music. She had a brief impression of dark, intense eyes in a pale scholar’s face and a skein of untidy black hair tumbling about his shoulders.

“You were the organist, weren’t you?” she said, surprised at her own boldness. “Your playing was truly inspired. Thank you.”

She saw his dark eyes widen at the compliment.

“Jagu!” a man called from the open doorway.

“Coming.” The young organist turned and hurried down the nave toward the entrance. Celestine followed, but by the time she reached the open door, the chapel steps, glistening slick with rain, were empty. Even the beggars who usually sheltered with their dogs between the columns had disappeared.

Celestine pulled her cloak closer about her and, head down, set off through the puddles back to the convent.

 

The rain had stopped by the time the Maistre’s carriage set out for the Forteresse. Celestine sat beside Gauzia, hands meekly folded in her lap, staring out of the window, while Gauzia chattered excitedly. Maistre de Joyeuse sat opposite, next to his aunt, Dame Elmire, who kept shooting reproving looks at Gauzia. Eventually she leaned forward and said, “Shouldn’t you be saving your voice for the performance?”

Celestine had been paying Gauzia scant attention, having learned long ago to ignore her. Her mind was filled with music; ever since the afternoon, she had been remembering the magnificent performance that had lit up the dim chapel.

“So what did you think of our young organist today?”

Celestine realized that Maistre de Joyeuse was addressing her. Had he read her thoughts? “He’s very talented. He played with such passion.”

“I’m glad that Jagu acquitted himself well. Though now I have a serious rival!” She saw again that warm and endearing smile. He really cares for his students, she thought. Is that because he had an understanding Maistre when he was a student? Or did he have to struggle? She wanted to know everything about Henri de Joyeuse—and yet she did not dare to ask him such personal questions.

“Is Jagu really only seventeen?”

“Yes. He used to be a pupil at the Seminary in Kemper, my old—”

“There’s the Forteresse!” interrupted Gauzia. “We’re nearly there.”

Celestine peered out of the carriage window and saw that they were traveling along a broad quay beside the river. Ahead, on an island, loomed a vast stronghold, whose crenellated fortifications and towers dominated the skyline.

“I believe it was originally built as a monastery,” said Dame Elmire. “But the Commanderie converted it during the Religious Wars into a formidable citadel to defend the city. It’s been theirs ever since.”

As they crossed the bridge, Celestine saw that there were Guerriers standing guard, all garbed in somber black. Every time she saw those uniforms, the sight brought back a sick, shaky feeling.

This is not going to be easy…

The carriage rattled over a wide drawbridge toward the portcullis, and the coachman slowed the horses to a stop as two Guerriers approached.

“Your papers, please.” The Guerrier addressing the Maistre spoke formally, with no hint of a threat, and yet Celestine felt a sense of panic rising. A band tightened across her chest, constricting her breathing.

“Here.” Maistre de Joyeuse handed over their passes.

It was the Inquisition who took Papa. These are just ordinary Guerriers, like Captain de Lanvaux.

“Are you all right, my dear?” inquired Dame Elmire. “You look rather pale.”

“Fine, thank you,” Celestine managed.

“The jolting of the carriage can make one feel very queasy. I’ve brought a restorative tincture.” Dame Elmire leaned forward to pass her a little brown glass bottle. “Take three drops on the tongue. That will make you feel better.”

Celestine, grateful for the distraction, did as she was told. The drops were so strong they made her eyes water, but she felt a little less nauseous afterward.

“You’re too delicate, Celestine,” complained Gauzia. “You’ll never be strong enough to be a professional singer if you can’t take a simple carriage drive without feeling sick.”

And then, as the carriage drove on into the vast parade ground beyond, Celestine caught sight of the ancient Commanderie chapel, its delicate gilded spire rising high to pierce the cloudy sky. A great rose window was set above the triple-arched doorway, dominated by tall statues of winged Guardian Warriors, their stern features almost worn away by centuries of wind and rain.

Many dignitaries and distinguished guests of the Grand Maistre were climbing the wide steps between a black-garbed Commanderie guard of honor. Celestine swallowed back her fear and straightened her shoulders.

“Would you let me take your arm, my dear?” asked Dame Elmire. “I don’t want to miss a step and make a fool of myself in front of all these important people.”

“Of course.” Celestine managed a little smile, grateful for the distraction, and she and Dame Elmire set off up the steps, behind Maistre de Joyeuse and Gauzia.


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After the service, the guests gathered for refreshments in the lofty Commanderie hall beneath a magnificent timber roof like the hull of an upturned galleon. Banners and bright-embossed shields adorned the walls, and carved angels gazed down from every gilded ceiling boss.

As Celestine escorted Dame Elmire into the throng, the retired singer was soon recognized and warmly greeted by two elderly clerics. Celestine stood watching as they began to reminisce, hoping that no one would notice her. She started counting the conical helmets and crossed scimitars displayed on the wall; trophies of some ancient Commanderie battle against the Enhirrans, she reckoned.

“Is my aunt neglecting you?” Henri de Joyeuse appeared behind her, startling her out of her reverie.

“Not in the least.”

A peal of delighted laughter came from the other side of the hall. Celestine winced. Gauzia was surrounded by a little crowd of admirers, all eager to compliment her on her performance.

“Demoiselle de Saint-Désirat is in her element.”

“She sang very affectingly,” admitted Celestine. “But then, the anthem was very affectingly composed.”

“I’m so glad you liked it.”

But Celestine’s attention was distracted. A guest had caused a chill in the atmosphere, just by entering the hall. Was he one of the nobility? He was soberly attired, with no jewelry or obvious badge of office. Yet she noticed that as he passed among the other officers, their conversation ceased and they instinctively drew back, as though deferring to him. She watched him reach Grand Maistre Donatien and bow. The Grand Maistre instantly turned to acknowledge him, a sure sign of the newcomer’s importance.

“Who is that man?” Celestine whispered, still unable to take her eyes off him.

“One you don’t want to have to do business with. That’s Haute Inquisitor Alois Visant.”

“Inquisitor?” she repeated mechanically.

“The head of the Francian Inquisition.” Was that man talking with Captain de Lanvaux, exchanging the customary pleasantries, the ruthless mind who had hunted down and destroyed her father? She wondered why he looked so ordinary; his hair was chestnut with the slightest shading of grey about the temples, his expression thoughtful as he conversed, giving little hint of his—

“Celestine?”

“What?” She started to find that Maistre de Joyeuse was gazing at her with concern.

“You were far away then. Very far.”

“Forgive me, Maistre. I didn’t mean to be so rude.” Had she revealed too much? Trying to change the subject, she said the first thing that entered her mind. “What herbs are in your aunt’s remedy? I feel much better now.”

“My aunt’s restorative drops?” He was smiling again. “Mostly brandy.”

 

Rough hands seize her and bind her to the stake. The ropes cut into her flesh as she tries to struggle free. A hooded figure stands before her pyre. “Burn her,” he orders the soldiers and they set flaming brands to the logs on which her bare feet rest.

“No,” she whispers. Fire—such a cruel, horrible death. As the flames lick at her skin and the smoke stings her throat, she sees her executioner’s face, his cold eyes reflecting the light of the flames.

Haut Inquisitor Visant.

All morning, Celestine went about her daily tasks in a daze, haunted by her dream. Last night’s glimpse of Inquisitor Visant had brought home to her that she knew so little of the events that had led to her father’s downfall. When Gauzia left for vocal training with Dame Elmire, Celestine could wait no longer. She took out the book and said, “Help me, Faie.”

How can I help you?” Each word pierced her brain like a shard of crystal. Glimmering light was emanating from beneath the protective cloth in which she had concealed the book.

“I was only a little child when the Inquisition took my father. I didn’t really understand what was happening. Do you know why he was executed?”

The Faie, still in its guise of Saint Azilia, emerged from the cover until it towered above her, eyes luminous with concern, hands raised as though to bless. “Lock the door.”

Celestine checked the corridor; there was no one about. And when she turned around again she no longer saw the sweet face of Saint Azilia smiling at her. A slender form, translucent as running water, gazed at her with wild, haunted eyes, faceted like glittering crystal.

I have a message for you. A message I was charged not to give you until you asked me.

The Faie’s form rippled and began to take on a new identity. Brownish fairly short hair, a little untidy, a firm jaw, an endearingly slightly snubbed nose, two warm and smiling eyes the blue-grey of slate…a face that she had not seen in over ten years.

“Papa.” She sank to her knees before the beloved likeness.

Klervie.” Even the voice was his, not as deep or sensitively nuanced as Maistre de Joyeuse’s, but warm in affection and good humor.

Dearest Klervie. If you are receiving this message now, it will be because my worst suspicions will have been proved true. I pray this will not be the case. I have bound this aethyrial spirit to protect and guard you until you are old enough and skilled enough to set it free. You have my blood in your veins, which means that you are different from other children. You were not born an elemental magus, like Kaspar Linnaius or Rieuk Mordiern, for which I thank God, but you do have a gift.

“I have a gift?” she murmured.

Listen carefully, child. The book to which I have bound the spirit is a book of magic. My grimoire. But however tempted you feel to use the glamours and spells concealed in its pages, I beg you to consider the consequences. Every time you use one, it will deprive you of some of that essential life force that the magi call the Essence. If you must resort to such desperate measures, do it only when your life depends on it. There is always a price to be paid for the use of magic, and you have not been trained how to conserve your strength.

Spells? Glamours? Celestine’s mind was dizzied with the possibilities of this information. She could not take her eyes from this semblance of her father’s face, trying to seal every detail in her memory. And then she heard footsteps on the stair. “Someone’s coming!” But the Faie was still relaying her father’s message and Celestine was desperate not to miss a single word.

I’m sealing this message in the book because I fear I have been betrayed. Kaspar Linnaius and I have been developing a secret device, the Vox Aethyria, which transmits the human voice through the aethyr.

“Kaspar Linnaius,” Celestine repeated. And her memory cruelly catapulted her back again into the Place du Trahoir, that terrible day that she had never managed to blot from her mind.

We created a great invention together.” Papa’s bruised, swollen mouth twisted and contorted as he tried to enunciate the words. “An invention that would have made our fortunes. Yet here I am, condemned to die—and where is Linnaius?

“He betrayed you, Papa.” She vaguely remembered the older magus; he had always seemed forbidding and cold, never bringing her little treats, like Magister de Rhuys, or even smiling at her. Tears began to stream down her face. “Linnaius betrayed you to the Inquisition and stole your invention.”

Someone rattled the door handle. “Celestine?” It was Gauzia, her voice shrill and petulant. “Why is the door locked? What are you doing in there?”

Never forget that you are Klervie de Maunoir. But never tell another living soul. That name alone is enough to have you arrested by the Inquisition.” Hervé’s image began to shimmer, to fragment and dissolve as the rattling at the door handle grew more frantic.

“Don’t go, Papa. Please don’t go,” whispered Celestine, reaching forward to try to embrace the fast-vanishing illusion. But her arms closed on empty air as the Faie faded swiftly into the book and became Saint Azilia once more.

“Celestine!” shrilled Gauzia petulantly. “If you don’t open this door at once, I’ll—”

Celestine opened the door.

“What were you doing?” Gauzia pushed in past her, looking around suspiciously, raising the bedcovers, opening the armoire door and peering inside. She turned on Celestine accusingly. “Was someone else in here? I thought I could hear voices.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Gauzia.” Celestine glanced away, not wanting to let Gauzia see that she had been crying. “I was learning song words, saying them out loud.” She was still stunned by the Faie’s revelation about the book. My father left me his grimoire. A book of magic. And I have inherited a gift, his gift to use the glamours and spells inside…

Gauzia came closer. “There’s something different about you.”

“My hair.” Celestine cast around for her handkerchief.

“Have you been crying?”

“So what is so urgent that you had to break the door down to tell me?”

“It seems,” Gauzia’s hazel eyes were bright with a self-satisfied gleam, “that my performance last night found favor with quite a few people. Influential people.”

“And?” Celestine only half heard what Gauzia was telling her. She wanted only to see her father again, to hear his voice instead of Gauzia’s boasting.

“I’ve been asked to perform at a reception at the Muscobar Embassy. Many foreign dignitaries will be there. If they like my singing…” Gauzia spun around, clasping her hands together. “This could be my chance, Celestine, my chance to escape the convent at last.”

Celestine began to understand why Gauzia was so excited. Celestine had never considered until this moment that she would ever be asked to use her talents except in the service of the church.

“Who made the invitation?”

“Why, the Muscobite ambassador, no less. A very handsome man, a count. I was presented to him after the concert.” Gauzia sank to her knees by Celestine’s bed. “And it gets better. I told him, ‘But I’ve nothing suitable to wear, I can’t possibly perform in this nun’s habit.’ And he said, ‘We’ll have a dressmaker visit you. Choose whatever style and color you like. And shoes to match.’”

Dresses and shoes meant little to Celestine except as a means to an end. She understood only that Gauzia had sung in public and been offered this extraordinary opportunity.

“And it’s all thanks to Maistre de Joyeuse. I couldn’t be more grateful. Do you think I should ask for a green gown, to match my eyes? Some people say it’s an unlucky color…”

 

As Celestine lay awake with her thoughts, watching the moonlight fade, the clock of Saint Meriadec’s struck two in the morning. She could not help repeating one name again and again. Kaspar Linnaius: the one magus to escape death at the stake. Memories, hazed by years of healing forgetfulness, began to flicker through her mind. Papa at work in his study, so intent he did not notice she was standing in the doorway, until she called his name. “Not now, Klervie, Papa’s busy…” Sometimes there had been others there. The green-eyed young man who liked to play with Mewen, teasing him with a feather tied to a piece of string. And then she shivered. The older magus with eyes so cold that they gleamed like a wintry sky.

Then there was Papa’s book, filled with forbidden knowledge. The Inquisition had burned everything in the magisters’ library. Only this book remained.

Do I really have a gift? The gift to wield magic? The Inquisition had called it a Forbidden Art. If anyone else were to discover the secrets hidden inside the book…And yet now that she knew she had the key to unlock its hidden contents, this thought was dangerously attractive. She would never achieve anything if she was obliged to spend the rest of her days singing psalms with the Sisters of Charity. The answers lay beyond these safe convent walls, maybe far beyond the shores of Francia. But how was she, a young woman alone and without income or influence, to travel abroad?

Had Gauzia given her the clue?

 

Autumn had come early to Lutèce, bringing winds and sharp spatters of cold rain. Celestine went to and from the Conservatoire alone all week. Gauzia and Maistre de Joyeuse were busy rehearsing together for the recital at the Muscobar Embassy. Every time Celestine heard them, her heart was twisted with jealous anguish. Gauzia’s voice seemed to have bloomed; even Celestine had to admit that her richly burnished contralto was a pleasure to listen to. Her technique had improved too, and she could sing a long, arcing phrase without skimping or snatching a little breath.

And then, the night before the concert, Celestine woke in the night to hear Gauzia sneezing. By morning, Gauzia was running a slight fever.

“It’s only a head cold,” she insisted, but Celestine could see the desperation in her eyes and hear the thick, clogged rasp of catarrh in her throat.

At Celestine’s request, Angelique brought some linctus from the infirmary and a hot camomile tisane laced with honey.

“I’ll be fine,” Gauzia said again and again as she sipped the tisane. But the hoarseness in her voice was all too apparent. “You’ll see.”

 

“Will you turn the pages for me, Demoiselle?” the Maistre asked Celestine.

“Me?” Celestine was a little uncertain about this task; she did not want to risk turning in the wrong place and upsetting him.

“Don’t worry; I’ll nod so you know exactly when.” He was smiling at her. “Shall we begin with a few vocal exercises, Demoiselle Gauzia?” He played a broken chord for Gauzia to pitch her first note, but Gauzia did not start to sing; she was surreptitiously trying to clear her throat, one hand covering her mouth. Maistre de Joyeuse played the broken chord again and Celestine saw Gauzia swallow hard before opening her mouth to sing. The notes that issued from her throat did not display the usual strong, well-rounded tone, but were far from the husky sound Celestine had expected.

But Gauzia was only ten bars or so into her first chanson when she broke down, one hand to her throat.

“Henri, this girl is sick!” pronounced Dame Elmire, marching in. “I could hear her coughing from two floors up. I forbid you to allow her to perform.”

Gauzia let out a hoarse wail of protest, then lapsed into another bout of coughing.

“You should be in bed, young lady,” said Dame Elmire. “Come with me to the kitchen and I’ll give you a hot drink to soothe your throat. Then you’re going back to the convent in the carriage.” And before Gauzia could protest again, Dame Elmire took her firmly by the arm and marched her out of the music room.

Celestine rose from her seat beside the Maistre. “I’d better go to her.”

He caught hold of her by the hand. “Can you take her place, Celestine?”

“Me?” Her first reaction was one of panic. “I can’t sing Gauzia’s songs!”

“We’ll change the program. We’ll choose a repertoire better suited to your voice. Who will know?”

“B—but it’s tonight.” The panic increased. “All those important people will be listening.”

“And I’ll be there to accompany you. What is there to fear?” He grinned at her, a disarming, friendly grin.

“But you said that my voice isn’t ready.”

He leaned closer to her. “Here’s your chance to prove me wrong.”

Her eyes widened. What was he implying?

“And I’ve nothing to wear.”

“What about Gauzia’s dress?”

“That won’t be at all suitable!” pronounced a disapproving voice from the doorway. Dame Elmire had reappeared, glowering sternly at her nephew. “Green is definitely not Celestine’s color. Not too mention the fact that Gauzia is rather more well developed than Celestine, and there’s no time to take in the gown.”

Celestine felt herself blushing again, mortified that Dame Elmire should have pointed out such a fact in front of the Maistre.

“So, Aunt, what do you propose?” said the Maistre wearily. “I can tell from the glint in your eyes that you have a plan.”

“Indeed, I have! I’ve kept costumes from my favorite roles on stage. And I was a lot slimmer in those days. I was thinking that Comtesse Melusine would work very well. Follow me, Celestine.”

 

“Well, what do you think, my dear? It’s not the latest fashion, I know, but it has a timeless charm.”

Celestine gazed at herself in Dame Elmire’s mirror. Melusine’s gown was made of the palest blue silk, with a delicate tracery of little flowers embroidered with sequins of turquoise and silver around the low-cut neck and hem. She had never worn anything so pretty or frivolous in her life. She wondered whether Sister Noyale would have approved.

“I don’t feel like…me,” she murmured.

“That’s the idea! Let’s see what Henri says.”

The soft folds of the gown whispered as Celestine followed Dame Elmire down the steep stair to the Music Room. Such luxurious material. Will he disapprove? Suddenly she could think of nothing else.

“Well? Will she do?” demanded Dame Elmire.

The Maistre looked up from the score that was laid out open on top of the fortepiano. He hates it.

And then she caught a darkening in his eyes, an intense focusing of the gaze, as if he were seeing her as he had never seen her before.

“You look…lovely, Celestine,” he said without a trace of the playful, teasing tone he had used earlier. He closed the score with a snap. “The carriage is waiting. It’s time to go.”

 

A glitter of crystal chandeliers lit the crowded salon of the Muscobar Embassy. What am I doing? Celestine wondered, one hand clutching hold of the fortepiano. If I make a mess of this, the Maistre will wash his hands of me. But if I’m a success, Gauzia will never speak to me again.

So many well-dressed, elegant women and so many distinguished-looking men, all seated, looking expectantly at her…She was breathing too fast; she closed her eyes, remembering Dame Elmire’s training. “Inhale through your nostrils to the count of five, then exhale slowly through the mouth…

Yet when the Maistre began to play, the familiar phrases of the first song flowed around her like a comforting embrace and her fear faded away. When she opened her mouth to sing, she felt transported. She and the Maistre instinctively understood each other, working together to convey the subtlest nuances of the words and music. Only when the last notes died away did she become aware of the hush in the salon. And then guests rose to their feet to applaud. Bemused, she took the Maistre’s outstretched hand and sank into a deep curtsy to acknowledge the rapturous reception.

“Well done,” he whispered. “You charmed them.”

We charmed them.” She felt as light-headed as if she had drunk sparkling wine.

“So this is your new songbird, Maistre?” The speaker was a distinguished-looking man of middle years. “Your performance was exquisite, Demoiselle.”

“May I present Celestine, your excellency?” The Maistre bowed. “This is our host, Count Velemir, the Muscobar ambassador.”

Celestine was about to curtsy again, when the count took her hand and kissed it.

“Celestine? How mysterious that you use only your first name…You must tell me all about yourself, Demoiselle.” He held on to her hand, leading her away from the Maistre, who was instantly surrounded by admiring women, young and old.

Servants were offering the guests silver trays with bowls of black, oleaginous globules heaped on crushed ice, surrounded by lemon segments. The contents gave off a faint, disagreeably fishy odor.

“What is that?”

“One of our national delicacies, my dear: caviar from the sturgeon that spawn in the River Nieva. You really must try some. It’s delicious, I assure you.” And as if to reassure her, he helped himself, spooning the eggs onto a tiny pancake, adding a squeeze of lemon juice, before popping it into his mouth. “Excellent. Now it’s your turn, Demoiselle.” And before Celestine could refuse, he was holding out another little pancake, heaped with caviar, for her to try. As she reluctantly opened her mouth, she caught Maistre de Joyeuse’s eye as he listened to one of the Muscobite ladies and saw, to her annoyance, that he was vastly amused at her discomfort.

I can’t afford to offend my host. She chewed the fishy mouthful and swallowed swiftly, trying to smile. To her surprise, the Count began to laugh. “Well done, my dear! You needn’t disguise your disgust. It’s an acquired taste. What you need now is a glass of vodka to wash it down.” He clicked his fingers and one of the servants appeared with another tray.

“No spirits for my pupil, your excellency.” Henri de Joyeuse had suddenly appeared at her side. “They damage the delicate vocal cords.”

“And Demoiselle Celestine’s vocal cords must be protected at all costs,” said the Count, laughing again good-naturedly. “You are in good hands, Demoiselle. May we entice you to perform one day at the Winter Palace at Mirom?”

“Not until I have finished with her, dear Count,” interrupted Dame Elmire. “Her training is not yet over. She’s only sixteen.”

Mirom, capital city of the northern kingdom of Muscobar. Her first invitation beyond the shores of Francia. Her first steps on the hunt for Kaspar Linnaius.

 

“If you are to begin your professional career, you need a name.”

A name. Celestine lowered her gaze, studying the dusty floor of the carriage as they jolted along over the cobbles. I have a name but it’s one I can never reveal to you, dearest Maistre.

“Don’t make the girl feel ashamed, Henri,” scolded Dame Elmire. “Is it her fault if she never knew her parents?”

If only I could tell you everything, then you would understand. She glanced up but the Maistre was staring out at the night, resting his head against the padded back of the carriage, lost in his own thoughts.

“As my student, you should take my surname,” said Dame Elmire. Her eyes glinted in the darkness. “How does Celestine Sorel sound?”

“She’s my student too,” said the Maistre distantly, without turning his head. “Celestine de Joyeuse has a more euphonious sound.”

“Celestine de Joyeuse,” echoed Celestine. Even saying the name aloud gave her a glowing feeling deep inside.

“Of course, I was a Joyeuse before I married. So I suppose that taking our family name is a compromise. Although it could lead to misunderstandings. She could be supposed your sister, your cousin, even your daughter…”

As Dame Elmire prattled on, Celestine tried to make out the Maistre’s expression as the occasional gold gleam of a street lantern briefly lit up the interior of the carriage. But he had withdrawn into his thoughts again. Only his fingers moved in a rhythm of their own making, silently tapping against the armrest.

He’s composing again.

 

The city was already shivering under grey, glacial skies when Celestine heard a slow sad dirge of city bells tolling through the falling snow. She and Gauzia were helping Dame Elmire to toast slices of brioche over the glowing sea coals in the range in the kitchen.

“A good excuse to keep close to the fire,” declared the old lady.

The kitchen door opened and Maistre de Joyeuse came in, stamping the snow from his boots. The icy draft made the burning logs sizzle and spit in the grate.

“Close the door, quick!” scolded his aunt. “So, what’s all that tolling for?”

Maistre de Joyeuse came close to the fire to rub his hands; Celestine made room for him, but as she did so she saw the sadness in his eyes.

“Terrible news,” he said. “Prince Aubrey is dead.”

Gauzia let out a shocked cry and dropped the toasting fork.

“Heavens preserve us!” Dame Elmire hastily made the sign to ward off evil. “That fine young man, dead? How can that be?”

“A hunting accident. His horse threw him.”

“But he was such an accomplished rider—” said Gauzia.

“Apparently a bird of prey flew down and startled his mount.”

Celestine stood unmoving, remembering a tall, broad-shouldered young man, with an easy smile and an infectiously good-humored laugh, so full of life and confidence.

“This is a sorry day for us all.” Dame Elmire retired to her seat in the inglenook, shaking her head. “He was so well liked. His poor mother. What must she be feeling now? And his father, the king…all his hopes for a secure succession dashed.”

Gauzia had been fighting back sobs. Now she dashed from the room, slamming the door.

 

Snow still fell over Lutèce, softening the morning city clatter, dampening the metallic din of horses’ hooves on cobbles, as cart and coach wheels stuck in the icy slush.

Celestine and Gauzia trudged to Maistre de Joyeuse’s house through the snow, clutching their grey Novice’s cloaks and hoods tightly to them against the bitter chill. The city’s mood was as muted and hushed as the snowy streets; the Sisters of Charity had already planned an all-night vigil to pray for Prince Aubrey’s soul.

Maistre de Joyeuse was seated at his desk, poring over a half-written score, the pale snow light leaching the gold from his hair. He raised his head as they entered and Celestine saw there were grey smudges beneath his eyes as if he had been up all night.

“I wouldn’t have called you here through the snow if the matter were not so pressing. There is to be a state funeral in three days’ time and I’ve been asked to provide suitable music. Not the whole service, for which I thank God, but an anthem. The queen has specifically asked me to set some verses by the Allegondan poet Mhir. Given the lack of time, it’s going to have to be mostly solo, alternating with brief choral passages.” He was almost speaking to himself, indicating the relevant bars as he flipped through the score. “First verse—you, Gauzia.” He tossed her a page. “Second and third verses, Celestine.”

Celestine caught the sheets as he flicked them to her. The writing was not easy to read, hastily scribbled in the heat of inspiration—or desperation, she thought, given the tight demands of the royal commission. She glanced up and saw that Gauzia’s lip was trembling again.

“The choristers of the Chapelle Royale will be singing the rest of the service, so you need only learn this. Shall we make a start? I’ll have to set out for the Chapelle in an hour; the snow’s all but brought the city to a standstill.”

 

The aisles of the gloomy cathedral were filled with the noble families of Francia and the ministers of state and their entourages, somber in their mourning clothes. Outside, the streets were lined with the people of Lutèce, waiting in the snow to pay their respects to the dead prince. Celestine and Gauzia had left the convent at six in the morning to make their way to the cathedral before the crowds gathered. Since then they had endured an interminable wait in the cathedral vestry with the other musicians. The youngest choristers’ behavior soon began to deteriorate and, forgetful of the solemnity of the occasion, one initiated a farting game. The head chorister grabbed the offender by the ear and dragged him outside. From the ensuing yelps, Celestine guessed that punishment had been swiftly administered.

“Little boys,” said Gauzia scathingly, and Celestine nodded, though she had been rather grateful for the distraction. She could not help but remember Rozenne’s funeral in the little chapel at Saint Azilia’s. Even though the cathedral of Saint Eustache was so vast and austere, she was sure she could sense similar thoughts emanating from the mourners: a young life, so full of promise, cut short before its time.

I wasn’t able to sing for you then, Rozenne. But I’ll do it today. As well as for the young prince.

When at length the signal came from the priests that the royal family had arrived, Celestine and Gauzia stood up to process in behind the choristers. Celestine was almost numb with cold and the boredom of waiting. She just wanted the ordeal to be over. The sight of one of the lay clerks clipping an errant chorister around the ear for chattering as they entered the nave only increased her sense of dislocation. They moved slowly down the side aisle to the steady rhythm of a solemn organ prelude. Then as they turned, she saw the prince’s catafalque before the altar, the coffin draped with the blue-and-gold flag of Francia, and her heart seemed to miss a beat. In front of her, Gauzia’s tread faltered.

Henri de Joyeuse came out from the choir stalls, ready to conduct the choristers as they approached. The boys’ voices soared up into the shadowy heights of the nave, sounding, in spite of their earlier behavior, like a chorus of angels. Celestine, watching the Maistre’s face as he conducted, suddenly felt comforted by his presence. His calm expression mirrored the mood of the music; he mouthed the shapes of the words to his young charges, who now sang their hearts out, their eyes soulful and yearning. His hands, as they shaped the phrases, moved gracefully, sinuously.

The chilly cathedral was filled with little braziers, glowing with coals sprinkled with grains of pungent incense, filling the cold air with blue wisps of twisting smoke. As the priests intoned the words of the service, Celestine became aware of the responsibility she was carrying. If she made a mistake, she would ruin the Maistre’s composition and possibly his reputation. Worst of all, she would besmirch this final, heartfelt tribute to Prince Aubrey. Her stomach began to churn with anxiety.

She had never sung in such a vast space before and as she took in a breath, listening for her cue, she wondered if her voice would be too weak to carry to the congregation. The notes of the introduction, high, like distant morning birdsong, issued from the organ pipes. Beside her, Gauzia raised her head to watch the Maistre. The words chosen by Queen Aliénor from the writings of the poet-prophet Mhir took on a new significance as Gauzia’s voice filled the cold air.

Celestine watched, as if in a frozen dream, as the members of the prince’s family came forward, one by one, to place evergreen boughs on the coffin. King Gobain, his head bowed, Queen Aliénor, her face glacial, then Princess Adèle, holding Enguerrand by the hand, the young prince wiping tears from beneath his spectacles. Celestine felt a sympathetic tightening in her throat and checked herself, turning the page to begin her solo.

“The flame burned too brightly,” Celestine sang, “and the snows of early winter extinguished its radiance. But the memory still burns in our hearts.”

 

“I wanted to thank you, Demoiselle de—de—” Princess Adèle hesitated.

“De Joyeuse, highness. In honor of my mentor and teacher.” It gave Celestine, eyes respectfully lowered, a little shiver of pride to say her adopted name aloud.

“Demoiselle de Joyeuse. You sang so beautifully for my brother’s funeral.”

Celestine heard from the tremor in the young princess’s voice that Adèle was controlling her emotions with difficulty. “It was an honor,” she answered quietly, not knowing what else to say.

“The others sang beautifully, too. But you”—and the princess moved closer to her—“you sang from the heart. I felt that you understood how it feels to…to lose someone you hold very dear.”

Celestine looked up.

“Am I right?” Adèle said softly. “I am, aren’t I?”

“I’m an orphan, your highness.”

“So you lost your parents. That must have been hard to bear. Did you have any brothers or sisters?”

Normally Celestine would have resented this probing into her past. But there was something so sympathetic in the princess’s manner that made her want to answer, if only to offer a little comfort or distraction. “No,” she said, “but I had a dear friend, Rozenne; she was like a big sister to me. She…she died of a fever when I was eleven.”

“I guessed as much,” said Adèle. She put out her hand and took Celestine’s. “Come and sit with me. Tell me your story. I’m much in need of distraction.”

Celestine let herself be led to the window seat, where Adèle settled herself, patting the silk cushions beside her. Below, the formal gardens of the palace, the intricate knotted beds and gravel paths stretched down to the river, in curlicued patterns of snow-dusted box, lavender, and yew.

“How old are you, Demoiselle Celestine?”

“Just sixteen, your highness.”

“A year younger than I. Where did you learn to sing so beautifully?”

“I was trained at Saint Azilia’s convent. I had a gifted teacher there, Sister Noyale.” Celestine could not help smiling at the memory.

“So you are going to take the veil?”

It was a question that Celestine was not yet ready to answer, although she knew that one day soon she must make that difficult decision. “Gauzia and I lodge with the Sisters of Charity and sing with them in Saint Meriadec’s every day. Many of the sisters in the choir were trained at Saint Azilia’s too. So I suppose…”

“But with a rare voice like yours, you could fill concert halls. You could sing opera.” Adèle clasped her hands together, her wan face lighting up at the thought. “I adore the opera! Have you ever been, Demoiselle?”

Celestine slowly shook her head. Such possibilities had never occurred to her. “Maistre de Joyeuse would not approve.”

“Your teacher?”

“He says that one should not push a young voice beyond its natural limits. I’m not ready to sing in opera yet.” Celestine became aware how serious and intense she must sound. And yet she sensed nothing but a kind and friendly regard; it was just like sitting chatting with Angelique or Rozenne

“Those verses by Mhir that Joyeuse set for Aubrey…I chose them,” said Adèle suddenly. “Aubrey never had time for poetry. He was always so active, playing tennis, fencing, wrestling, riding.” Celestine saw her bite her underlip, as though trying to hold back her tears. “But he had a good heart. Everyone liked him. We were utterly different in our tastes and interests…but he always had time for me.”

“The verses were very aptly chosen.”

Adèle sighed. She turned to gaze out over the snow-rimmed gardens, but not before Celestine had seen the glint of tears in her dark eyes. “I’d love to hear you sing again. When the time of mourning is over, will you come and sing for me?”

Celestine heard herself saying, “Oh yes, your highness, of course; you have only to ask.”

Adèle unpinned a little jet brooch from her austere black dress and pressed it into Celestine’s hand. “I want you to have this. As a token of my gratitude and friendship.”

“Oh, I c—couldn’t,” stammered Celestine.

“I insist.” Adèle closed her fingers around it. “It pleases me to make you this little gift.”

“Thank you,” whispered Celestine, pressing her closed fist with the brooch inside to her heart.

 

“What’s that?” Gauzia poked a finger at the little jet-and-silver mourning brooch that Celestine had pinned to her dress.

“A gift.”

“From whom? A secret admirer?”

“From the princess.”

“Wha-at?”

Celestine had not told Gauzia of her invitation to the palace. But now Gauzia thrust her face into Celestine’s. “From Princess Adèle? How so? And how come I didn’t get a gift, too?”

Celestine shrugged. It gave her a certain pleasure to see Gauzia so annoyed. But now she knew that Gauzia would not give her a minute’s peace, needling her for every detail of her meeting with the princess.

“She gave you the brooch herself? In the palace? What was she wearing? Not that you’d have noticed, Celestine. But why didn’t she invite me? Didn’t she like my singing?”

Angelique appeared in the doorway of the girls’ cell. Her expression was grave.

“The Abbess wants to see you both in her office. You’re to come with me.”


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Unlike soft-hearted and indulgent Mère Ermengarde at Saint Azilia’s, the Abbess of the Sisters of Charity was a strict and stern-faced woman who did not tolerate the slightest lapse of discipline.

“What have we done wrong?” whispered Gauzia. “We’re only lay sisters here. It’s not as if we’ve vowed to devote ourselves to God. Yet.”

Celestine shook her head, not wanting to say a word in case the Abbess overheard.

“I’ve received a letter,” announced the Abbess as soon as they crossed the threshold. She frowned at them both over the top of the paper. “It states that you, Gauzia, have been offered a role in an opera.” She pronounced the word as if it were a mortal sin.

Gauzia let out a little shriek of delight. “What opera is it, ma mère?”

“The title is irrelevant. I cannot have one of my charges participating in such a frivolous, worldly entertainment. It is utterly inappropriate.”

“So you’re saying that I can’t—” began Gauzia in tones of anguish.

“I’m saying, Demoiselle, that you must choose.” The Abbess stared severely at Gauzia—and then at Celestine, who had been dreading this moment, even though her name had not yet been mentioned. “You are both approaching seventeen. An age at which most of our novices decide to take their vows or leave the convent for good.”

“You’re saying we must make our choice already?” Celestine was so alarmed at the thought that she dared to speak out. “But we’ve only been here a year. It will take another two years to complete our training at the conservatoire.”

“Do you wish to perform in this opera?” said the Abbess, ignoring her and concentrating on Gauzia. “Because if you do, then you cannot continue to lodge here. It would severely tarnish the reputation of my convent if it were known that one of our girls is appearing in a theater.

“B—but where shall I go?” Gauzia wailed.

“That, Demoiselle, is up to you. Please inform me of your decision by noon tomorrow.”


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“Is it truly your wish to become an opera singer?” Dame Elmire fixed Gauzia with a piercing stare. “Your voice is still developing. You’ll be taking a risk.”

“I’ve never wanted anything so much before,” said Gauzia quietly. Celestine looked at her in surprise; for once in her life, Gauzia was not making a scene. This, more than anything, convinced her that Gauzia was speaking the truth.

“I see.” Dame Elmire nodded but her expression still gave nothing away.

“But what opera is it? And what part am I invited to play?” Gauzia could not keep her excitement contained for long. “And who recommended me? Was it you, Dame Elmire?”

Dame Elmire sighed. “Petitfils, the manager of the Opera House, is an old friend of mine. He heard you sing at the cathedral and contacted me. The opera is called Balkaris, and the role is that of a slave girl.”

“No wonder the Abbess looked so disapproving,” said Gauzia with a giggle.

“But she said you must choose,” Celestine quietly reminded her.

“What should I do, Dame Elmire?” cried Gauzia. “If I accept the role, the convent will throw me out and I’ll have nowhere to stay. But if I turn it down, I may never get this chance again.”

“So you are determined to go on the stage? You’re not afraid of hard work?”

“I was born to go on the stage!”

The door opened and Maistre de Joyeuse came in, still wrapped in his greatcoat, the collar turned up against the cold. “Peste, it’s freezing today. Will spring never come?” He held his hands up to the blaze, rubbing them together. A stray lock of golden hair fell forward, half-obscuring his face, and with a movement at once graceful yet unself-conscious, he shook it aside.

He looks so beautiful in the firelight… Celestine felt her face bloom with warmth at the sight; she glanced away, sure he must have noticed.

“It’s as we suspected, Henri,” said Dame Elmire. “The good sisters won’t allow their name to be associated with the opera house. If Gauzia is to appear in your opera, we’ll have to make other arrangements for her.”

Your opera? Celestine was jolted out of her dreamy state.

“Can’t she stay here?” said the Maistre. “Your students have lodged with us before.”

“I—I didn’t know you had written an opera,” Celestine blurted out.

“She’ll need a chaperone,” added Dame Elmire slyly. “Any pretty young actress is regarded as fair game by the gentlemen in the audience.”

“Dear Aunt, I know you’re longing to find an excuse to spend your days in the Opera House once more.”

“Well, it’s settled!” Dame Elmire’s eyes glinted triumphantly. “I will write to the Abbess straightaway.”

 

The girls returned to the convent through the falling snow; a fresh dusting was settling onto the frozen slush, making treacherous going underfoot.

“How generous of Maistre de Joyeuse to invite me to lodge at his house.” Gauzia, oblivious of everything but her own concerns, was almost dancing over the ice. “And how good of Dame Elmire to offer to act as my chaperone. It’s going to be so exciting, Celestine, starting rehearsals and meeting the other singers…”

Celestine, toes and fingertips numb with cold, hardly heard Gauzia’s exultant chatter. She was lost in her own dulled thoughts. She must have been deluding herself not to notice. Now it was obvious.

He likes Gauzia. What man wouldn’t? She’s so lively, so self-assured. And she’s pretty. No wonder he wanted her to play a role in his opera.

Compared to her, I’m a quiet little mouse. Every time I’m with him, I get tongue-tied. Or I say something stupid and blush. He must think I’m so naïve. Why can’t I be more like Gauzia?