Revenant Eve (52 page)

“You will ride in wagons. They are open if the sky stays clear, and have canopies if it doesn’t,” Viorel said.

And so it was. The queen stayed in her carriage, but everyone else climbed into wagons that had been festooned with evergreen boughs and flowers.

The first and most decorated wagon was for Jaska, Margit, and the “Duke de Mascarenhas’s daughter from France.” Sturdy horses in teams of four and six worked to pull the wagons up the mountain, with fresh pairs waiting at certain villages on the way.

Up and up past moss-antlered oaks, the shrouded depths marked by pale beech like stilled lightning. Ivy looped in festoons, catching the greeny light, and everywhere, everywhere, water trickled, dripped, gurgled, and rushed, water-weed trailing like mermaids’ hair. Protected in the mysterious ravines were the villages, out of the reach of arctic winds and angry storms, their thick roofs testament to the cold that was an inescapable part of winter, punctuated here and there by onion-domed steeples, for this was the heart of Orthodox territory.

Again and again I thought I glimpsed among the sheltering trees shadowy winged beings that were not seraphs, but I couldn’t be certain. Since they’d never been any kind of threat, I didn’t worry about them.

Villagers came out to welcome the parade. This procession was, for them, rare and heavy-duty entertainment. They wore their embroidered plain-spun blues and browns, girls crowned with wreaths of scarlet begonias and pure white rosebuds. As the horses were changed, they brought out refreshments—foaming beer, the last of winter’s cider, and zhoumnyar, the distilled liquor that has a mule’s kick. It was served in tiny cups decorated with flowers; a wise idea or the guests would have arrived at the Eyrie totally snockered.

At first the royal wagon was mostly silent as they jolted up the road under deep spring green branches, past fragrant flowering shrubs. Jaska tried to cover over by talking about the evening’s concert—how
much everyone loved Mord’s playing, favorite songs, where they originated, the difference in lyrics depending on the region. “Even here, we get variations, mountain to mountain. Small as Dobrenica is, there are many who have not been a day’s walk from their villages in their entire lives.”

“There are many of us who have not been outside of Dobrenica, small as it is,” Margit retorted.

That silenced Jaska. Aurélie looked down at the wildflowers growing along the side of the road.

Margit addressed her. “You’re thinking that I’m provincial, Donna Aurélie.”

Aurélie looked up. “I’m thinking that I would’ve traded with you if I could, except I wouldn’t wish…ah, certain days on anyone else.”

Margit stirred uncomfortably, her fingers twitching unconsciously at the blossoms festooned at the wagon’s side. Petals fluttered down to the road unheeded. “My mother seems to think you’re perfect.”

Aurélie replied gravely, “Her majesty is forbearing.”

“And I’m not? No, Jaska, don’t speak,” Margit said. “I see that I’m arguing.” She glanced away then back at Aurélie. “Our mother pointed out that you didn’t remonstrate with me. She said I took your words as a reproach because I’m in need of such, and that puts me doubly in the wrong. I hate being in the wrong when I feel wronged.”

“It’s understandable. We all do,” Aurélie said.

“Shall we begin anew?” Margit asked.

Aurélie spread her skirt, rose a little, and tried to curtsey. Its grace was ruined by potholes, but the intent was there as she said, “Your highness, permit me to introduce myself as Donna Aurélie de Mascarenhas…” She stopped there, a revealing glance Jaska’s way making her thoughts pretty clear: She still hadn’t told him her history. And from the way he was acting (like nothing had changed) it was evident that the queen had kept her word.

The two began a halting conversation, feeling their way toward some sort of understanding. The actual words were trivial—mostly about music, lessons, how disappointing it was to discover one couldn’t sing,
favorites. But the reach for understanding was apparent, even if they were not instantly best friends.

So the mood lightened considerably as the Eyrie began to appear between cracks in the peaks ahead. The first few times it was hailed by the group in what sounded like time-honored fashion.

Those hails lessened as the glimpses widened into longer views, blocked by fewer ridges and forested peaks. The afternoon shadows began to coalesce into twilight.

At the last horse stop, lanterns were brought to each wagon, one forward and one aft. When they arrived, the Eyrie was lit with a zillion twinkling lights. Lanterns and candles don’t have the reach of mega-wattage electricity, but the effect was even more startling, especially seen from below. The place looked like the capital of fairyland.

Up close it was just as wonderful. In modern times there were a series of tumble-down garages, considerably the worse for wear after decades of occupiers’ misuses. But here were well-kept stables, marked off by a row of hedges that the locals had decorated with fairy lamps of various spring colors. The resultant path to the main doors (which I had never been through) looked like a stairway to heaven.

Up we streamed, everyone in a party mood. There were enough servants to form a small army. The King’s Guard didn’t look any too worried, though there was only a company of them. From what I saw, although as they stayed more or less in parade-ground order until the queen had been saluted with trumpets and helped inside, more than half were giving surreptitious winks and flicks of the fingers to friends and relatives.

Here was the black and white marble checkerboard floor that I vividly remembered from a sword battle I would have two centuries into the future…I hoped.

Greeting the queen with deep bows and curtseys were the duke and his wife, Princess Maria, Gabrielle’s parents. The duke was a fair-haired middle-aged guy who didn’t look the least like the von Mecklundburgs I knew. His wife looked like a gray-haired version of Margit, only stouter. Next to her, in a row, stood her three children: the heir, tall and square-jawed
with a winsome smile, Count Karl-Friedrich, whom everyone called Fritzl; Father Marcus, a Benedictine; Gabrielle, looking like a fairy princess all in white gauze and lace; and next to her, a short, muscular guy with curly dark hair who turned out to be her betrothed, Baron Ilya Carolos.

Once we’d passed the reception line, the queen was helped, with great tenderness, to a vast state guest room to recover from the journey.

Aurélie’s suite of three rooms was not far. About four doors down from it was the suite through whose window I’d once jumped while trying to escape the horde of bad guys chasing me. Aurélie opened the French windows of her outer chamber and stepped out onto the marble balcony. She peered into the garden below. “Observe those statues,” she said. “They look so real in the moonlight.”

Viorel said in a low, thrilling voice, “Those are vampires, turned forever to stone by the daylight.”

“Vampires!” Aurélie exclaimed, drawing back as if the statues could pop into life again.

“There was a terrible attack during my grandmother’s day,” Margit said from the doorway of the adjoining chamber. “Riev was under siege by the
Inimasang
, the Dobreni word for vampires. You will find that every house has its hawthorn wreaths during winter, roses during summer, and crystal charms the year through. That reminds me, you’ll need protections. But didn’t Domnu Zusya say you have one?”

“I do,” Aurélie said.

“That’s as well, though no one has seen any
Inimasang
for years. But people relate the strangest rumors about this mountain. Come, Jaska says they’re gathering for dinner, and no one can eat a bite until we’re there. We’ll have dancing after it’s done. What are the popular dances in Paris? The gavotte, I am certain, and the minuet?”

“The waltz—” Aurélie began as she started out with Margit.

“What is that?”

“You dance in pairs, twirling.” Aurélie held up her arms and danced lightly across the bedroom, turning on her toes.

“Pairs of what?”

“A man and a woman,” Aurélie said, looking surprised.

“Touching?” Margit
tsk
ed. “That is impossible.”

“Then there is the quadrille.”

“That is a pattern for horses. Do people prance around like horses?”

“It is very complicated, and popular, I assure you. It is again danced in pairs.”

“Our court dances are done in pairs, but the folk prefer to separate men’s dances from women’s. The May dances especially. Weapons have been forbidden in the men’s dances for generations. They sometimes use fans, but the women still dance with flowers.” Margit added, “I do so like to watch a man who can dance well, or is that outré in Paris?”

“Oh, no,” Aurélie said with feeling. “The officers are all dressed up, and everybody is watching them, I assure you. And they are watching the ladies.”

“Officers? It’s all officers?”

“That’s all I ever saw at the Tuileries and Saint-Cloud, with a few diplomatic exceptions.”

T
HERE WAS A LITTLE DANCING AFTER DINNER,
but most people, in preparation for tomorrow’s wedding, were resting up in expectation of a long day and night following.

When she returned to her room, Aurélie found Viorel proudly laying out the just-finished ball gown. For extremely formal affairs, the fashions in Dobrenica were closer to late eighteenth century tastes than the skimpy, low cut Parisian fashions. The skirts were full, the waist slightly raised and sashed, the skirt a swooped polonaise that revealed an underskirt of silver tissue. The bodice and overdress were white, embroidered all over with green leaves and tiny crimson clusters of berries, the neck and sleeves edged with silver lace and spring green ribbon.

The headdress to go with it was a wreath of silk flowers, and crimson ribbon hanging down the back. It looked terrific against her black curls.

Viorel stood by, smiling expectantly, then flushed with pleasure when Aurélie heaped her with praise, going over every detail. They did a last fitting, the maid twitched and pinched here and there, then the gown was swept off for finishing touches, as Aurélie went to bed. I think she was asleep in less than a minute.

Her life experience—with the Kittredges, travel, lady-in-waiting—so far had made her an early riser. She’d bathed and was about to take her coffee
and pastry out onto the balcony when there was a soft knock at her door.

Viorel ran to it, then turned around eyes wide. “It’s his highness,” she said, turning back and curtseying hastily.

At Aurélie’s gesture, Viorel let Jaska into the outer chamber, and he joined Aurélie out on the balcony. “I thought you might also be up early,” he said.

“Shall I call for more coffee or pastry?” Aurélie asked.

“I ate. Thank you.” He stared down into the garden.

“I’m trying to pretend that the vampire statues are carvings,” she said.

“That one
is
a carving,” Jaska replied. “See? No vampire’s going to pose with a lyre as the sun rises.”

Aurélie stood on tiptoe to peer over, and I could see the neo-Roman mythological figure below. Probably Orpheus. “Oh,” she said. “Now I feel foolish.”

“The rest of the garden really is full of stone vampires,” Jaska said. “A few of them from my grandmother’s day. There was a conflict with them in seventeen twenty-two.”

Aurélie shuddered.

“But it’s daylight now, and even after the sun goes down, it’s unlikely any vampires roaming free would disturb a gathering this size, especially with everyone wearing charms, and in a castle full of weapons ready to hand.” His smile became one of inquiry. “My mother sought me out to say how much she enjoyed the journey.”

He sounded pleasant, his eyes kindly, but even though she was only eighteen, she had become attuned to him. I could see that she sensed his question by the way it mirrored in her troubled glance.

She had been playing with the porcelain coffee cup, turning it around and around so that the gilding on the lip glinted in the morning sun rising over the distant mountains of Russia. Then she set it down with a
ching
of decisiveness. “I think the time has come to tell you something,” she said, and watched him carefully.

The issue was trust. They both knew it, I could see it so plainly. But
she had to be free to speak. He was trying hard not to put any pressure on her.

She said, “I thought I’d wait until we visit the Eldest and get answers to our questions.”

“Before you can speak to me?” he asked, leaning a little forward, one hand resting on the table.

“I don’t have a question so much as a confession,” she said, her brow puckered. “I’m not ashamed of who I am, but I’m not who you think. My birth is…not noble.”

His expression eased, and he leaned back. “Is that all?”

“‘Is that all’?” she repeated. “What is ‘all’? That I have no claim to de Mascarenhas as a name? That in fact, I do not rightly know what my name is?”

“That was disclosed by Fouché’s secretaries before I brought you that letter from Jamaica,” Jaska said. “An English secretary at one of the island offices traded the information for something Fouché needed: According to them, your mother’s people are gentry folk from somewhere in the southern part of England, and
her
mother was a French émigré as a result of the Gallican heresy. Your father was a privateer, and it was said born a slave, though slavery was afterward abolished in Saint-Domingue. No one understood whether Bonaparte’s orders were to reinstitute it or not, but in any case, the last I heard he was losing his battle there anyway, and I have to say, I rejoiced to hear that a large number of the few Poles to escape death had joined the side of the defenders.”