Flight Into Darkness (51 page)

When do I accept defeat?

Since his first visit to the cathedral, he had not been able to rid his
mind of the glorious sound of the choir. One chant in particular kept weaving its way through his mind, its sonorities sad yet triumphant, like the song of a warrior who had survived a desperate and bloody battle, limping back across the battlefield, past the bodies of his fallen comrades…

What's happening to me? Why do I feel this way?
Since Ruaud's death and Celestine's disappearance, Jagu had begun to question everything in his life. While Ruaud had been there to guide and inspire him, the Commanderie had fulfilled his need to make a stand against the darkness. But now he felt the irresistible pull of his first love—music.

Jagu had done little in the way of composition at the conservatoire, concentrating on improving his keyboard technique. Now, for the first time, he felt the compulsion to try to recapture in notes that elusive, all-transcending moment of clarity he had experienced in the cathedral.

He sat up late into the night, frantically writing, scribbling out, then writing again. It was as if the torrent of notes had been building up deep within him over a long while and there was no stopping it. It poured unchecked from his pen onto the staves he had ruled, forcing him to abandon himself to the demands of the music. It was a work for chorus and soprano soloist, growing out of the pitches of the ancient chant—quite unlike anything he had ever heard before. It was not that he had given up on his search for Celestine; it seemed to him, as he worked, that he could hear her singing the solo soprano part he was creating. Her pure voice was the inspiration for his choice of words, which were taken from the Vesper Prayer of the Knights of the Commanderie—the “Song of Azilis.” Sometimes he even felt as if Celestine were with him in his shabby lodgings, leaning over his shoulder as he wrote.

Day after day, Jagu worked obsessively on his Vesper Prayer, only leaving his room to buy more paper and ink. His landlady brought meals, leaving them outside his door so as not to disturb him; often he forgot they were there till hours later and had to spoon down cold beetroot soup or tepid stew with globules of congealed fat.

After a while he began to sense a feeling of resolution. He scanned the pages, filled with scribblings-out and corrections, reading through what he had written. The boldness of the musical language surprised him. He had no idea that such strength of feeling had been bottled up inside him—or that he had the innate skills to organize the musical
material. But then he had been taught by Henri de Joyeuse… and he must have absorbed something of the Maistre's technical ability in those long hours of study.

“And yet I never thought of myself as a composer then, Maistre,” he said aloud.

Passing by the little mirror over the mantelpiece, he caught sight of himself. Haggard-eyed, with many days’ growth of stubble, he looked like a madman. If he were to convince a Muscobite director of music to take a look at his work, he would have to tidy himself up.

The landlady was sweeping the hall; he leaned over the banister to ask where he could find the nearest public bathhouse.

“Across the square,” she said, “on the far side, beyond the Imperial Theater.”

“What's this… ?” Emerging clean-shaven and damp-haired from the bathhouse, Jagu stopped. Fresh playbills had been plastered on the bathhouse walls. They announced the long-anticipated appearance of the celebrated Francian diva Gauzia de Saint-Désirat at the Imperial Theater in
A Spring Elopement.

“Gauzia?”
Jagu stood there, lost in memories. In the five years since Gauzia had turned her back on the world of church music, her stage career must have blossomed.

Curiosity impelled him up the wide steps of the theater and through the grand colonnaded entrance, with its carved swags adorned with painted flowers and lyres. The foyer was even more impressive; an elaborate double staircase wound up to the first floor and marble statues of illustrious past performers stood in every mirrored alcove. Dazzled by the gilt and crystal lusters, Jagu suddenly caught a brief burst of song as an inner door opened from the auditorium, then swung shut again.

“Can I help you?” A flunkey in a brown-and-gold uniform barred his way.

“I'd like to speak with Demoiselle de Saint-Désirat.”

The flunkey's eyebrows rose. “So would every man in Mirom, it seems,” he said disdainfully. “The diva is rehearsing. If you would be so good as to leave your card…” One gloved hand was thrust in Jagu's face, palm upward.

“But I'm an old friend of the diva's.”

“Of
course
you are. Your card?”

This was going to take more than a little ingenuity. Jagu had no
cards—and even if he sent a letter, Gauzia would probably refuse to see him. As he went back out into the bitter cold, he noticed a man bearing armfuls of striped hothouse lilies, cream and pink and gold, disappearing round the side of the theater.

Bouquets for the diva.

“A moment there, my friend,” he called out, drawing a coin from his pocket. “You must be very busy. Let me deliver those for you.”

The florist hesitated, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. Then he thrust the bouquets into Jagu's arms and swiftly pocketed the coin.

Jagu knocked at the stage door. He held the flowers high, so that the heavily scented blooms half concealed his face.

“Flowers for the diva?” a stagehand said. “Take them straight to her dressing room.”

A warren of ill-lit passages opened up in front of Jagu. Chorus members and stagehands hurried to and fro, pushing past him without even seeming to notice he was there. In the dim light, it was difficult to make out the names on the doors he passed. A gust of cold air stirred the petals of the lilies and he suddenly heard a woman's voice break into song in the distance.

He stopped abruptly. That distinct, pure tone. The unseen singer shaped phrase after phrase with sensitive musicianship. Gauzia had a richer voice, a more sensual sound, but she had never managed to rise to those elusive high notes with such unique, unearthly artistry. He knew that voice instantly, even though it was many months since he had heard her sing. He stood, back pressed up against the dusty bricks of the passageway, not knowing what to do, as the singers flitted back and forth.

Someone tapped him sharply on the shoulder. A bewigged little man stood glaring at him. “You're blocking the passageway. Deliver those flowers and get out!” Jagu looked at him blankly. “New to the job?” He let out an exasperated sigh and opened the door opposite. “In there.” The room that lay beyond was already filled with flowers, and their scent was overpoweringly rich and sickly sweet.

“Who was that singing?”

The little man was already steering him back toward the stage door. “You like music, yes? You want to find out? Then buy a ticket and come to see the opera!” He gave him a firm push out into the snowy street and slammed the door shut.

* * * 

“My dear Jagu, you can't possibly go to the opera dressed like that,” observed Ambassador d'Abrissard.

“These are the only civilian clothes I've brought with me.” Jagu looked down at the plain cut of his jacket. “What's wrong with them?”

“In Mirom, just as in Lutèce, people dress up in all their finery to attend the opera.”

“My funds won't cover the cost of a new suit, let alone a ticket.”

“Don't buy a ticket, for heaven's sake! I have my own box, which is at your disposal. As for suitable attire…” Abrissard rang the brocade bellpull and Claude, his butler, appeared. “Claude, would you say that the lieutenant and I were roughly of the same height and girth?”

Claude gave Jagu an appraising look. “Quite close, I believe, Ambassador.”

“Then would you be so good as to fit him out from my wardrobe; the lieutenant is going to the opera tonight in my stead.”

Claude bowed, saying nothing, but not before Jagu had seen the look of shocked disapproval that replaced his habitually detached expression.

Jagu looked at his reflection in the cheval mirror while Claude fastidiously brushed a speck of dust from his outfit. He had never worn such fine clothes; the ivory silk shirt was so soft against his skin that it felt almost sinful. From the sheen of the velvet jacket and breeches of midnight blue down to the metal buckles on the black leather shoes, his reflection gleamed.

“You would be advised to put this on, Lieutenant,” Claude brought over a long, fur-trimmed coat and draped it over his shoulders, “as the frost tonight is particularly sharp.” He finished his work by placing a three-cornered hat of black felt on Jagu's head, tipping it at a fashionable angle.

Jagu did not recognize himself. He was staring at a lean-faced nobleman, the man he might have become if he had been the firstborn of the Lord of Rustéphan. The disguise might work to his advantage, enabling him to continue his investigation without arousing any suspicions.

As the troika bore him away to the theater, the runners bumping over the frozen ruts, the bells on the horses’ collars jangling in the frosty night, he sat back and tried to prepare himself for the confrontation to come.

When had he begun to sense he was losing her? She had become more wayward, more willful, taking risks to get her own way, listening less to him and more, he was certain, to her guardian spirit. He could not forget the way his heart had burned with jealousy as he had watched her flirting with Andrei Orlov, despising himself more and more for not being honest with himself—or her—about his feelings.

And then it was all too late and she was gone.

As the troika slowed, the driver joining the crush of other sleighs in the broad square, Jagu saw the dazzle of bright flares illuminating the front of the Imperial Theater.

Nearly there.
Why was it that the idea of running away with Celestine was suddenly so appealing?

Celestine… do I love you so much that I'd break my vow for a chance of happiness with you?

The ambassador's box afforded a good view of the stage and as Jagu settled down on one of the elegant little chairs, he gazed around in amazement at the lavish interior. Carved cherubs and nymphs supported every box and tier; gilded fauns and satyrs blew pipes and strummed lyres at the corner of each tier, and the central crystal chandelier was filled with hundreds of white wax candles. The buzz of conversation was so loud that he could hardly hear the musicians as they started to tune their instruments.

He scanned the program in vain for a clue; it was only natural that, as a fugitive, she would adopt another name.

Then the candles were extinguished in the auditorium and the orchestra began to play the overture. To Jagu's disgust, the members of the audience paid no attention, continuing to chatter more loudly than before to make themselves heard above the instruments. Jagu frowned at them, trying to listen to the orchestra. He was unfamiliar with
A Spring Elopement,
although the instant he caught an infectiously lighthearted melody bubbling up through the flutes and clarinets in the overture, he suddenly remembered Henri de Joyeuse's playing it.

He was so lost in the memory that when the heavy curtains parted, revealing a stage set of painted cottages and cherry trees, and a chorus
of young women in pink-striped gowns began to sing about the spring blossom, his frown deepened.

What am I, a Commanderie Guerrier, doing watching this absurd, frivolous entertainment?

A sudden stir rippled through the audience and he noticed many leaning forward, raising opera glasses as—to a burst of rapturous cheering—a young woman ran onto the stage and began to sing. From her warm, rich tone, he knew her instantly. It was Gauzia, playing the part of Lise, the pert servant girl, whose mischief-making provided the flimsy plot of
A Spring Elopement.
And, as Jagu watched Gauzia flirting with the men while effortlessly singing Lise's virtuoso runs and trills, he had to admit that she was in her element in the theater. Her reputation was well merited, and from the thunderous applause at the end of her first aria, it was obvious that she had already enchanted the audience. Only when the applause had died down did the opera continue, with the appearance of Lise's young mistress, Mariella.

Mariella, in contrast to her servant, had a sad, wistful aria in which she sang of her despair at being forced to marry a rich elderly count, rather than her sweetheart, a handsome but impoverished poet. Her first phrase, exquisitely rendered, sent a shiver of recognition through Jagu's body.

Celestine.

He leaned far forward over the rim of the box, wishing that he had brought some opera glasses as he tried to make out her features. The voice, the sensitive artistry in shaping the phrases, the timbre of voice, sweet yet searingly pure, were all Celestine's. But the young woman on the stage looked nothing like her. Her hair was a rich brown and her complexion was far darker than Celestine's. But this was the theater, and all manner of magical deceptions could be achieved with lighting and greasepaint.

As the curtain fell, announcing the interval between the acts, Jagu hurried out of the box.

“Is there anything I can get you, sir?” A flunkey appeared, dressed in the same livery as the one who had dismissed him so peremptorily earlier. “A glass of white wine? Some caviar?”

“What is the name of the singer playing Mariella?”

“I believe she's called Cassard, sir. Maela Cassard.”

The name meant nothing to Jagu. Was he deluding himself? Had he been so eager to find Celestine that he had imagined this Maela
Cassard to be his lost love? He took one of the fluted glasses from the flunkey's tray and swallowed the chilled wine down in one gulp. There was only one way to be sure—and that was to go backstage after the performance.

“Flowers,” he said on impulse. “I want a bouquet of flowers.”

CHAPTER 18