“Okay,” I said. “I still want to read it. Where is your father, by the way?”
“He’s not here—yet. His health is uncertain, and his visits are always quiet. It’s was one thing for an Ysvorod to waltz in and out of the country bearing a proper Socialist title, but it was another for a king, even uncrowned, to make a triumphal return. It’s taken these many years to work things out, and his coronation was to be this year, after the wedding.”
“The” wedding, not “my” wedding.
“I wondered about the Stadthalter business. The Soviets set that up?”
“I’ll have you know I’m a duly elected official. Our first election, in fact. They put my name up against the Soviet Commissar, who hadn’t been bad in his five years’ rule. His border guards and I used to exchange gossip when I was entering and leaving the country. Anyway, though he was the only one permitted to run a campaign—a modest one, nothing like what I hear of your American circuses—the returns were still overwhelmingly in my favor. Not only virtually unanimous, but there’s a good chance a lot of the population wanted to make sure their voices were heard in their first election by getting back into line and voting again—” His reminiscent smile faded as his head came up quickly; he stilled, listening.
I heard nothing. “What’s wrong?”
“Aunt Sisi is here. A few minutes early.” He got up again, moved to the door, and laid his hand on the knob. “I meant to ask you, purely for my peace of mind, if you’d promise not to leave the city unless either Emilio or Kilber or I go with you.”
“I’m not the least worried about that jerk Tony—”
“It’s not Tony I’m thinking of,” he cut in.
“You’re trying to tell me there’s real danger?” I scoffed. “What if I say no?”
He shrugged. “You say no. But I did want to request this as a favor from you.” Footsteps could be heard outside, but he did not move or lift his hand from the door.
And if I say no, I’ll be watched and followed?
My irritation was tempered by wondering how much more was going on that I did not know about, and by his evident regret. “All right,” I said. “But under protest.”
“Acknowledged.” He lifted a hand, giving me that transfiguring smile as Emilio opened the door.
Aunt Sisi walked in, her gaze shifting from Alec to me and back again. Then she smiled and stretched out her hands in greeting.
I scrambled to my feet, she kissed my cheek and I caught the vanilla note of Jicky perfume. She was elegant in a peach-colored suit of soft wool. A diamond brooch glittered in the snow-white folds of the lace cravat at her neck. Perfectly matched pumps, obviously made for her narrow feet, and faultlessly groomed hair finished the picture. “My dear children.” She smiled graciously on us both. “Have you been putting your young heads together on my poor daughter’s behalf?”
I’d expected her to be upset, or even anxious on her daughter’s behalf, instead of smiling with sophisticated assurance and a hint of humor when her gaze took in my rumpled dress. She truly did come from a time when self-control was taught from the cradle.
I gave her an awkward greeting. With pleasant expertise Alec took over as he led us to the dining room, starting off easy talk about wines of various countries. The dining room was severely formal, the table and chairs old enough to have pleased Lord Chesterfield with their restrained cabriole curves and subdued Enlightenment pine green and white.
We were waited on by Emilio who had metamorphosed into a black-jacketed butler as we partook of white dessert wine in chilled goblets, light, puffy apricot Pets de Nonnes, and social chat, congenial but not relaxed. I didn’t know if Aunt Sisi’s straight back, her posed hands, her modulated voice signaled the upset I’d expected to see. I couldn’t read her at all. But I did notice that Alec—smiling, suave, affable—watched her every move.
After dessert we withdrew to another formal salon, this one a harmonious whole made up of Baroque flourishes: tapestry-cushioned shield-backed chairs—blue with stylized snowflakes in white—and tables with mythical beings carved along the curved legs. A tapestry depicting warriors in various shades of brown and red and gold foundered in snow around a silvery central figure, an angel or a girl.
I was afraid to sit on the chairs—were they antiques meant to be looked at? Alec and Aunt Sisi sat down without a second thought, so I followed suit.
Emilio wheeled in a polished solid silver coffee service with a crest on each piece. The dishware was blue and gold Royal Doulton Harlow pattern coffee cups—in other words, heavy social artillery.
While we sipped at the excellent coffee, Alec brought up the subject of Ruli.
He was, I thought at the time, very direct. “Our idea is this, Aunt Sisi. We will embark on a public social life, entertaining your relations—with your cooperation, of course. To anyone else, Kim is Ruli; as it happens Aurelia is also her name, which makes things easier.”
Aunt Sisi set her coffee cup down. “I shall be happy to do anything you think will resolve our . . . unusual dilemma . . . with as little awkwardness as possible. You will pardon the slowness of an old woman, but I do not see how this Machiavellian masquerade will inspire Anton to bring my daughter down from the Eyrie to proceed with our plans.”
Alec sat back in his chair and laced his fingers on one knee, presenting an attitude of ease but I could see tension from the line of his shoulders to his hands. “Because he is beginning to feel enough pressure from within his organization that some added pressure from without might help to bring about a resolution fairly quickly. The pressure of time.”
“Time? The wedding date approaching?”
“Yes,” Alec replied. “And no talk of postponement.”
Her brows went up and her eyelids dropped, which effectively shuttered her expression. Then she gave a nod. “Perhaps that will be profitable. The social portion will be entertaining! You leave that to me.” She leaned her chin delicately on her fist and tipped her head to one side, which reminded me disconcertingly of Tony. “An idea has come to me. What could be more appropriate than a masked ball? At the palace. Everyone of any standing to come.”
Alec gave her a look of mild surprise. “Do you think a party that size is necessary?”
“Why not? It would be most suitable. And you know, all questions of precedence are relaxed at a masquerade ball.”
That went right by me. Not so Alec. His mild, steady gaze blended with hers, then she smiled my way. “I shall invite everyone of any importance, and you, my dear, will be the Queen Maria Sofia who was the mold for us all. As for a gown, I’m convinced you would fit into one I wore a number of years ago. Perhaps fresh lace and one or two alterations.” She smiled at my enthusiasm, the dimple flashing in her cheek. “You would enjoy a masked ball, child?”
I gave a sigh of delight, but Alec said nothing.
Aunt Sisi smiled at him. “You do not like the idea, dear boy? May I ask why?”
He was in the middle of pouring more coffee all around. “It’s rather a lot of trouble, isn’t it?”
“No trouble at all.” Aunt Sisi said humorously to me, “What man likes fancy-dress parties? Balls are purely for the ladies, and if the gentlemen wish to please their ladies, they attend.”
I cut a fast glance from her to Alec, to find his gaze on me.
“Shall I leave the planning in your hands, then?” he asked.
“Please, dear boy. It will be no work, but a positive pleasure. I shall begin with a dinner party. It would be an appropriate gesture on my part.” After a pause, “Speaking of appropriate, perhaps our Kim had better remove to Mecklundburg House.”
“No, she’ll stay here,” Alec said equably.
Aunt Sisi’s brows went up again, daintily creasing her high forehead. I couldn’t help thinking of my mother’s broad, clear, always serene brow. “My dear boy, you must remember we are not in Paris—”
Alec said with good humor that exactly matched hers, “There’ll be a suitable—and visible—c
haperone here by tomorrow, and Kilber and Emilio and his family to guard the door. And I will spend a great many nights at the residence wing, preparing it for a bride.”
Aunt Sisi’s gaze flicked to me then back as she said smoothly, “My daughter did indicate she wishes to live at the palace, did she not?” She gave a sigh of surrender. “Such a quick mind, dear Alexander. You are right. Well! I shall go, then. There is much to do.”
“It’s raining. I’ll have the car brought round.” Alec got up swiftly, went to the door, and said a few words in a low voice.
Aunt Sisi reached to pat my hand. “You will have quite a tale to take home, will you not, my dear?”
Not sure how to answer this, I said warmly, “The best thing will be a masquerade ball.”
“You’ve never been to one?” she asked with pronounced amusement.
I remembered the lies I’d told at her party and said airily, “Sure I have.” If you count the Renaissance Pleasure Faire. “But not in a royal palace that housed one set of my ancestors.”
Alec spoke behind us, “Aunt Sisi? The car is downstairs.”
We went out into the chilly night air, and Alec opened the door for her. “Good night, Aunt Sisi. Thank you for coming.”
She responded graciously, and he shut the door, then followed me around to the other side. Aunt Sisi’s face turned toward us; I climbed in. “Thanks for dinner,” I said.
“Good night.”
Kilber drove the two and a half blocks to Aunt Sisi’s place. She gave me an affectionate good night as she got out. Kilber then took me to the other side of town in the same complete silence he’d brought me. I watched rain on the windshield.
When he stopped at Nat’s, Kilber spoke. “I was to give you this.”
He handed me a flat package.
“Thanks. And for the ride.”
He gave me a short nod, then drove away.
Nat’s place was chilly, the darkness strange. I climbed into the bed, opened the envelope, and pulled out an old-fashioned composition book.
In a clear, slanted fraktur hand—the handwriting of a young man—an inscription in German on the first page:
“Within half a year I, Marius Alexander Ysvorod of Domitrian, will be assuming the duties of governing our homeland Dobrenica. The times are strained on all levels, and appear to be worsening steadily. I begin this with the purpose of detailing for my successor the events I will live through, if it pleases Our Lord, my successes and mistakes, and my thoughts on all these matters. 14 December, 1939.”
Avidly, the cold room forgotten, I turned to the first entry. The king had given me the task of coordinating the disguising of the temple as another cathedral. The Benedictines donated old vestments to this cause, so if the Gestapo does come, they will find Benedictine monks observing the medieval hours . . .
It was a quarter to three by Nat’s clock when the slanted hand began moving like an escalator before my eyes. I reluctantly laid the book down, turned out the lamp, and slept.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I READ THROUGH THE whole of the next day, pausing only to work through my ballet exercises.
Outside, rain tapped the windows with steadily increasing force as a storm moved in over the country. I lay sandwiched in Nat’s cheery quilt on her couch, and absorbed the threatened days of Dobrenica at the start of World War II.
As Nat had nothing to eat, I made hot tea twice. I was nearly finished with Milo’s book when Emilio came for me. He waited while I washed my teacup and put everything back where I’d found it.
As I locked Nat’s door I said, “Is Alec at his house?”
“He is not in Riev today, Mam’zelle. I am instructed to arrange for your comfort at Ysvorod House.”
“Did you know he gave me this to read?” I brandished the composition book, which I had carried tucked under my arm.
“Kilber told me last night, Mam’zelle. Exciting days, those.” His smile was melancholy.
“I can see that. And I’m almost done with this one. I was wondering if I might see whatever comes after?”
“I will consult Kilber,” he promised.
A hot lunch was waiting for me, also a note from Aunt Sisi on crested notepaper that carried a drift of Jicky. It begged me to let her know if she could do anything for me. I found notepaper in the library, and wrote, Yes! Does the offer hold about borrowing Ruli’s clothes, since mine seem to be residing at the Eyrie?
I was curled up in the armchair, finishing the last pages of Milo’s book, when Emilio entered. “Mam’zelle, a trunk has arrived from Mecklundburg House, from Madam la Duchesse. Also, Kilber requested me to show you this.” He indicated a darkwood cabinet set in the far corner between two high bookshelves.
He turned the brass key in the lock, and lifted up the panel to reveal a row of old composition books. They were the rest of Milo’s journal. “Please feel free to read these at your leisure.”
And that’s what I did, as soon as I’d unpacked the trunk in the pleasant, old-fashioned room they gave me. After which I sat down at the desk, used the good paper I found waiting, and as I wrote a proper thank-you note, I half wished they’d also left me a quill pen and iron-gall ink instead of the ordinary ballpoint.
Time passed. Steady rain kept me inside during the daylight hours, which I mostly spent in Alec’s library, reading.
The library was pleasant, but about as personal as a museum room. Yet I felt Alec’s presence there. Finally I went hunting for the source. Certainly not in the centuries-old bound books so carefully dusted in the shelves, or the fine cabinets. On the desk lay a platinum lighter with a fancy crest worked in gems on it. I couldn’t imagine Alec carrying around something so gaudy. Probably why it sat there like all expensive but disliked presents. He also had a computer, an expensive, high tech model. I asked Emilio if they had Internet, and surprise! He said there was no connection this high, you had to go down the mountains and across the border. Maybe that explained why the computer looked like it was fresh out of the box.
I finally identified that sense of presence in the two small items on the table next to the reading chair. One was a Waterman pen like the ones I’d seen him use on our Adriatic jaunt, and the other was a much-read, leather-bound volume of Milton with a silk bookmark at “Lycidas.”
So I lived in Alec’s house, among his things, waited on by his servants, reading his father’s private journal, but he was not there. Alec scrupulously observed “proper” etiquette. I refused to think about Ruli, the switch, or the future until I found Father Teodras.
Meanwhile I had a staggering quantity of expensive Parisian clothes and Italian shoes to wear for the nightly social events that Aunt Sisi arranged. Ruli was my height, and more or less my build, except she was either a size or two smaller or she wore her clothes tight. The sleeves were particularly constraining, which made me move with less freedom.
Wearing the clothes of someone whose taste was so different from mine, whom I had yet to meet—whom Alec was to marry—was unsettling. A subtle scent clung to them from having been stored in cedar wood with lavender sachets. I’ll remember that scent for the rest of my life.
Her expensive shoes were all high heeled and way too small for my muscular ballet feet, so I stuck to the open-toed sandals and had to change my walk. Judging from the second glances when I met her relatives, we did not move alike, however much we resembled each other. But no one said a thing.
Another oddity was Aunt Sisi’s attitude. Oh, she acted ever so gracious and kind. So did the relatives, as we met over and over in a series of beautiful homes for a series of dinners and cocktail parties all so alike they blend together in my mind. There were no more questions about my personal background. In fact, some of them acted so sweet and friendly—chérie this and that—I had a feeling they knew I’d scored off them with my scam that night, and they hated my guts for it.
But Aunt Sisi’s attitude was rueful humor, as if she were an unwilling but good-natured participant in childish pranks. Her attitu
de toward me was gracious and kind, yet it was not until nearly the end of this period that I found out that she had subtly but thoroughly arranged it so that questions of precedence were kept vague.
In my LA circles nobody pays attention to that stuff. Unless there’s some VIP or a poser who considers themselves a VIP, people go through doors from one room to another in any order, and if a hostess arranges seating, except for the guest of honor (if there is one) the idea is to put people with those they’ll like talking to. Not so here. The hostesses managed so skillfully—and everyone cooperated by knowing his or her place—that I was completely unaware of what was going on until the night Alec gave a dinner party for them at Ysvorod House.
Alec was the host at his party, backed up by good old Emilio. The surprise was that this time I sat at a different seat in reference to the others. I wouldn’t have noticed had I not caught a strange look pass between Aunt Sisi and Cerisette when we were seated. A strange, cool look; they were signaling each other. I couldn’t pick up the message. But I felt it.
While the meal went on—and while I silently admired Alec’s effortless skill at hosting—I wondered what the problem was. I finally figured out that I had been placed in the guest-of-honor spot all along, which did not put me in rank-order. Alec put his aunt there instead, and me in . . . I recalled the seating at the last two dinner parties.
He had put me where the hostess would go.
Where Ruli would go.
It was then I became aware that a silent conflict was going on. Alec seemed to be making a statement by his action. The von Mecklundburg posse behaved with perfect manners, but I so did not feel the love.
I asked Emilio how I could return Miriam’s scarf. His son was ready and willing to be my messenger. I considered asking him to take me to Mt. Corbesc, but my instinct was too strong: I needed to make that trip on my own. Without anyone on either side knowing about it.