Tracing the Shadow Read online

  Adèle suddenly flung her arms around Celestine and hugged her. “I’m going to miss our little tête-à-têtes so much. Promise me you’ll come back soon.”

  “Your voice has won the heart of our foremost composer,” said Ilsevir, taking Adèle’s hand in his. “Talfieri wants you to sing in the new mass he is writing.” The intimate little smile that Adèle gave her husband did not escape Celestine’s notice; she bit back an envious sigh.

  “Azilis was there.” Rieuk turned to the other magi. “Didn’t you sense her presence? We may have failed to kill Adèle of Francia, but we’ve made a far more significant discovery.”

  “But how can that be?” Lord Estael’s gaze was stern as a hawk’s settling on its prey. “You told us that your magister’s daughter was dead.”

  “Unless Klervie de Maunoir didn’t die after all and that young singer…” Fair-haired, blue-eyed, with the voice of an angel…The instant Rieuk spotted her in the chapel, he had felt an inexplicable shiver of recognition. “Celestine de Joyeuse,” he said, pronouncing each syllable slowly, pensively. Was the long search over at last?

  “Names can be changed. Perhaps the family faked the child’s death and hid her away, fearing that the Inquisition would come looking for her.”

  “But why did Azilis use that young woman to foil our attack?” asked Aqil.

  Estael looked troubled. “Azilis has selected this young woman so that she can enter the mortal world again. Perhaps she has no need for us anymore.”

  “What do you mean, my lord?” Rieuk had not imagined such a possibility. That night in Karantec, had Azilis been crying out, not to him, but to Klervie? Had she formed an indissoluble bond with the little girl all those years ago?

  “She was once flesh and blood. After this eternity of imprisonment, she may have yearned to take human form again. Except she is so powerful that Celestine de Joyeuse will slowly lose her own identity and become her puppet.”

  CHAPTER 32

  It seemed to Celestine as if many months had passed since she last stood in front of the Maistre’s house, gazing up at the music room window. Faint strains issued, a tempestuous passage on the fortepiano, filled with yearning, unresolved phrases that crested, one after another, like storm waves crashing on a deserted shore.

  This was unlike any music she had heard him play before.

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Jagu had asked more than once as they parted on the quay by the Forteresse. The old Jagu would never have shown such concern for her safety. Yet since the attack in the chapel, he had become much more protective—endearingly so, at times. Even the Marquise de Trécesson had noted his concern, commenting with an indulgent smile, “That young man has become very attentive of late, my dear. I believe you may have made a conquest…”

  And Celestine had dismissed the marquise’s suggestion with the most pleasant of laughs. “Oh, it’s a purely professional concern, I assure you.”

  She walked slowly up the path and raised her hand to knock.

  I want to see him so badly. But I’m so nervous…

  The music stopped, halfway through a phrase. She turned, hearing his footsteps coming closer. The door opened.

  “Celestine?”

  She turned around to face him. He stood in the doorway, his hair escaping its loosely tied ribbon, as though he had been raking his fingers through it. How endearingly untidy you look, dear Maistre.

  “Welcome back,” he said.

  “Maistre.” She lowered her eyes.

  “Are we going to stand here on the doorstep all afternoon? Come in. My aunt is out. She said she couldn’t stand the racket a moment longer.”

  “Racket?” Celestine followed him into the house. “Are you working on a new piece?”

  He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “How did you guess?”

  “Your unconventional style of dress, for one. You only wear that old robe de chambre when you’re composing.”

  “How well you know me.” He stopped on the threshold of the salon. “But where’s your luggage? You weren’t robbed on the way, I trust?”

  “The marquise’s servants will deliver it this evening.”

  “The marquise!” he said, gently mocking.

  Already she was falling under his spell, forgetting all the resolutions she had made in Allegonde. “I understand, Maistre, that it will be difficult for me to continue living in this house,” she began. “But with Prince Ilsevir’s very generous gift, I have enough money to set myself up in my own apartment now.” She had rehearsed this moment many times in her mind during the tedious coach journey back to Lutèce. “I’m very grateful to you for all you’ve—”

  “Gratitude?” He came closer to her. “I never asked for your gratitude, Celestine. If you think that’s the case, then I’m mistaken; you don’t know me well at all.”

  His words hurt her. All her carefully planned phrases flew out of her mind. “Then what do you want?” she cried.

  He moved closer still. “You.”

  She found she had no will to resist, gladly raising her face to his as he began to kiss her, light butterfly kisses at first, falling on her lids, her forehead, her hair, then, as his mouth touched hers, harder, more forcefully…

  “But your aunt—” she murmured.

  “I told you. Aunt Elmire has gone to the Opera House,” he murmured back, his lips brushing her ear. “We’re alone.” And he swung her up in his arms, carrying her into his bedchamber.

  Alone. His hands were moving down from her shoulders, and she shivered as they set off delicious little tremors of fire in her body. “I’ve been in love with you since I first saw you at the convent,” he said softly.

  “And I you, Maistre.” She laced her fingers in his long hair, as she had longed to so often, surprised at the softness of it.

  “Call me by my name. Call me Henri.” They sank down on the bed, arms still wound around each other.

  “Henri.” She had been calling him by his first name in her dreams for so long. But the difference between the Henri de Joyeuse of her imaginings and the man whose arms were crushing her close to him suddenly terrified her. This was real: the heat of his breath as he kissed her throat, the smell of his skin, like leather and brine, the urgency of his hands delving beneath her tight bodice to caress her breasts.

  He’s so strong.

  This fusion of fear and pleasure was overwhelming. She had not known till now how intoxicating it could be to be held so tightly that she felt she might break. Or how vulnerable his face would look as he whispered her name again and again.

  She no longer cared if what they were doing was sinful, she only knew that it was what she had wanted for so very long.

  “There’s something different about you, since you came back from Allegonde, Jagu.” Kilian stopped Jagu as he left Captain de Lanvaux’s room. “You look so damned pleased with yourself. The cat who got the cream.”

  “We foiled an assassination attempt,” Jagu retorted, knowing full well that this was not what Kilian was referring to.

  “We,” mimicked Kilian. “That would be you and the delectable Demoiselle de Joyeuse? Paired together all those long weeks away must have forged quite a strong bond between you, hm?” A teasing light danced in his eyes.

  “We work well as a team,” said Jagu staunchly.

  “Oh, I see. Is that what it’s called these days, working well as a team? I’d have said you were well and truly smitten. I’ve seen you smile on more than one occasion. Today I even heard you laugh!” For a moment the bantering tone disappeared and Kilian put his hand on his shoulder. “It’s good to see you like this, Jagu.”

  “But do I stand any kind of chance with her, Kilian? Is she worth giving up my Commanderie career for?” The questions that had been tormenting Jagu suddenly came pouring out. “Should I break my vow?”

  “Why are you asking me? How on earth should I know?” Kilian gave him a little punch on the shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be asking Demoiselle Celestine?”

 
As Celestine lay in Henri’s arms, he threw back the tumbled sheets and said, “Celestine. I can’t bear to live without you any longer. Marry me.”

  “M—marry you?” The unexpectedness of the proposal took her breath away. “You’re teasing me, Maistre,” she said uncertainly.

  He pushed himself up on one elbow and gazed down at her. “Why would I tease the woman I love over such an important issue?” He bent over and kissed her, his hair brushing softly across her breasts, and she felt a wave of desire flood through her again. “Well?” he asked, his face close to hers, a little interrogatory smile on his lips. “So, will you have me, Demoiselle? With all my faults? My late nights at the Opera House, my pacing, my black moods when the muse deserts me?”

  “You know I love you, with all your faults,” she said, kissing him tenderly in return.

  Downstairs, a door slammed.

  “My aunt’s back.” Henri sat up, hastily fumbling for his shirt and breeches.

  “If she finds us together like this—” Celestine’s blissfully languorous dream shattered as she panicked, trying to adjust her disordered clothes.

  “Henri?” called Dame Elmire in full operatic voice.

  A few minutes later, Celestine followed the Maistre downstairs, to see Dame Elmire standing in the hall.

  “I have good news, Aunt,” he said. His hand caught hold of Celestine’s. “I’d like you to welcome a new member to our family. Celestine has agreed to become my wife.”

  Dame Elmire looked at them both in turn. Celestine waited, gaze demurely lowered, for Dame Elmire’s response, aware that she was blushing from head to toe.

  “Well, it’s about time!” said Dame Elmire. “Come here, both of you.” And she folded first Henri then Celestine in her arms. “So I’m to have a niece at long last,” she said, giving Celestine a kiss. “Though are you really sure you want to take him on? He can be very difficult to live with.”

  “I’m just so happy,” Celestine said, squeezing the Maistre’s hand. She couldn’t stop smiling.

  “I’ll make sure that the formal announcement of your engagement is in all the city news sheets by next week,” said Dame Elmire. “We have a wedding to plan!”

  “Once a Guerrier makes a vow before God, Captain, is it impossible to break?”

  “Why, Jagu, have you had a sudden crisis of faith?” The captain fixed him with his keen eye and Jagu looked away, discomfited. Was he going to have to confess the truth? “What, then? Is it your music? Now that you’ve had a taste of the performing life abroad, have you changed your mind?” How did the captain read him so accurately? “Think of me as your confessor, Jagu,” the captain added more gently. “You can say what you like to me here in the utmost confidence.”

  “It’s the vow of celibacy.” The confession came out in a rush.

  “So you’ve fallen in love.” There was no hint of censure in the observation.

  Love? Was that what it was? Jagu had not put it quite so bluntly to himself. Am I in love with Celestine?

  “And is your love returned?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  To Jagu’s surprise, Ruaud de Lanvaux began to laugh. “And there I was, thinking that you were about to confess you’d already spent a night of passion together.”

  Passion? Jagu felt color flood his cheeks at the thought.

  “If you love her, my boy, and she loves you too, you’re going to find it hard to lead a life apart. But don’t throw your vow away for an infatuation. For once you turn your back on the Commanderie, you can never be allowed back in. You’re fortunate, Jagu, you have your musical talent. But I’ve seen other men forsake their vows, only to lose both their love and their faith. Such a double disappointment is hard to bear.”

  Jagu managed a wry smile. “You’re saying that women are fickle.”

  “You’ve proved yourself a real asset to the Commanderie and I have great hopes for you. You have the potential to rise very high. But you must put earthly distractions aside if you’re going to dedicate yourself to God.”

  “Joyeuse? Oh, you must mean the king’s Maistre de Chapelle,” said the sacristan of Saint Meriadec.

  Little by little, Rieuk was drawing closer to Celestine de Joyeuse. He had learned that her name was the same as that of the eminent composer Henri de Joyeuse. The sacristan had confirmed that Maistre de Joyeuse was the demoiselle’s guardian and teacher. And now he stood in this quiet, secluded ruelle, gazing up at an old town house hidden away behind high walls.

  “Wake, Ormas,” he murmured to his Emissary. “Investigate.”

  He felt Ormas stir, and a pulse of dark energy caught fire within his breast. Then the Emissary separated from his body, soaring up into the air like a streak of smoke. Rieuk stood, back against the wall, concentrating on searching through Ormas’s keen eyes.

  The hawk circled slowly around the house, winging past each window. On the ground floor, Rieuk glimpsed a fair-haired man seated at a keyboard instrument, playing a note or two, then leaning forward to scribble rapidly on a wide sheet covered in empty staves.

  “Can that be Maistre de Joyeuse?” Ormas flew past once more, giving Rieuk a second view. He looks much younger than I imagined. Is he more to Celestine than a guardian and teacher? Is he her husband?

  There was no sign of movement in the first-floor rooms. Ormas rose higher, passing the attic windows. And suddenly Rieuk caught a faint yet distinct vibration that pierced his mind like a silver dart. He staggered, clutching at the grimy stones of the wall to right himself.

  Azilis. There was no denying it; he recognized that elusive glimmer, delicate, yet redolent of such great power. He felt light-headed, dizzy in the knowledge that his long search was at an end. He had been pursuing her for so many years, with still no hope of being reunited with Imri, forced to commit sickening crimes in the name of Enhirre. He had no idea yet how he was to infiltrate the household, or lay his hands on the book, let alone extract Azilis’s spirit from its pages without shedding Celestine’s blood. But this moment of triumph had been hard-won.

  “Ormas. Return.”

  But as Ormas flew past the music room, Rieuk saw that a second figure had appeared beside Maistre de Joyeuse. “Wait. Go closer, Ormas,” he ordered, concentrating all his attention on the newcomer. A golden-haired girl stood beside the composer, one hand on his shoulder, leaning familiarly close to read the notes he had been scribing. Klervie. As Rieuk watched, Maistre de Joyeuse pulled her to him, kissing her tenderly.

  That’s not the chaste kiss of a guardian and his ward. They’re lovers. A dark, bitter pain pierced his heart. Why should she know happiness when he had suffered so much? Would you kiss her so passionately, Maistre de Joyeuse, if you knew her secret? Or her real name and parentage?

  “Shall I return now, Master?” The hawk’s appearance had caused the sparrows in the garden to scatter noisily in panic; their frantic chirping might draw attention to his presence. As Ormas silently folded himself into Rieuk’s body once more, Rieuk turned and began to walk away. Going back to Ondhessar without Azilis was not an option. But how could he get inside the mansion without being observed?

  There was a sharp hint of autumnal crispness in the morning air as Jagu left the Forteresse; as he crossed the bridge to the quay, he saw wisps of mist rising from the river, mirrored by the trails of smoke rising from the forest of chimneys.

  He had spent half the night praying for guidance in the Commanderie chapel, yet his thoughts had strayed constantly to Celestine.

  He missed her.

  They had spent much of the trip to Allegonde in each other’s company. He had looked forward to seeing her each day. He kept remembering little things about her: the unconscious frown of concentration on her face as she tied back her cloud of golden hair in the oppressive heat; her radiant smile when a difficult phrase in a song went suddenly to her liking; Celestine scattering crumbs from her breakfast roll every morning for the little birds on her windowsill. Celestine, Celestine, Celestine…

 
; Kilian’s right. I can’t think of anything else. I must be in love. And yet it was an intoxicating feeling, one that put a spring in his step and a smile on his lips.

  Jagu hadn’t expected Celestine to open the door to him. Her smile, so open, so welcoming, put all thoughts out of his head.

  “Oh, Jagu, the Maistre is out. I’m so sorry if you’ve come all this way—”

  “It wasn’t the Maistre I came to see. It was you.”

  “Me? Is it to do with…the magus?” She beckoned him into the music room, closing the door behind them. He stood there, feeling awkward. She had assumed that he had come on Commanderie business.

  “Not exactly—” he began, but she interrupted him in a sudden excited torrent of words.

  “I haven’t told Captain de Lanvaux yet, although I must. Do you think he’ll mind? It’s just that I don’t think I can continue to work for him now that my circumstances have changed. I’m so grateful to him for all he’s done and I don’t want to offend him in any way—”

  “Wait.” Jagu held up one hand to try to interrupt the flow. What had she just said? My circumstances have changed.

  “Oh, but how rude of me; I still haven’t asked you why you’ve come.”

  But Jagu had to know what she was babbling about. “Why can’t you continue to work for the captain?” Or with me, for that matter?

  A shaft of sunlight sparkled on the little drops of condensation on the windowpanes, falling between the two of them like a translucent barrier.

  “You should be one of the first to know.” She clutched both hands together in her excitement. Her eyes sparkled, bright as the sun-riven water drops. “We’re to be married!”

  “You?” Jagu felt as if he had been shot in the chest. “And the Maistre?” For a moment it seemed as if the sun were extinguished.

  “The Maistre is going to ask you to play the organ at the ceremony.” He could hear her, still happily chattering on, unwittingly increasing his anguish, for how could she know what he felt? He had never dared to tell her. And now it was too late and he had lost her. And lost her to the one he had always admired most in the world of music. “It’ll be at Saint Meriadec’s, of course, with the choir of the Sisters of Charity. I hope Angelique will sing a solo…”