carriage.”
“I could have Iakup fetch you one,” Antuniet offered.
“Not yet. Please?”
There wasn’t even a shrug this time as Antuniet turned to open the door to the back workroom. Behind them, Marien settled onto a chair by the door, a picture of patience.
* * *
Jeanne found herself hanging on Antuniet’s every word. Not for the explanations themselves. The basic theories she knew already and the rest went far over her head. It was for the fire that lit Antuniet from within when she described the experiments, the initial successes, the maddening failures, the slow teasing apart of myth and fact. There were gaps, holes. Somehow the exact nature of her Great Work was never mentioned. The quest for perfection, for purity—it was all in abstracts despite the grimy reality of her labors. And why had she left Prague when the work had been going so well? What had happened in Heidelberg that had left a shadow anyone could see? And this marvelous book that lay behind all her hopes, how had it come into her hands to make the work possible? That, at least, was a safe question.
Antuniet looked embarrassed. “It’s only a foolish game I play in bookshops.”
Now there was a curious image: Antuniet playing foolish games. “Tell me.”
Antuniet turned away and began setting tools in order on the workbench as she answered. “My old nurse…you know those silly fortune-telling mysteries that girls play at floodtide? The ones for predicting your true love or your future husband?”
“Mmm-hmm?” Jeanne encouraged. It had been a long time since she’d been young enough and silly enough to take anything of the sort seriously.
“My old nurse knew one that—well, let’s say that it worked better than a lucky guess. You brought everyone together in a circle around the fire and wrote everyone’s name on a slip of paper. There was a great deal of fuss with symbols and herbs, wax from the altar and water from a sacred well. Not all of it seemed to matter. But you folded it up in a billet and threw the contents in the fire and if that person’s true love were present, the sparks and smoke would pick him out.”
“And your true love was a book?” Jeanne asked.
Antuniet laughed despite herself. When she laughed she became another person entirely. “Close enough I suppose! I changed it around a bit. I see visions you know—nothing like Maisetra Sovitre does, but enough to know what works and what doesn’t—and I changed it into a charm to find the object in a room that you will find most useful.”
Jeanne had almost stopped listening to the words. She’d never seen Antuniet so animated before; had she simply never looked?
And then, as if Antuniet realized it herself, her face shut down once more to that cool, sardonic mask.
“Can I see the book?” Jeanne asked.
Antuniet shook her head. “It’s in a safe place. Maybe some other time.”
And then the moment had passed. Iakup was called up out of the cellar, where he’d been stacking crates and sacks, to brave the storm and hail a fiacre for the mesnera as Marien helped her into her pelisse and bonnet once more. “May I come again?” Jeanne asked at the door.
“I can’t match your hospitality, I’m afraid,” Antuniet said, which was neither yes nor no.
“Next week sometime,” Jeanne said. “Expect me.”
Jeanne rested her hand briefly on Antuniet’s shoulder, disappointed when she turned away with no further word.
Chapter Eight
Barbara
As she stepped out into the narrow courtyard where the groom was waiting with the horses, Barbara glanced up at the thin afternoon sun. Enough hours of light to get to Urmai and back and enough in between to examine the books Chasteld was said to have on offer if there were no delays. But with Chasteld there was no guarantee. Perhaps it would be better to take the town-chaise instead, despite the delay. No, Bertrut would have taken it already. On a better day she might have considered hailing a riverman to row
“I could have Iakup fetch you one,” Antuniet offered.
“Not yet. Please?”
There wasn’t even a shrug this time as Antuniet turned to open the door to the back workroom. Behind them, Marien settled onto a chair by the door, a picture of patience.
* * *
Jeanne found herself hanging on Antuniet’s every word. Not for the explanations themselves. The basic theories she knew already and the rest went far over her head. It was for the fire that lit Antuniet from within when she described the experiments, the initial successes, the maddening failures, the slow teasing apart of myth and fact. There were gaps, holes. Somehow the exact nature of her Great Work was never mentioned. The quest for perfection, for purity—it was all in abstracts despite the grimy reality of her labors. And why had she left Prague when the work had been going so well? What had happened in Heidelberg that had left a shadow anyone could see? And this marvelous book that lay behind all her hopes, how had it come into her hands to make the work possible? That, at least, was a safe question.
Antuniet looked embarrassed. “It’s only a foolish game I play in bookshops.”
Now there was a curious image: Antuniet playing foolish games. “Tell me.”
Antuniet turned away and began setting tools in order on the workbench as she answered. “My old nurse…you know those silly fortune-telling mysteries that girls play at floodtide? The ones for predicting your true love or your future husband?”
“Mmm-hmm?” Jeanne encouraged. It had been a long time since she’d been young enough and silly enough to take anything of the sort seriously.
“My old nurse knew one that—well, let’s say that it worked better than a lucky guess. You brought everyone together in a circle around the fire and wrote everyone’s name on a slip of paper. There was a great deal of fuss with symbols and herbs, wax from the altar and water from a sacred well. Not all of it seemed to matter. But you folded it up in a billet and threw the contents in the fire and if that person’s true love were present, the sparks and smoke would pick him out.”
“And your true love was a book?” Jeanne asked.
Antuniet laughed despite herself. When she laughed she became another person entirely. “Close enough I suppose! I changed it around a bit. I see visions you know—nothing like Maisetra Sovitre does, but enough to know what works and what doesn’t—and I changed it into a charm to find the object in a room that you will find most useful.”
Jeanne had almost stopped listening to the words. She’d never seen Antuniet so animated before; had she simply never looked?
And then, as if Antuniet realized it herself, her face shut down once more to that cool, sardonic mask.
“Can I see the book?” Jeanne asked.
Antuniet shook her head. “It’s in a safe place. Maybe some other time.”
And then the moment had passed. Iakup was called up out of the cellar, where he’d been stacking crates and sacks, to brave the storm and hail a fiacre for the mesnera as Marien helped her into her pelisse and bonnet once more. “May I come again?” Jeanne asked at the door.
“I can’t match your hospitality, I’m afraid,” Antuniet said, which was neither yes nor no.
“Next week sometime,” Jeanne said. “Expect me.”
Jeanne rested her hand briefly on Antuniet’s shoulder, disappointed when she turned away with no further word.
Chapter Eight
Barbara
As she stepped out into the narrow courtyard where the groom was waiting with the horses, Barbara glanced up at the thin afternoon sun. Enough hours of light to get to Urmai and back and enough in between to examine the books Chasteld was said to have on offer if there were no delays. But with Chasteld there was no guarantee. Perhaps it would be better to take the town-chaise instead, despite the delay. No, Bertrut would have taken it already. On a better day she might have considered hailing a riverman to row
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