The Pool of Mnemosyne, page 4
Given all that, the possibility that an unknown steamship was lurking out of a direct line of sight from where I was standing, marginally visible but unidentifiable, seemed a trifle ominous…or, at least, it did nothing to assuage the nightmare-induced feeling I already had that dire events were in the offing.
“What’s the matter?” Elise asked. She had grown up in the capital of the Empire, in a world in which steamships were already unsurprising. She had little conception if how much they had already changed the world, and how much more profoundly they might, and surely would, change it in the course of her lifetime.
“Probably nothing,” I said.
The faint smudge of smoke was no longer moving. If there was a ship beyond the green streak, it must have dropped anchor.
I looked at Elise. Her expression had clouded over. My momentary unease had infected her, and renewed her own, just as she might have on the brink of dispelling it.
“Perhaps we ought to go back now,” she said. “Mariette will worry if she finds us gone.”
“We’re visible from the house,” I told her. “She won’t even need a telescope to be able to see and recognize us.”
She knew that. I suspected that it was precisely the fact that Mariette would be able to see and recognize us that was adding to her unease. I wondered exactly how far Mariette’s unreasonable jealousy had developed, and how it was affecting her conduct with Elise—but that certainly wasn’t something I wanted to talk to Elise about, and I wasn’t sure that it was a topic I could investigate, however obliquely, with Mariette.
I was about to agree that we ought to go back having already turned round, when I saw someone coming toward us along the cliff edge at a pace that, although not exactly a run, seemed urgent. It was Helen.
Elise had turned round too, and her gaze followed mine.
“Perhaps we’re about to find out what Madame requires of us next,” she said, dully.
I had a strong suspicion that she might be right.
III. Helen in Quest of Protection
Elise was, indeed, right.
When Helen arrived, while still somewhat out of breath, she gasped: “Madame would like to see you, Master Rathenius. It’s urgent.”
“About what?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” After the long and scrupulously honest conversation I’d been having with Elise, the lie seemed blatant, but there didn’t seem to be any point in challenging it. If she had been instructed not to tell me, as she presumably had, she would obey the instruction. I noticed, however, that she seemed more than a trifle anxious about something—perhaps more things than one.
“Does she want to see me too?” Elise asked.
“No,” said Helen, rather curtly. “You’ll be quite safe in the house. Your mother will be back soon.”
“I’m not frightened of being on my own,” Elise told her, contemptuously. “It’s not a good idea to be frightened. It doesn’t help clarity of thought.” She made it sound like an accusation. I tried to take a little flattery from the imitation, but my unease had grown to proportions that made such facile indulgences seem puerile.
“That’s always been my experience,” Helen replied, seemingly unflustered. “I didn’t mean to insult you, Mademoiselle Dellacrusca. But I need Master Rathenius to come with me right away.”
I’d never heard her, or anyone, call Elise “Mademoiselle Dellacrusca” before, but I didn’t think it worth challenging either the accuracy of the nomenclature or her motive for employing it. Elise presumably felt the same way; at any rate, she raised no objection and made no comment.
“Is there bad news from Mnemosyne?” I asked, partly to override the awkwardness of the observation, and partly because, automatically connecting the summons and the distant smudge of smoke, I suddenly felt a twinge of alarm.
“No,” Helen replied, swiftly, but was equally quick to add: “Not that I know of. Please—I’ve already lost time looking for you at the house. Madame was very insistent.”
“You’d think that living for two thousand years would have taught her patience,” I observed, sarcastically. She made no verbal response to that, but indicated by her manner that she would appreciate it if I would stop procrastinating.
“Go,” said Elise, seemingly relishing the idea that I might be waiting for her permission—or, at least, the idea that Helen might think that I needed it.
I set off immediately. Elise lingered behind, deliberately, even though we would be taking the same route for a full half-mile. She was deliberately emphasizing the fact that she wasn’t with us.
The journey was all uphill, once we had left the headland, and Helen was already a trifle weary, so I had no difficulty in keeping up with her, in spite of her urgency. My stride was leisurely, and I was able to look around, trying once again to savor the Edenic qualities of the island…or, given the presence of fauns and nymphs, the Arcadian qualities. It was easy, as an artist, to appreciate the beauty of the verdure, the orderly disorder of the fields and the orchards, the flowers in the hedgerows, and the smooth slope of the mountain. It was a place, I knew, that ought to be entirely suited to my liking for a quiet, serene life. But it wasn’t.
I felt slightly guilty about that as I watched the patient Sileni working in the orchards and tending their flocks, seemingly perfectly adapted to their pastoral way of life, devoid of any desire for change, but what I’d said to Elise earlier was true. I needed the branch of Lutecian society that was the lifeblood of the artist’s colony of Mnemosyne. The colony needed its isolation from city life, but it also needed its contact with the civilization and artistic appreciation that only city life produces. As a portraitist, I was the perfect summation of that dual need. I not only needed people to paint, but I needed a particular kind of people to paint, and a particular environment in which to paint them. And it was when they took their ritual vacations that they wanted to sit for portraits, that being part and parcel of the whole social ceremony. On Mnemosyne, I had belonged; on the Island of Dionysus, I didn’t—and I was far from certain that I ever would, in spite of all its manifest attractions. I simply couldn’t see myself as a painter of landscapes, or imaginary mythological scenes, even though the Orpheus had demonstrated that I could adapt my technique if necessary. I was, and feared that I always would be, a portraitist, a reader and drinker of souls.
After three or four minutes, Helen broke into my contemplation and said: “I saw your painting at the house.”
“Oh,” I said, unenthusiastically. She didn’t offer any criticism, though; it had just been something to say. Even though she didn’t want to tell me anything, she seemed to want to talk. I waited for her next gambit, in no hurry to help her out, given that she was obviously no in hurry to give me a hint as to why Madame wanted to see me so urgently, after seemingly ignoring me for so long.
Eventually, she said: “The little girl doesn’t like me, does she?”
“Well,” I observed, reasonably, “you did have her kidnapped, and locked up in a tiny cell on a steamer, being sick all over the floor for days on end. Not everyone’s as forgiving as I am. Anyway, I thought you’d been getting along quite well recently. She seems to have been spending time with you lately.”
“She’s stopped giving me the cold shoulder, but not because she’s trying to make friends. She just wanted to ask me a lot of questions.”
“Oh? About what?” The idea that Elise might have sought Helen’s advice before asking for mine was wounding.
“About you, mostly.”
“Should I be flattered, or alarmed?” I asked—actually slightly relieved by the thought that Elise had been in search of information, not advice.
“How should I know? She asked me point blank whether I’d slept with you.”
“She’s at a curious age. You said no, obviously.”
“Obviously. Then she asked me whether you were still going to paint me—but I don’t think she was just thinking about painting.”
“I suspect not. What did you say?”
“I said I didn’t know. What else could I say?”
“Nothing. I’m sure she was grateful for your honesty.”
“Then she asked me if I still wanted you to.”
“She can be a little disconcerting, and she likes setting traps.” I was beginning to see why Helen had wanted to provoke Elise slightly by addressing her as Mademoiselle Dellacrusca, although she was now fully aware that her legal name was Mademoiselle Almiras, given that her father had acknowledged her when registering the birth. “What did you tell her?”
Helen sighed. “I said that I had no intention of begging. It was only afterwards that I thought that I might perhaps have phrased it better. I’m sorry if you think I might have I given her…an impression you’d rather she didn’t have.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I told her. “As I said, she’s at a curious age, and there are questions she’d be embarrassed to put to her mother…especially now. She probably was trying to make friends with you, albeit in an awkward fashion”
“No, it wasn’t just curiosity. I felt under attack. As you say, perhaps there’s no reason why she should like me, even though I was trying to save her from a possible threat to her life, but there’s no reason for her to think that I pose any threat to her mother…or to her. You might take the trouble to tell her that.”
“I might,” I agreed. Mischievously, I added: “Do I take it, then, that you no longer want me to paint you?”
She hesitated for a moment, and then said: “You could have had me that night in the Sprite when I drugged your wine, or again on the ship,” she said, “but you didn’t. I can take a hint. As I told the girl, I’ve no intention of begging.”
There was evidently something she was not saying, although I couldn’t deduce what it was.
“But?” I prompted.
She didn’t blush. “But I would like some reassurance that you’re not bearing a grudge against me, the way the girl and her mother are.”
I was slightly surprised that that was the particular but that she had had in mind.
“I’m not,” I said, honestly. “I can’t say that I’m not annoyed that you drugged me and spirited me out of the Sprite without warning, and without giving me a chance to let my friends know that I hadn’t been assassinated and wasn’t running away, but I understand your reasons. You were doing what you thought best, for the best of motives. Anyway, you were spying on me for years, before you left the island—you must know that I don’t hold grudges against pretty women.”
She didn’t seem to feel that that was as much reassurance as I might have given her, and reacted with a slightly sulky silence. There had to be a reason why she wanted more, but I couldn’t work out what it was. It seemed to be a good opportunity to hazard some guesses, though.
“Are you being sent back to Mnemosyne?” I asked her.
“That would be dangerous,” she said. “Too many people there will have connected your disappearance with mine.”
I took note of the fact that the observation fell some way short of a denial, but shrugged my shoulders slightly. “Well, you have nothing to fear from me,” I said. “And don’t read too much into my hesitation that night in the Sprite, or what didn’t happen on the steamer. If it actually matters to you, I did think about it, both times, but…well, it hardly matters now. I certainly don’t think of you as an enemy.”
“That’s not the same thing as offering me your protection,” she pointed out.
The persistence seemed bizarre. “Why would you need my protection?” I asked. “From whom?”
This time, she did blush. I wondered whether she could possibly be afraid of Mariette, or even Elise, but it seemed absurd.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, when she didn’t answer. “Yes, for what it might be worth to you, if you ever need protection, and I can offer it, you’ll certainly have it. And some day, I would still like to paint you, if you’re still agreeable…but it might be a while.”
She seemed strangely relieved. “Thank you,” she said. I didn’t think that she was talking about the painting.
“What else did Elise ask you?” I asked her, curiously, thinking that it must have been something the girl had said that had alarmed Helen.
“She wanted a complete account of your personal history. I told her that I’d never observed you at close range and didn’t know anything at all about your intimate personal life. I said that I thought your reputation as a callous exploiter of women was probably exaggerated, and that, although there’s no such animal as a trustworthy man, you’re probably more decent than most.”
“There is such a thing as damning with faint praise,” I observed.
“That wasn’t my intention. She asked me a lot of questions about Madame too, but I had to avoid most of those. Madame dislikes indiscretion. She also asked me point blank whether I was a prostitute, I said no, but I don’t think she believed me. She knows that I worked in the Sprite, so that’s not surprising…but I wasn’t lying.”
“I know,” I said.
She raised an eyebrow. “How?”
“I’ve spent a lot of time in the Spite over the years. I know you thought you were effectively invisible there, but I have a painter’s eye. I never guessed that you were a Dionysian spy, let alone that you might be spying on me, but I never thought you were a whore.”
The eyebrow remained raised. “She also asked me about Hecate Rain. I told her that I didn’t know much about her beyond her drinking habits, but that you and she seemed to enjoy one another’s company. Was that all right?”
“Perfectly.”
“She’s a strange child. I wish she liked me. Madame thinks very highly of her—because of her music, not because of…who she is.”
“She has a great talent,” I agreed. “But there is a slight hint of Dellacrusca about her. I’m not sure you ought to go out of your way to remind her of it, but she didn’t seem to take offence just now. Perhaps she was even pleased—she barely caught a glimpse of the man, after all, and the only time she saw one of her uncles he was perfectly charming, to her and to everyone else present. Perhaps heredity is having an effect too. I’d have been very interested to meet her mother.”
“Well, you were said on the island to be the only person there who actually liked the dreadful twins, except for the old madwoman, so I expect there’s no one better qualified to be her guardian.”
There were two elements in that remark that nearly threw me off my stride, the first one being that I was now reckoned to be Elise’s guardian. Perhaps oddly, it was the other one that caught my more immediate attention.
“What madwoman?” I asked.
“The madwoman. You must have known about it. Apart from the twins and a couple of the Sisters of Shalimar, you were the only other person who ever bothered to climb the mountain to see her, as far as I know.”
“Eirene Magdelana?” I queried. I had never known that the Dellacrusca twins even knew that Eirene existed. I hadn’t hated them with the same righteous wrath as the rest of the island’s population, but I certainly hadn’t made a habit of hanging out with them.
“That’s right. I think they first climbed Snowspur just because they wanted to get to the top, but they must have stumbled across her, and for some reason, they took to her. They made a point of going to see her every summer. At one time I wondered whether they might be relaying messages back to her father. She had a reputation as a seer—but Dellacrusca wasn’t the kind of man to consult oracles, was he?”
“He wasn’t suspected of it,” I said. “And you think Eirene actually liked the twins?”
“She seemed to. She had a son of her own once, so rumor had it, who was a bad lot…but you know something about that, don’t you? I was away when she died, but I heard something in the few days I was there before I left with you. Something to do with Ramon Barling being a murderer, Nicodemus Rham’s replacement as the keeper of Lucifer’s Light, and an old shipwreck on the Devil’s Rocks?
“Yes,” I said. “It was a big scandal, by Mnemosyne’s standards.” It was all in the past now, though, so I returned to the other point. “Am I really supposed to be Elise’s guardian.”
“You’re screwing her mother and living in the same house,” Helen point out. “Parenot’s still on Mnemosyne. She’s your responsibility now. You don’t mind, do you? It might dent your image a little, I suppose, but Parenot coped…not that he had the same reputation, from what I’ve heard. Totally obsessed with little Mariette. You’re not, I presume?”
I ignored the indelicate question, still thinking about my new title. I had lived for a very long time, and slept with a good many mothers along the way, but I had never been estimated to be the guardian of any of their offspring. I didn’t know how I felt about the idea.
“It could be worse,” Helen suggested, provocatively. “At least the twins are old enough to look after themselves now. If Dellacrusca had been assassinated on Mnemosyne ten years ago, Constable Clovis might have come knocking on your door asking you to take them in until someone could come from Lutèce to collect them. He could hardly entrust them to the old madwoman up on Snowspur, could he?”
“Probably not,” I agreed. The scenario didn’t seem that unlikely, in retrospect, except that Lord Dellacrusca had always seemed invincible and immortal...until Antoine de Mesmay had caught him off guard while he was waiting, like a spider on the edge of a web, to hear his long-lost grand-daughter play her duet with Hecate Rain.
A thought occurred to me. “Did Madame know in advance that Antoine de Mesmay was planning to assassinate Dellacrusca?” I asked her.
“I don’t think so. The Mesmays played their cards very close to their chest. The word from the island now is that old Ursule, the Marquise’s aunt, is in a holy rage about her convent being used as a cover for the plot. If the Sister of Shalimar weren’t pacifists, she’d probably have brought the wrath of heaven down on her niece, or at least launched the most powerful curse she knows. The Marquise is rumored to be so frightened that she’s had a brace of hex-doctors shipped in from Nubia to offer extra magical protection.”
