The Porcelain Dove Read online

  "The candle burns low, child," I said gently. "Can you conjure me up another?"

  Mlle Linotte drew a quivering breath, expelled it, nodded, and clapped her hands sharply, rousing two of her stiff-jointed servants from the untidy pile where they lay heaped like gloves. Over the centuries I've grown used to the hands, can even tell one from another by a broken nail, a callus, a gesture. I can't say I'm fond of them, however, and when mademoiselle first animated them, I could scarcely bear them about me. But I've never denied their usefulness. Soon a branch of candles illuminated both my work and Mlle Linotte's carefully composed face.

  "So," I said after a space. "You intend to find this beggar-wizard and give yourself up to him?"

  "Yes."

  That was clear enough, to be sure, if hardly enlightening. "Why?" I asked.

  "Because I am the youngest. Really, Berthe, you are very dull tonight."

  "And no wonder if I am, Mlle Taratata, seeing as I've neither slept nor eaten for two days and nights. I don't understand what this fairy tale of yours has to do with the Porcelain Dove. 'Tis the same beggar, bien sûr: his enigmatic speech marks him no less than his yellow eyes. If you ask me, even a hero would be well-advised to keep away from him—yes, and pick a less ill-omened time to go a-questing as well."

  "Ill-omened? No, Berthe. Don't you see that the omens point to this being the perfect, the only time for me to begin the quest? There's nothing to keep me here—"

  "Except madame your mother, who's helpless as a babe newborn, and needs her daughter. As well you know."

  "And well you know she hardly knows she has a daughter. You love her enough for both of us, Berthe; she has no need of me." Linotte took an anxious look at a man's watch the hands had rescued, miraculously unbroken, from the Horological closet. " 'Tis gone eleven. Are you nearly done?"

  The needle had come to the end of one leg and I of my patience. "You haven't answered me a single question yet," I said. "Hints and stories and evasions of all sorts—oh, yes, plenty of those. But a plain answer in plain French? Not a one! I'm a good mind to call the needle off and let you quest bare-arsed."

  Mlle Linotte shrugged. "I cannot answer you, Berthe," she said. "Your questions have no plain answers. All I know is that the beggar is a wizard who lost a daughter, I know not how, and asked for me in return. When my father refused, he cursed our family to ruin unless we should find a certain Porcelain Dove. Beggar and Dove are linked. To find one will be to find the other. That, Berthe, is the logic of magic."

  Although I felt little wiser than before, I could clearly see that Mlle Linotte had indeed told me all she knew. If any of it meant anything, well, she was the sorceress, not I. I sighed and told her to remove her gown and promised that by midnight I'd have her turned out like a gentleman, or know the reason why.

  And I did, though 'twas a near thing, what with having to cut her hair and finding a ribbon to tie it back and rags to stuff in Justin's shoes to keep them from rubbing sores on her feet. She wanted to take along a plaguey lot of magical impedimenta, too: seven-league boots and the leather satchel, Prince Lutin's scarlet hat, a magical walking-stick, an enchanted cheese, assorted acorns and walnuts, two or three fairy jewels, the steel coach—to bribe queens with, she said —and the wand of the Fairy Friandise, purple spangles, marzipan pigs and all.

  But 'twas done at last, and just on midnight, she and I stood in the stable-yard with a hodge-podge pile at our feet and a brace of torches floating over our heads. As the church bell tolled the first stroke of twelve, I fully expected a magic chariot drawn by frogs or dragons to descend from the stars and whisk my translated young mistress away.

  What appeared instead was the long, low shape of a great black wolf padding paw by giant paw out of the shadows over the cobbles. My throat clamped shut with terror, or I'd have screamed fit to wake the dead. Armless hands are fairy-tale devices, and not to be taken seriously. Wolves, on the other hand, are real, with real teeth and real claws and real bellies to fill.

  I must have made some sound after all, for Mlle Linotte took my arm and shook it. "Don't be frightened, Berthe," she said impatiently. "He means us no harm. He's our friend, Berthe, really he is."

  Unconvinced, I gazed terror-struck into the wolf's eyes: deep, unnatural eyes, black as the midnight sky.

  "Oh, dear," said Mlle Linotte. " 'Tis too much for her, Pompey. She'll faint in a moment, I know it. There's no time for this!"

  Thus addressed, the wolf reared up on its hinder legs and turned into a man.

  As I look back upon it, it seems to me that there were two Berthes who watched that transformation. The first was a Berthe who quaked and quivered and crossed herself and called upon la sainte Vierge to protect her. The second was a Berthe who observed how the wolf's muzzle and ears appeared to melt back into its skull, which swelled like a bladder to receive them, and how its paws split and its hips realigned under the spine and its fur matted into a velvet coat and breeches more elegant by far than anything Pompey had worn in his life.

  For it was Pompey who stepped forward and very sensibly shook the two Berthes into one before catching me to his breast, where I sobbed that I'd always known he wasn't dead while he stroked my back and said he'd missed me, too. Even when I was calmer, I stood in his embrace, my cheek pressed into his jacket. 'Twas scratchier than it looked and smelled faintly doggy.

  "Come on, Pompey," wailed Mlle Linotte behind us.

  "There's time," he said. "Be patient." Mlle Linotte looked sulky, but held her peace while he led me to the mounting block, sat me down upon it, and squatted by my knee.

  As you may imagine, I had a thousand questions; so many, in fact, that I could not ask one of them. Instead, I looked into Pompey's face and stroked his cheeks that had grown lean and lined, and his woolly hair that had threads of white twined among the black. He was thirty years old, after all. Why should I have been so astonished that he looked his age?

  "Thou art grown most princely, my son," I said to him at last.

  He kissed my hand. "A prince of wolves, mother."

  "Tell me."

  "I've ever been a poor hand at a story," he said, "but you deserve some account of where I've been and what I've been doing these six years. First, I have to go back even further than that, to when madame our mistress was so sick, do you remember? Well, I met a sorcerer in the Forêt des Enfans, a wolf-master and a good man in his way, although his way is not ours. 'Twas he gave me the receipt that cured madame, and thereafter I met him from time to time at the forest's edge. He taught me other magics, of shape-change and spell-casting and invisibility. When monsieur beat me with the riding-whip, I made myself invisible and went into the forest to dwell with him."

  Mlle Linotte, who'd been dancing with impatience through this speech, broke in. "Let me tell, Pompey, and it'll go faster. Maître Grisloup taught him a lot of magic, and me, too, when I could get away, and we did what we could to soften the beggar-wizard's curse on Beauxprés. It wasn't much. We begged the wolves not to eat the cattle and gave wood to any peasant brave enough to push on past the bounds of the curse to the heart of the Forêt des Enfans. Pompey wanted to fly over the fields in the form of a crow and sow the fields with healthy seed, but Grisloup wouldn't let him. Just think, Berthe! 'Tis contrary to the law of magic for one wizard to work directly against another, just as Mme d'Aulnoy said."

  By now, I was feeling more myself. "That's very interesting, child," I said. "Be tranquil now and let Pompey speak for himself. You're going no faster than he, and I've already had one long tale from you tonight."

  "In truth, Berthe, there's little left to tell," said Pompey. "I was maître Grisloup's apprentice, and Mlle Linotte was mine. Now we are raised to journeymen, and our first journey is to the Fortunate Isles."

  "Do you know where they lie?"

  "Bien sûr," said Pompey, surprised. "Would I set out on a quest without knowing where I was going?"

  Well, I came as close as my next breath to slapping his face, sorcerer or no. Wh
at stayed my hand was the fear that after this night, I'd never see him again. Thinking that a blow's a poor farewell, I swallowed my spleen and kissed his brow instead.

  "No, thou would'st not, clever monkey that thou art."

  "Enough!" cried Mlle Linotte. "Midnight, maître Grisloup said, not a moment after, and here we've been talking for hours. If 'tis not spoiled already, it soon will be, and the blame is not mine, Pompey, be sure of that."

  Pompey turned his night-black eyes on her, holding her gaze until she looked away and sighed. "I know," she said. "Patience. I'm only a maiden sorcerer. I don't understand everything yet. When I'm ready, I will understand. Patience is part of being ready."

  "When you believe that in your heart, mademoiselle, then you'll be so much closer to mastery," said Pompey severely. Turning his attention to the pile of magical objects, he shook his head. "You can't take all that, Mlle Linotte—you know you can't. Three only—and not the satchel. There are those more in need of its properties than you."

  Mlle Linotte squatted beside the pile, handed the satchel to him with an ill grace, and began to pick through the rest, muttering to herself.

  Pompey put the satchel into my hands. I dropped it. He picked it up. I objected. He insisted. In the end, he had his way, and taught me how to make it yield up endless food or gold or any other thing I might happen to have need of. The thing didn't take easily to me, nor I to it. By the time I'd got the trick of it, Mlle Linotte had drawn on the seven-league boots, tucked a silver walnut into her pocket, and thrust the wand of the Fairy Friandise through her belt. She was doing her best to be patient, but her hands and teeth—the former opening and closing into fists, the latter worrying at her lower lip—betrayed her failure. Clearly the time had come for farewells, and I'd no desire to drag them out.

  Formally I embraced Mlle Linotte. Pompey knelt and asked my blessing before pressing me in his arms once more. Then he released me, stepped back, plucked a black feather from behind his left ear, and blew upon it. In less time than it takes me to write the words, his jacket had sprouted feathers, his legs dwindled to sticks and his body to the size of a large cat, while his nose grew more pointed and his eyes more beady until he had become, to all appearances, a very handsome crow.

  He sprang into the air and circled me three times, wide wings beating strongly, black legs pumping, then took off into the night, cawing raucously. Mlle Linotte gave a joyous whoop, lifted her right foot, and strode off after him. At least I suppose she followed him; the seven-league boots took her out of sight in a single step. Me, I couldn't have seen her anyway, what with my eyes being full of tears and the night moonless and the stable-yard as black as Pompey's wings, except for the torches. I strained my ears for his cawing, but heard nothing. Except for the church bell, tolling midnight.

  CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH

  In Which a Curious Document Is Unveiled

  The sun rose as usual the next morning, trundled peacefully across the sky, set, and rose again. Monsieur, to all appearances recovered of his shock, was for calling down the law upon his tenants. He'd been wronged, insulted, his honor trampled upon and his property stolen by mere peasants, by damned, porridge-eating, dung-footed farmers, and he'd see justice done or die in the attempt. Then he demanded that Jacques Ministre and Menée be sent to him and wanted to know how Noël Songis was getting on with breeding the emerald cuckoos.

  Jean bowed deeply, said he'd fetch them forthwith, and locked M. le duc de Malvoeux in the library where the interview had taken place. He found me in the kitchen, where I'd retreated out of habit. Madame had been driving me distracted with "Where is my husband, Berthe?" and "Where is my daughter?" and "How my belly gripes me!" and "Whatever are we to do?" so that I'd dosed her with the last of the laudanum simply to quiet her.

  "Well, Duvet," said Jean when he saw me.

  "Well, Jean," said I.

  And then we sat, silenced by the thought of three hundred rooms filled with the detritus of thousands of costly objets d'art, and one man and one woman who hadn't enough sense between them, were they fish, to keep them from drowning. Yet we were pledged to serve that man and that woman—had served them all our lives. We had two choices, Jean and I: serve ourselves for once and leave our charges to die, or stay and die with them. Faced with such choices as these, what use is conversation?

  With a visible effort, Jean roused himself. "The first question's bread. I've no answer to it without we go begging in the streets of Besançon. For 'tis a louis d'or to stable-dirt that no one in Beauxprés will give us so much as a moldy crust."

  I'd put off this moment as long as I could, having thus far kept body and soul together on orts scraped from the pantry floor—disgusting stuff to be sure, but real. Now it had come down to magic or starvation, my clenching belly chose for me. "Bread, at least, I can supply."

  Rising, I fetched the satchel from the chimney corner where I'd hung it two nights before. "This is a magic satchel," I said. "And if you don't mend your look, you'll get nothing from it but rotten eggs and stale water." For Jean was scratching his stubbly cheek and eying me with the look of a sane man penned up with lunatics.

  "Very well," he said at length. " 'Tis a magic satchel. In the last twelve years, I've swallowed a wizard's curse and men who lie down to sleep upon beds of fire and a dragon with whiskers six ells long. I suppose I can swallow a magic satchel, so long as my belief yields me a mouthful of wine to sweeten the draught."

  "Le bon Dieu willing, it shall." Then I closed my eyes tight and muttered the charm Pompey had taught me, full of doubts as St. Thomas.

  I'd asked for a meat pie. I got a sausage, raw and gristly, as punishment, I suppose, for my lack of faith. Astonished that I'd gotten anything at all, I thanked the satchel as Pompey had instructed me, whereupon it relented and produced not only the pie I'd asked for, but a baguette as well and a stone bottle full of good Normandy cider. Jean fell upon the pie like a starving man, which indeed he was, and between the two of us, we made short work of it.

  When we were done, Jean belched happily, leaned back against the wall and laced his fingers across his belly. "Yon bag's as fine a cook as M. Malesherbes, in its way," he said. "I'm almost resigned to living again. Still, we're in a fine mess, Duvet, and no mistake."

  I had to agree with him. "The only reasonable thing to do is to put them in the berline and take them to their friends."

  "The duc de Malvoeux has no friends," said Jean. "Nor yet no family, at least that I've ever heard of."

  "And the marquise de Bonsecours has enough to worry her without an hysterical sister and her mad husband."

  "Yes. And besides, the horses have disappeared."

  We looked at one another and sighed.

  "How far do you think we'd get on foot?" I asked.

  "Who's we? Monsieur and madame and you and I? The bottom of the hill, or perhaps the end of Just Vissot's far meadow. If his cowman should chance to be nodding, we might even make the Forêt des Enfans, but I doubt we'd make it through."

  "Because of the curse," I said.

  "Because of the curse, because of the brigands, because monsieur would fall down a gully, because madame would fall in a stream. Alone, you and I might possibly make Besançon, if you wore a coarse gown and kept your Parisian jaw shut."

  Pain squirmed in my breast when Jean spoke of Besançon—pain like the breeding of maggots.

  "I will stay by my mistress," I said. "You may do as you please."

  Jean shrugged. " 'Twill make a good tale someday, how I locked the mad duc de Malvoeux in his own library and fed him meat pies from a magic satchel. I'll stay."

  From pure relief I wanted to embrace him, to kiss his hands and rain tears upon them like the heroine of one of madame's novels. We'd never been on that kind of terms, however, nor did I wish to be. So I said only, "That tale'd be sure to get you locked up—as a maniac or a mutin, the one or the other. Still, making this place habitable again's too great a task for one. I'm content to have you stay, if only you p
romise not to make a tale of it."

  "Surely you can't mean to put the entire château to rights!" he exclaimed.

  "Not at once, no. Just the kitchen for us and the library for monsieur, perhaps his apartment as well. Those will do for the winter. Come spring, we'll see what more."

  Jean gaped at me. "Come spring? What are you saying, Duvet? We'll stay, bien sûr, maybe a month or two, until things in Paris have settled and we can get word to madame's sister."

  The maggots swarmed up again, worse than ever. "I've already said I won't go," I snapped. "Leave Beauxprés? Sacré Dieu, Jean! Where will Pompey find me if I leave Beauxprés?" And I leapt from my seat and commenced to pace the length of the hearth, wringing my hands in my apron and declaring I'd wait for the Porcelain Dove, yes, if it took Mlle Linotte twenty years to find it.

  Jean watched me gawp-mouthed for a space, then, "Duvet," he said firmly; a little louder, "Berthe Duvet!"; finally at full voice, "BERTHE!" which startled me so much I froze in mid-stride with my apron all wadded up in my hands. Then he came to me and pried open my fists and smoothed down my apron, talking gently all the while.

  "There, there, ma belle," he murmured. "That's better, now, n'est ce pas? All sweet and calm, now, there's nothing here to fright thee, just old Jean who loves thee. Gently, gently, now, sit and rest thyself. Thou hast done nobly, nobly. Chère Berthe, ma belle, ma bien aimée."

  Sensitive as a snail out of its shell, I didn't want him touching me and would have struck his hands away had I not been too weary to move. Still murmuring, he led me to the settle and fetched me a cup of water. I began to weep. He clucked soothingly and took up my apron corner to wipe my face. A great wad of yellowed parchment fell from the pocket, thud, at his knees. "What's this?" he asked.

  "I don't know. I found it." Remembering where I'd found it, I shuddered. "Leave it be, Jean; 'tis a filthy thing." I dipped the corner of my apron into the water he'd brought me and held it to my burning eyes.