Daughter of Mystery (35 page)

“I can do my own accounts well enough,” Margerit protested. “And Sister Petrunel gave me as good a grounding in the basic quadrivium as anyone has here. If they’d let me read for a degree it would be a different matter. As they won’t, I don’t see wasting my time on subjects that don’t interest me. You never do.”

Antuniet had given her a scornful look. “I’m not talking about reckoning and plotting angles. If you want to build mysteries, look to the structure of proofs. They’ll take you further than formal logic alone.” Margerit tucked that thought away for future reference.

Amiz bade goodbye to the group when the Lenten term ended. “My oldest sister settled her choice at last. They announced the betrothal last night. Mother’s unbending enough to let me join the round of evening parties even though my dancing season won’t begin until autumn.”

Margerit found it hard to understand. Amiz had been a good student. The work came easily to her and if she’d put in the effort she could have been brilliant. But she’d never viewed the university as more than a pleasant distraction while waiting for her true calling.

Barbara still accompanied her, of course. She watched over all her classes now. Margerit never inquired into the details of how Barbara and Marken divided their watch, but it was clear that Marken now had responsibility for the guild time and Barbara had shifted to cover all the lectures. The evenings and other outings they split in some unknown fashion.

“Are you still studying law?” she asked Barbara one day when she realized the subject no longer featured when schedules were negotiated.

She expected Barbara to give the shrug that meant she had once again silently rearranged her life for another’s convenience. Instead she frowned and shook her head. “There isn’t much more I can get from lectures alone. They’re all moving on to disputing cases and—” She gestured to indicate the invisible wall that faced her. “I’m still reading, when I have the time. And LeFevre has been giving me advice. He may not be a doctor of law, but he’s spent most of his life untangling the baron’s affairs.”

* * *

The rituals surrounding Holy Week, both great and small, once again offered a riot of sensation for her newly opened eyes. She felt guilty, almost, to be watching and analyzing and planning when by rights her heart should have been filled only with piety. She sometimes found herself thinking of Sister Petrunel. Her governess had spoken of mysteries only as a means to experience God. What would she think of her former pupil? Did she ever think of her at all or did her duties for the
Orisules
take all her attention? The guild provided Margerit with plenty of opportunity to explore the mechanistic side of mysteries but few of them were interested in the simple experience of the numinous. In the long hours spent at services, bits of memory kept floating back. Things that Sister Petrunel had said. Margerit realized now how thoroughly and subtly she had discouraged her from questioning her
visitationis
. Why, if she had no doubts about their divine source?

It was easy enough to be swept away by the play of light and sound. Easy enough for ecstasy to take concrete form. But it was just as easy to start picking apart the patterns of cause and effect; the correlations between the priest and choir and the congregation’s responses and the way the
fluctus
answered them; the difference between the calm peace of some services and the driving energy of others. And then, in the event that there were other
vidators
in the crowd, those effects were cover for her own workings.

It had proven surprisingly difficult to find opportunities to renew the
lorica
over Barbara that had been her first success. Most of the difficulty stemmed from a shyness in telling Barbara about it. There was no good reason not to, but having kept it to herself at first, it became harder and harder to raise the subject. She had a nagging suspicion that Barbara would find it embarrassing to be protected by the one she was sworn to protect. And Margerit was certain that the
lorica
was
protecting her. There had been no further attacks, no sudden street corner encounters, no lurking shadows pointed out warily. To maintain that, she seized every chance to renew the protection when the necessary words could be said in Barbara’s presence with no notice taken.

Chapter Forty-Four

Barbara

Barbara’s search through the baptisms at Saint Mauriz had failed to turn up any likely candidates. With the birth in December, the baptism surely would have happened by Easter. It must have been performed elsewhere. A lesser church in Rotenek was less likely than the parish church on the family lands—wherever that might be. That road went nowhere. A marriage, on the other hand, would only have been made in Rotenek. Especially since—she counted nine months back. If they had gotten to the begetting of heirs promptly, the marriage would have fallen solidly within the social season. She tried to envision her mother: a young girl, newly out. Flattered by the notice of a nobleman. A wedding. A child. The slowly dawning realization of the trap she had fallen into. Barbara turned the pages of the register to March and started working backward.

That search was no more successful than the first. No solemn marriage of Mesner This to Maisetra That, as she guessed her mother must have been. After a month of stolen sessions at the archives she let it go and cast about for some other clue to follow.

* * *

With Easter past, Rotenek was trying to squeeze all possible activity in before flood season. In the grand
salle
the floor was so crowded that the dancers were doing half-steps to avoid one set running into the next. It was odd, among all that, how one footfall could stand out in a crowded ballroom. Barbara couldn’t have said how she managed to hear the sound: a step behind her, registering first for its intent and then for its familiarity. In the first moment, she stiffened; in the second, she relaxed. A low laugh sounded and the matching voice said, “I know better than to take you by surprise,
chérie
.”

The woman stepped up beside her at an intimate distance and pressed two fingers to her carmined lips. Barbara tried not to respond when the fingers were brushed against her own mouth. That was all past.

“Mesnera,” she acknowledged with a token bow.

“What’s this? Once you called me Jeanne.”

“Not when I’m on duty,” Barbara said, moving half a step apart. “And not in public.”

It had been inevitable that she would see more of the Vicomtesse de Cherdillac now that Mesner Pertinek’s intervention had brought their orbits together once more. This was the first time Jeanne had sought her out. They had parted on perfectly amicable terms but Barbara had no interest in beginning again. From the corner of her eye she could see Jeanne’s black curls spilling out from the bindings of a ribbon fillet to frame that familiar face. Her cheeks were still as delicately blushed, her lips still as rosy as she remembered, though both owed something to the cosmetic box. And the glint in her dark eyes as she leaned closely…Barbara kept her gaze deliberately out toward the dancers.

The vicomtesse glanced in the same direction. “I’ve been watching you watching her,” she said with an edge of mischief in her voice.

“It’s my duty to watch her.” She tried to keep her tone entirely neutral but Jeanne was not put off the scent.

“What’s this? No poetry?”

That drew a startled glance. “I beg your pardon?”

“There was a time when you’d start spouting poetry every time you were flustered. But perhaps you’ve lost your taste for verse.”

“Perhaps you’ve lost your ability to fluster me,” Barbara countered with a faint smile.

Jeanne pouted and turned her gaze back across the room. “And how does she like your poetry?” When she declined to take the bait Jeanne shrugged. “I haven’t yet had a chance to meet Marziel’s little protégée. I think I shall procure an introduction.”

Propriety forbade her from seizing the vicomtesse’s arm to restrain her. Common sense kept her from begging her to leave well enough alone. Jeanne would do as she pleased. Barbara watched her make her way to Maisetra Pertinek’s side and lean close to say a few words. At the next interval, introductions were performed. They were too far away to catch what was said. It went on for more than polite greetings and compliments. How indiscreet would she be? Jeanne had a spirit of mischief that forgot that other people’s lives were more complicated than her own.

The question was answered somewhat in the carriage returning home when Margerit asked Mesner Pertinek, “The Vicomtesse de Cherdillac—” she stumbled uncertainly over the name. “Is she actually French? Her accent sounded more like Helviz.”

He laughed lightly. “The title is genuine enough. She’s the widow of an émigré. It was quite the scandal at the time for she was barely out and he was nearly seventy. It amused her to become even more French than he was. I think she aspires to be scandalous but has only achieved eccentricity.”

And if she hasn’t succeeded in being scandalous, Barbara thought, it’s because she’s more discreet than she pretends.

Mesner Pertinek continued, “It’s for your aunt to say, of course, but I’d be careful about being drawn into de Cherdillac’s circle. I wouldn’t go so far as to say she isn’t quite the thing, but her friends have established reputations that can survive a little wildness. A girl in your position must be more careful.”

Maisetra Pertinek asked, “Did she invite you to anything, dear?”

“No,” Margerit said. “She asked me what poets I liked. And then she said I should be sure not to miss Vittoriani’s new opera. She said she saw it in Florence and thought I would enjoy it. But I don’t know why she thought I would like it; we didn’t talk about music at all.”

“I think that’s a marvelous idea,” her aunt responded. “Your box has sat empty since December. And I’ve been saying for weeks that you need to make the most of the end of the season.”

“But Aunt,” Margerit protested, “I’ll be staying in Rotenek through the end of the university term, so I have two more months at least.”

“No one else who matters will be staying much past the floods. It isn’t students you need to be meeting. When autumn comes, we need to start thinking seriously about your marriage.”

Even in the dark, Barbara could see a mulish look settle over Margerit’s face. She hoped Maisetra Pertinek was less perceptive. There was more of the game to play out before Margerit could afford to defy expectations openly.

* * *

The last time Barbara had ventured in disguise to Eskamer’s pawnshop he had suggested that he might be able to lay hands on a copy—a transcript only, and somewhat corrupted—of the Mysterium of Saint Penekiz. And now that Margerit had expressed an interest in it, Barbara once again put on the guise of a fashionable young man and set out by circuitous ways to Rens Street.

She paused just inside the door of the tavern to let her eyes adjust. When her gaze fell on the pair of men at a table just by the passage to Eskamer’s entrance it took all her nerve to walk casually past, confident in her disguise—her disguise and whatever mysterious luck had been concealing her from her enemies’ eyes. Estefen. And Lutoz with him. Not so strange, she reassured herself. They ran in the same circles and were of an age. It was only expected that they would know each other. But why here?

It seemed Lutoz had the same question, for as she paused just out of their sight around the corner he was saying, “But why this godforsaken hole of all places?”

And then Estefen’s answer, “I don’t care to have anyone know I’m in town. And especially not my mother.” His voice dropped to inaudibility and Barbara moved on. This was a place where eavesdroppers would likely be noticed and challenged.

So he was staying away from Rotenek. That would account for the lack of any unfortunate encounters in the salons and ballrooms. No doubt he too had creditors to avoid. And a mother to avoid, evidently. Barbara recalled the times she’d crossed paths with the late baron’s sister. A formidable woman. Perhaps one who had not yet forgiven her son for how badly he’d handled his family relationships.

The Penekiz book was not available. Alas, the owner had decided not to sell after all. Barbara wondered idly if the owner had ever been aware he was considering selling. More speculations about the availability of other books were offered but she declined. It was too risky to keep coming down here without a specific need or a solid certainty.

The two men were no longer in place when she emerged. Too brief to have accomplished much of business. Perhaps this had only been a meeting point? It made her uneasy that someone so prominent in the guild was close to Estefen, however unsurprising it might be. And yet, with Estefen’s sister Antuniet a member, why not friends of his as well? Lutoz had never treated Margerit with anything less than civility and respect for her talents. She was being overcautious. And it would take more than caution to be worth trying to pry Margerit loose from the guild now.

* * *

No one went to the opera planning to listen to the music. No one who inhabited the ranks of boxes along the mid-levels, that is. When Barbara realized which performance the vicomtesse had recommended her heart sank. Had Jeanne meant the allusion for her? Or had she guessed there was something more between her and Margerit to be teased out?
Ifis e Ianthe
was not the most subtle of stories. But who paid attention to the stage when there were people to be watched and gossip to exchange?

Margerit paid some attention at first, no doubt wondering why the recommendation had been made. By the end of the first act her attention had wandered and Barbara relaxed enough to appreciate the performance herself, save for that part of her that always stood guard. The story of Ifis had echoes for her: a father’s malice, a daughter concealed and disguised, raised more in the ways of men than women and excelling at it. And then, in the second act, Ianthe offered as the reward for a hero. Betrothed and—in the ways of the stage—willingly so and in love.