Blood Spirits

  “I will have these.” The girl touched the ones Tania had suggested.

  “They will be ready tomorrow.” Madam Lens-Maker said, giving up. “Taaan-ya! Take them to the back.”

  Tania was already doing that. Madame turned away from the mother and daughter, elbowed in front of the man—presumably her husband—leaving him to collect the money, and cooed up at the elderly gent: “And now, dear sir, which frames would you like?”

  I went up to Tania. “I was told to say that Salfmatta Sarolta requested you to test me.”

  Her eyes widened, then her expression changed to one of focused intent. “Come into the back.”

  I followed her to a tiny room crammed floor to ceiling with various tools and simple machines for glass grinding and making, and cabinets filled with tiny drawers. She indicated another, narrow door. “We share this room with the photographer.”

  She picked up a prism from a small work table, and then opened the narrow door to the photography room, which smelled like an old-fashioned darkroom.

  “I have learned to make charms, which we sell in the shop,” she said. “I say the Novena over each, on days when there is sun, with the protective light held in mind.” She touched her forehead. “We are taught that Vrajhus makes the simplest covalent bond with light. Sound is more difficult, though it can be very powerful. As is scent, like that from our protective trees, such as hawthorn, rowan, and rose.”

  “You’re talking about quantum mechanics,” I said, trying not to goggle. Physics and magic in tandem did not compute in my brain.

  Tania said, “The teachers try many words, some from the mathematics. We lost so very much during the war, and slowly we try to recover. Sister Franciska tells us the language is changing.”

  “So . . .” I was thinking fast. Vampires—inimasang in Dobreni—also called the Shadow Ones, as well as Wild Folk. “Do vampires use darkness in some sinister way?”

  “The bending or absence of light. Some can see them, even though they try to hide in shadow. Have you?”

  “I don’t think so. How would I know?”

  “You would know.” She sounded definite. “I can feel them, I think. I know my cats feel them.”

  “Your cats?”

  “Not really mine.” Tania flushed. “The neighborhood cats.” She almost smiled. “You know how one does not actually own cats? My family lets me live in the attic, where I have a little door so the cats can come and go freely. I bring the leftover food up there for the street cats, in winter. Anyway, we know they see the Shadow Ones, even if we don’t. But I am straying from what I am to tell you.”

  I picked up the thread. “So these crystals and diamonds, are not only worn, but hung in windows, where they catch the light, and that wards off vampires.”

  “Yes,” she said. “We understand that it makes our spaces harder for them to perceive.”

  “Is it always crystal or diamond?”

  “Anything that reflects light, though the Salfmattas say that the more light refraction, the stronger the Vrajhus. But highly polished pure metals are also used.”

  “Do they use prisms for the same thing?”

  She hesitated, then said slowly, “Those with the Sight can use prisms to . . . to see across the border. At times. I don’t know how,” she added. “I do not have the Sight.”

  “So seeing ghosts isn’t the same as the Sight?”

  “No. Though there are those who see both. Now for the test.”

  She set the prism on the darkroom table between the trays, put a lit lamp on the table, then lifted a heavy hooded cloth and set it over the lamp.

  Total darkness closed us in; I heard her light breathing, and the shift of cloth as she moved. “Look,” she whispered. “Into the prism.”

  I looked down, seeing nothing. Of course there would be nothing—there was no light for the prism to reflect. But as my eyes adjusted, glints and glitters—shards of light no bigger than fingernail clippings—dappled the prism. The effect was like light on water, except in colors across the spectrum.

  There was no possible way that thing could be reflecting light. The lamp was completely hidden. I could not make out anything of Tania’s form, though she stood within arm’s reach.

  I shut my eyes, then opened them. This time I caught after-images, no more than a second in duration. Rectangles that seemed to stack, a little like mirrors facing mirrors.

  I described it all to Tania, then finished, “What am I seeing?”

  “Light from the Nasdrafus. That much I know,” she whispered back.

  “If I take this prism to, say, France, will I see the lights?”

  “If there is a place where the border is thin.”

  “How about other places in the world. Same thing? Where the border is thin?”

  “That is what we are taught.”

  The glinting shapes were curiously compelling, like windows, and within each, colors flashed, sparkling and shifting like light on water, opening gradually into bits of images: a diamond ring on a woman’s finger, a portion of the back of someone’s head; a shoe; the smiling stone face of a faun from the shepherdess statue. I stared harder, trying to see the entire image, but there was this giddy sense of falling down, and down, and down . . .

  Tania drew in a short breath and yanked the cover off the lamp. I lurched back, violently dizzy. I’d thought I was falling, but I hadn’t actually moved.

  I steadied myself against the table. The lamplight seemed quite bright. In its light the prism lay on the table, cold glass.

  Tania’s expression was thoughtful. “I am told one should not stare into the lights for long.”

  “You said into, not at. Because?”

  “If you’ve the Sight, your mind can fall Between, is what they say.”

  “That sounds creepy enough. How would someone with the Sight go about learning? I guess I should ask Salfmatta Sarolta herself for that sort of thing.”

  “Salfmatta Sarolta oversees the charms of health and protection,” Tania said as she replaced the lamp and the prism. “She and Sister Franciska.”

  You have the Sight . . .

  “Grandmother Ziglieri,” I said, remembering the day of Anna’s wedding. “She said something about the Sight.”

  Tania pursed her lips. “She is very well known.”

  “Can I find her?”

  “Taaania!” The shrill voice penetrated the thick door. “Taaaania!”

  “I will send a message.” As Madam came barging in, Tania’s face smoothed into professional politeness. “Here I am, Madam Petrov.” And to me, “Do you still wish to buy a prism?”

  “I do. Let me think about which one I want.” And in whispered French, “Thanks for the lesson, Tania.”

  Her employer shooed Tania over to wait on the old fellow, who was still poring over the cheap frames. Then Madam Petrov retreated to the back room, shoulders twitching with indignation, as I let myself out the front door.

  The temperature had dropped, and the sky pressed low with strands of heavy gray cloud. At the bottom of the street, a group of little kids zoomed about, skidding on the ice and laughing, as I made my way toward the inn.

  There, I found Anna and her mother serving supper.

  Frustrated, tired, achy, I let myself into my room. It was chilly, though I smelled a faint trace of cleaning stuff. Maybe the room had been aired.

  I opened the wardrobe door . . . nothing. Remembering what Tania had told me, I widened the door in increments, so that the reflection, and refraction, altered by degree as I muttered, “Ruli, you called for my help. Come out. Come on. Talk to me. Tell me how to help you.”

  A flicker—but it was Grandfather Armandros. Another couple of degrees, and he was gone again.

  Moving the mirror a millimeter at a time, I caught Armandros again, and froze. He was clear, yet obviously a reflection, more like a reflection of a reflection. The highlights and shadows had flattened toward uniformity, as if seen through several layers of glass. His body was still, his ga
ze direct, and yet I wasn’t certain he saw me. The slow drift of smoke from his eternally burning cigarette belied the impression of a still life.

  I moved the mirror minutely, and he winked out.

  I shifted in a slow circle, fighting the urge to kick the mirror into shards.

  Questions everywhere, and instead of answers, just more hints, mysteries, and . . . questions.

  I really needed to talk to Alec. How I wished cell phones worked! Where would he be, at the palace or Ysvorod House? Or was it possible he’d go out? How could I check without causing gossip? Maybe by looking for someone who might know where he was.

  I could begin my search somewhere public—like Zorfal. No one would have to know I was looking for him.

  The weather had gotten so nasty that most of the inkri drivers had raised canopies. It was cold and stuffy inside the passenger compartment, reminding me of tents at summer camp. I wondered if this was what old-fashioned coaches had been like.

  Zorfal was all lit up, music drifting out each time the door opened. I walked into brightness, good smells, and a kind of folk-rock beat that reminded me of some German and Swedish bands. Again there were a lot of Vigilzhi uniforms around. This had to be one of their hangouts.

  A waiter appeared. “Are you meeting anyone?”

  When I shook my head, he led me up the stairs to the first gallery. A tiny table had been tucked between a rail and a wooden support that looked like the entire trunk of a fir. The table was perfect for one.

  I had a good view of about 300 degrees of the lower gallery, as well as the rail tables opposite me on the upper. There, a large group had gathered, at least half of them in blue uniforms. A sudden gust of laughter rose. In in their midst stood a tall, elegant blonde, a sleek chignon flattering her well-shaped head.

  Phaedra Danilov must have felt my gaze, or else she, too, was checking out the scene. Our eyes met briefly across the intervening space as the band below played a resounding finish. She looked away, I looked away.

  No sign of Alec. All right, then, I’d have dinner and listen to music, then nerve myself to try Ysvorod House. Maybe if I pulled my scarf entirely over my head, the entire world wouldn’t be gossiping about my visit within seconds of my arrival. They don’t need cell phones, I thought sourly, then I was distracted by a flicker at the edge of my vision. Instead of the expected waiter, I found Phaedra leaning against the wooden support.

  I said, “I’m in really bad mood, so if you’re about to accuse me of trying to murder Honoré and set fire to his house, don’t.”

  “Eliska and Boris.”

  “Huh?”

  “You went inside to save Eliska and Boris. The cats. They were in the secret room.”

  “Yeah, well, wouldn’t you?”

  She made an impatient gesture. “No one trying to murder someone would save their cats. Or drag him and his papers out on a rug to safety.” She looked across the space at her party, as the band began the intro to another song. “You’re here for a reason?”

  She wasn’t friendly, but the outright hostility was gone.

  So I didn’t lie. “I was hoping to see Alec.”

  The band launched into the chorus with a rattling of tambours, strumming guitars, and someone playing wild cadenzas in counterpoint on a violin. Phaedra leaned toward me. “Beka took him to the Hanging Gardens first.”

  “First?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “At eight, a small party, given by Hans for him, and Cerisette, and the others.”

  She turned away before I could ask who Hans was. Not that it mattered.

  A minute later, I said to the first inkri driver I saw, “Hanging Gardens.”

  She gave me a look that became an eye-widened double take, then she hastily faced front. Easy enough to interpret: Ghost of Madam Stat-thalter—no, it’s the imposter—none of my business. The longer I stayed, the more I was going to see that, I thought as she whistled to her reindeer. It did not improve my mood any.

  Back up the hill. By the time we reached the posh streets again, my hands were sweating inside my gloves, making those scabs itch.

  The inkri eased down St. Ladislas Street. There was a row of fancy-fronted shops across from an enormous baroque building that I later found out was the museum and library, that had once been the royal riding school.

  Above a marble-fronted shop selling imported rugs was the Hanging Gardens, and stepping inside was a male figure. I saw no more than a shoulder in a long coat and curling locks of pale hair escaping from under a black Russian-style hat, but I recognized Tony instantly.

  I paid the driver and walked inside the restaurant, where a wash of herbal-scented air greeted me, followed by sensory overload.

  Somebody had gone to an enormous amount of trouble to create an indoor garden filled with secluded dining nooks that overlooked a waterfall fountain surrounded by terraced bonsai gardens and lit by tiny lanterns. Discernable above the plash of fountains was Jewish folk music from North Africa, the acoustics carrying as subtly as the warm, scented breeze. As I looked around in amazement, I felt that sense of being watched, and so I did a slower scan, but the complication of hanging plants and tiny lanterns effectively screened me from seeing into the nooks.

  No Tony in sight. And no Alec.

  A somberly dressed older woman approached me, wearing an elaborate sashed robe that was embroidered with peacocks and parrots. I said, “I’m trying to find a friend.”

  Like the inkri driver, she glanced at me, then did a furtive double-take, her gaze shifting from feature to feature. “At the top of this stair,” she murmured with an air of shared privacy, though I couldn’t see anyone listening.

  She indicated one of two narrow tiled stairs curving off to either side. Each vanished beyond a wall of hanging orchids in graded shades of gold, yellow, and white.

  The lighting was dim, so I stepped slowly. The tiled stairway worked its way up along the wall, with the dining nooks discreetly curtained off at intervals by fantastic embroidered silk hangings.

  I’d just reached the third nook when I heard Tony’s soft laugh from the other side of the hanging. I froze, one foot on the next step as he said in that warm, intimate drawl, “Draska mea. I hoped you would change your mind.”

  “I have not!” Beka whispered fiercely. “Why are you here?”

  “I couldn’t resist. And neither can you, I see.”

  “I am before you,” she whispered, “because I am so angry. I promised him a quiet dinner. And you are supposed to be with Honoré!”

  “I had to escape from Gilles and his pack of French wankers.”

  “Gilles is in Riev? He brought people with him?”

  “Seems to think he can turn this farce into a film.”

  “No!”

  Tony laughed. “And speaking of alone, it looks like you are as well. Shall we be alone together? A holiday truce. For tonight. . . .”

  I had absolutely no excuse to be eavesdropping, and I didn’t know which would be worse, to be caught at it by him or by her. Or both.

  So I propelled myself up the stairs. When I reached the top landing—the stairs started their descent beyond it—I stepped into the alcove, which looked out over the fountain. The only person was a young guy busy bussing dirty dishes.

  When I stepped out, there was the woman again, who said in that low, confidential voice that she was sorry, but I’d missed the Statthalter by mere moments. She indicated the stairway going down the other way.

  Tears stung my eyes as I stared down at the half-eaten supper, the full glasses of mulled wine. The inescapable truth was before me: Yes, Alec could socialize the day of his wife’s funeral, and yes, he was in the mood to go out for dinner.

  With Beka. Not with me.

  If he’d really wanted to see me, he could have.

  In fact he had, he’d seen me come in.

  And then he left.

  NINETEEN

  OKAY. I CAN TAKE A HINT.

  As I climbed wearily into another inkri, aching all o
ver from the adventures at Honoré’s, I tried to be a grownup. Yeah, Alec had said, I don’t want you dragged into this, and it sounded noble. Put less nobly, it could be rephrased, Don’t make things any worse than they already are.

  Because he obviously didn’t want my help. Okay. So we were pretty good together during summer, but people change their minds. Happens every day.

  If so, why did he invite me to Zorfal, and why did we connect that evening? Surely that was real, not just me wanting it to be real.

  Wasn’t it?

  There was no time to crawl into a hole for a good self-pity wallow, because the moment I walked into the inn, Theresa darted toward me from where she’d been lurking between the counter and the stairs, obviously waiting for me.

  There were customers gathered in the dining area. From the sound of their tuneless singing, they’d downed a few gallons of the mulled wine, and they paid us no attention. Nevertheless, Theresa fingered her long braids as she looked around carefully, then whispered, “Grandmother Ziglieri postponed her journey home. For you! To test.” She held her fingers before one eye, and blinked.

  Huh? Oh—the Sight. More fooling around with prisms. “Great.” I tried to summon up some enthusiasm. “Does she come here or do I go there?”

  “Oh, you must go to her, it would be much better.” Theresa’s eyes widened. “Tania will take you, as soon you have breakfasted. Madam Petrov thinks she will be making the deliveries of spectacles and lenses,” Theresa added with somber satisfaction. “I will make them.”

  I trudged upstairs, fully expecting another dismal night of little sleep . . . and I woke up with clear wintry light streaming in the window.

  An hour later, Tania and I toiled up the steep street north of the inn, where I’d never been before, Tania clutching a large covered basket against her side. At least I could find out more about how to contact Ruli’s ghost, I thought. But when I expressed that to Tania, she gave her head a shake.

  “No. This test is for the Sight—that is, catching glimpses of events in a specific location. None of them see ghosts, so far as I am aware. The Salfmattas asked me many questions when Sister Franciska first brought me before them. Most people do not see ghosts.”