They made their way through the darkened hallways crisscrossed by shards of moonlight. Finally, ducking through a servants’ entrance, they found themselves near the stables, where coachmen were toasting one another in drunken revelry. Seeing them, the coachmen offered to share a glass or two, which the gentleman had to accept, despite being somewhat over their limit. Soon they were old friends, laughing and making fun of the “smart-garters” inside, which the coachmen loathed for not knowing how to leave a proper tip, or worse, leaving too much of something else behind.
“I tell you, he took a proper dump in the coach!” one of them said, laughing. “A duke, mind you! Went straight through his pants. He didn’t want to get out, but I couldn’t wait all day, could I? So I gave him my hand and hoisted him out, and watched him trot into the Admiralty leaving a trail of breadcrumbs. The dogs were lapping it up!”
“Disgusting! And certainly not true,” Guido said, flushed red with laughter.
“I’ll tell you his name for twenty fobs! Or his description for ten.”
“I don’t want to know,” he said, waving him off.
“Still, I would rather clean up after them than make water myself,” the coachman continued. “You should have seen the fellow I dropped off at Lady Glinka’s last night. A proper villain if ever I saw one. Just to look at him: chilled your blood!”
“Lady Glinka’s?” Turold repeated. “Do you mean Sonya Vasilyevna?”
“I would need a title to call her that,” he said, with a chuckle. “But yes, that’s the lady. A gentleman paid me to call on her, and stayed there the better part of the night. Cold-looking fellow. And when he came out, colder still.”
“You say this was last night? What did he look like?”
“Hard to say: it was quite dark,” he said, relishing the opportunity to tell him. “But he was about so tall, wearing all black, a wide hat, in an antique style, a short beard, and steely eyes. He hardly said a word from beginning to end: just the address and told me to wait.”
Turold immediately suspected the man with the tricorne he saw sitting with Lord Gramsteed. He certainly had a sour expression, but ‘chilling’ might be a stretch. Still, given the late hour and a commanding tone of voice, they might be identical. Maybe she had hired him, too, and told him to follow the trail of breadcrumbs directly to his apartment. Could he have gotten there before the messengers and swiped the Codex? Or was he the one who alerted them to its presence? If he was as ‘cold’ as the coachman said, maybe he no mere spell-broker, but a Messenger himself? Who’s to say they weren’t all cockroaches and spiders?
“Forgive me, I must leave at once,” Turold said, starting up.
“Wait—one of these fine fellows will take us,” Guido said, removing his purse. “Here: this should be enough to deliver us safely to our beds within the hour.”
“My lord, for this I’ll carry you across the threshold like a bride and kiss you into the bargain!” the coachman said, doffing the rest of his glass.
Moments later, they were bouncing across town to the cries of a drunken coachman. Though Turold clutched the seat for dear life, Guido chattered away, spilling gossip like the most indiscreet servant in a third-rate novel. Turold barely listened, feeling his stomach lurch and his thoughts tumble, images of Sonya Vasilyevna mixing with the catacombs and the goblet. If only Guido would take a breath and stop talking!
“I knew him, you know. Your famous predecessor. I knew his whole family,” Guido said, off-handedly.
“Really?” Turold said, more to quiet his stomach than out of genuine interest.
“Certainly, we go way back. Granted, I didn’t know Sir Otrygg very well, he was very stand-offish, even to his own parents. The rest of his family was much kinder, and his father would often call on my father for tea—”
“Wait, his family? You knew them?”
“Yes, I’ve just said so. They lived in the apartment below us—”
Turold’s nausea instantly abated. Here was someone who actually knew her, who could tell him exactly who she was!
“He had a sister, yes? Did you know her?”
“Oh, yes, yes, Drifa. I’m afraid she died quite young.
“Do you remember what she looked like?”
“Mmm, I think so, but it was some time ago,” he said, crossing his legs. “No particular beauty, if that’s what you mean. Plain, with a large nose, like him…but still, very charming, and quite intelligent, too. There was talk of sending her to the academy before she…passed on.”
The coach veered widely around a corner, almost too wildly. Turold rolled across the seat and met the glass in a cold embrace. Through it, he recognized the buildings as they zipped past: yes, there was the Chapel of the Golden Cockerel, the merest jaunt from his apartment. Unfortunately, the driver was going straight past it: Turold shouted at the driver to turn back—Celandine Court was that way. The driver cursed and said he was taking the “long way,” and to mind his own business.
“More like the lost way,” Guido observed. “May I ask, did you know her, too?”
“Drifa? Ah, yes, in a manner of speaking,” he said, awkwardly. “Or rather, I know of her. But not how she died. Sir Otrygg never told me.”
“Oh, as to that, I probably shouldn’t tell you,” he said, smiling guiltily. “But since you’re such an intimate acquaintance of Sir Otrygg, and he’s no longer around to complain…she took her own life. Jumped from an apartment on the sixth floor. Didn’t die from the fall, either. Took several days. Sir Otrygg was at her side the entire time, trying everything he could, summoning doctor after doctor. But she died all the same.”
“By the gods…but why? Did they ever know?”
“What usually happens, I imagine; they wanted her to marry someone she didn’t love instead of following her passion,” he shrugged. “If I had children, especially girls, I would tell them: look, you’re sixteen, here’s a hundred fobs, go make your way in the world. And don’t look back!”
The coach lurched to a halt three buildings away from Turold’s apartment, though the coachman insisted this was the exact address, and that perhaps the “uppity little man” didn’t know where he lived half as well as he thought. By way of thanks, Turold tipped him half as much as he intended and raced up the stairs to find Giacinta, Guido stumbling in the dark behind him. Before he reached the door it cracked open, the familiar hood inching out, silhouetted by candlelight.
“Turold?”
“Yes, I stole away early! And look, I brought you this,” he said, removing the carnival mask he stole at dinner.
She immediately slipped it on and tilted her head coquettishly. At that moment Guido appeared and she shrank back, almost dropping the mask in confusion. Luckily, the candle dropped as well, effectively hiding the shine of her skull.
“Well, I should probably be on my way now that I see you’re in good hands,” Guido said, clapping him on the back. “It’s been a pleasure!”
“Wait, allow me to introduce you to my…assistant, Giacinta. Giacinta, this is Guido, first violist to the king.”
Reluctantly, she came forward and offered her hand, which in his confusion he shook, then kissed, then patted affectionately. Turold spurred them into some mundane conversation, which Giacinta tried tactfully to avoid, but allowed a few words to pass between them before complaining of a headache and retiring inside.
“Your assistant, eh?” Guido whispered, approvingly.
“Yes, every Astrologer Royal needs one… but I wanted your opinion. A few days ago, someone told me she’s the spitting image of the late astrologer’s sister. Her accent and everything.”
“Of Drifa? That woman?”
“That’s what they told me. Someone even mistook her for Drifa herself.”
“Impossible, there’s really no similarity,” he said, shaking his head drunkenly. “Her voice is too basso, too legato: Drifa was all pianissimo, all staccato. Truth be told, I couldn’t stand the sound of her voice. And she spoke all-too often.”
“You’re sure? No similarity?” Turold persisted.
“Whoever told you that is a fool or a liar,” he said, with a snort. “Besides, she’s too short. Drifa was a giant. Her father used to say she would have to crawl to find a husband!”
Guido burst out laughing and slumped against the wall, losing his feet. Turold decided that he would never make it home alive, so he guided him inside, where he gratefully collapsed on a sofa and began snoring. Giacinta emerged from the shadows soon after, asking him what in the world he was thinking, bringing a complete stranger here, so he could gossip to the entire city in the morning?
“But did you hear what he told me?”
“What, that I sound nothing like Drifa? That I’m too short to be her familiar.”
“Exactly! You’re too short! You sound nothing alike!”
“So?” she challenged.
“So, that means you’re not Drifa! Don’t you see, Sir Otrygg was wrong. He didn’t conjure up his long-lost sister. He conjured up…you!”
Giacinta froze, her hands going up to her mask in confusion. Gradually, she began to nod, the sound of a faint sob coming from beneath her mask.
“So who am I?”
“Whoever you want to be. Only now you’re free to find out.”
She didn’t say anything for several seconds, as she delicately pawed her mask, as if tracing the outline of her real face. Finally, after a few false starts, she asked, “you once said, you knew people…who could help me.”
“Yes, a good friend, he’s helped those who have become burned or disfigured—good as new,” Turold said, excitedly. “We could go there tomorrow.”
“I don’t know…this isn’t exactly a dueling scar,” she said, with a laugh. “And how would you explain it? What if he refused?”
“He won’t. And as long as we can pay him, he won’t ask questions.”
“But what if…it doesn’t work?”
“It will, I’m sure of it. Trust me.”
The mask seemed to smile as it gave a little shake, suggesting “of course I trust you…but if it was your face you’d feel differently.”
“Let me sleep on it. It’s a big decision. Though it would certainly help our investigation, being able to walk in the light of the sun. Thank you…and good-night. I’m glad you’re home.”
She pressed his hand and retired to the study, where she had erected a make-shift bed. The door closed silently, leaving Turold alone in the dark with Guido’s fortissimo snores.
“Oh gods! I forgot to tell her about the spell!” he gasped.
Oh well, it would probably keep until morning.
