Petra K and the Blackhearts

I
t was one of those things you were supposed to not see, or pretend wasn’t happening. A great red wolfhound chased a small boy through the crowd, across Nerudova Square, toward the bridge. They were specks in the distance, winding their way through the tourists and shoppers who frequented the kiosks beneath the Imperial Palace. Not far behind, a Boot officer followed, dressed in a red and black uniform, trying to keep up with his hound. The boy scampered between the legs of stands selling sweet, amber-colored raisin wine, upsetting a display of crystal decanters, which came crashing down to the cobblestone beneath. Even then, people turned their backs and went about their own business. It is just what you did when the Boot was involved.

From where I stood, at the top of the square, I could see them moving, insect-sized, the wolfhound right on the boy’s heels, as though it was a furry tail trailing behind him. Then, in an open space, the dog caught up. He must have bit the boy’s ankle, for the boy went sprawling on the stone. The dog loomed over the him, barking viciously. Then, from the sack that had fallen out of the boy’s grasp, a flurry of shapes emerged. It took me a moment
to realize it was a
muse
of tiny dragonka, small as hummingbirds, panicking in the open air. My heart lifted in my chest, as though it too had wings, at the sight of the dragonka in danger. The dog, also, instinctually forgot the boy, jumping toward the minute creatures, nipping at the air where they flew in dizzy circles. Then the Boot officer arrived. With a black net he produced from his holster, he began to pluck the dragonka from the air, like catching butterflies. In the confusion, the boy had time to pick his empty sack from the ground and flee again. In no time, the hound was after him, cutting through the crowd, toward Karlow Bridge, the chase continuing out of sight.

“Petra K,” my teacher beckoned. It was our first field trip of the year, and Miss Kavanova did not want anything to go wrong. “Let’s go already!” I had been lagging behind, and now they were all waiting on me.

“Did you see that?” I asked, looking around.

“See what, Strangeling?” called my classmate Tatiana, using her own personal nickname for me. “Was your father pick-pocketing old ladies again?” Her friends snickered. It wasn’t funny, but that wasn’t the point. Bianka, Sonia, Lenka, Margo, and Zsofia were girls who came from the powerful families that lived beneath the Palace, daughters of poppy barons, ministers, aristocrats; families that could afford to keep show-dragonka of their own. They could laugh off whatever they wanted, including me.

“Petra K,” said Miss Kavanova. “You are going to make us late.”

“But I saw something,” I insisted.

Miss Kavanova joined me at my side. We looked out over the square together. But by this time the boy and hound had disappeared from sight. Instead we saw shoppers browsing the black velvet portraits of champion dragonka, marionette stands entertaining tourists, and automatons selling fortunes. Business as usual.

“I
saw
something,” I repeated, though I knew it was no use.

“Well I don’t see anything, and neither did you,
OK
?” she said firmly, putting her hand on my shoulder, guiding me away.

Like I said, it was as if nothing had happened.

B
EFORE OPENING THE DOOR
to Ludmilla’s Cosmetics Emporium, the Newt doorman bowed to us and kissed Miss Kavanova’s hand. She reddened in embarrassment. He was dressed in black coattails, wore a bowler hat, and stood upright, no taller than any of the class, his forest-green skin oiled and shining, a wide lizardy smile spreading across his face, as though we were flies he was about to snap up. Once inside, we were greeted by gleaming marble floors, glass cases that displayed the latest products, and Persian rugs that led to departments deeper within the esteemed store.

Most of the other girls’ mothers were regulars there, so they were used to the unique novelty of Ludmilla’s marketing: one day there would be an oriental theme, complete with sales girls dressed in kimonos; the next day the store would be adorned with yellow-brick paths with dwarves to guide customers from room to room. Another day all the products would be cleared from the shelves but for one extremely expensive hand cream, which would be auctioned off at a dizzyingly high price. At Ludmilla’s you never knew what you would get: open a dressing room door and you might find a dozen bats (which the former sorceress had bred in bright colors: mint green, carmine, and peach) bursting from the space. Look in a mirror to check a shade of eye shadow and find the reflection of yourself as you would have looked a decade earlier.

“Stay here, I will go find our guide,” said Miss Kavanova.

The others waited until Miss Kavanova walked away, then formed a circle.

“Did you see her face when the doorman kissed her? She looked like she enjoyed it. I bet she has some
newt
blood in her,” said Tatiana. Lenka, Sonia, Margo, and Bianka all laughed.

“I knew there was a reason she makes me squirm,” I quipped, poking my head into their midst. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to be disrespectful of Miss Kavanova—but the joke seemed too obvious to pass up. Tatiana looked at me, her eyes squinting as though she was trying to determine exactly what kind of bug I was, and how best to step on me. “I don’t get it,” she said.

“She makes me squirm. You know, because she’s a teacher. And she’s a
newt
,” I backtracked. I drew that last word out and arched my eyebrows in what I can only maintain was an accidental imitation of Tatiana. The class laughed, but not at me. They were laughing at my version of Tatiana. This meant certain doom. Where was Miss Kavanova? I immediately raised my sleeve to my mouth and began to gnaw anxiously. I had chewed through one sweater already this year.

“Let’s go, children,” commanded our teacher, returning with a small woman with tight, porcelain skin. It was Ludmilla
herself
. “And Petra K, get your sleeve out of your mouth and tuck your shirttails in. We still have a reputation to keep up while away from The Pava School.” Tatiana looked at me in a way that meant we would be resolving my breech later, then she turned her attention to our host.

“Welcome to my flagship store,” said Ludmilla, with a gracious wave of her arm. In a black cocktail dress, the proprietor looked the picture of old Pavain refinement. As long as she had been in business, Ludmilla, who came from a long line of renowned sorceresses, never appeared to age, though her face took on a tightness, as though her hair was pulling her skin back. There was always the smell of scented ointments about her, thus it was speculated in the Pava gossip columns that she was perpetually using herself as a guinea pig for her own cosmetics and was perhaps her own best customer. It was only when she held her left hand up that the true impact of her personality was felt: a furry spider rested in her palm and her fingers were laced with webbing, the mark of a true practitioner. I also noticed two bright red
wounds on the woman’s neck, cosmetic decorations that looked like she had been bitten by vampire fangs. It was the fashion at the time in Pava and most of the girls in my class had worn fang bites until the administration had declared them antisocial.

“I bet most of you have been here before, but I am quite sure none have been in the laboratories in the chambers beneath the store. To be honest, nobody outside of our own employees have. You are very lucky to have this opportunity.” Tatiana elbowed Sonia, reminding her that it was her father, the district Boot commander, who had facilitated the outing. “And I’m sure you will not be disappointed.”

Ludmilla led the group toward the back of the store. We filed through the doors marked “Authorized Personnel Only.” Once in the back chambers, it was a world of difference from the gleaming, sparkling showroom. This was a dreary, damp chamber, with bare stone walls, and I thought I could make out shackles in the dark. Shelves of stock lined the room: a small fortune’s worth of cosmetics towered above us. A group of card-playing homunculi stock boys scattered at our arrival, and tried to look busy after a punishing look from the owner. One tiny clerk scampered up a ladder on runners to gather an order, which he then harnessed to a bat to be flown back to the showroom.

“This way,” said Ludmilla. We bypassed the stockroom and were taken farther still into the depths of the building. The woman applied a key from around her neck to a lock and an entire wall spun from its place, revealing the chambers that housed her laboratories. “Keep quiet, and don’t touch anything,” she commanded.

Once inside, we huddled together like a bouquet of flowers: all gaping mouths and wide eyes, looking about ourselves in bewilderment. There were crucibles bubbling over blue-flaming burners, rows of test tubes that masked technicians were feeding with fragrance-filled tear droppers, and the essence of flowers and herbs being distilled in large glass beakers.

“Well what did you expect,” said the proprietress, “a witch’s cauldron?” None of us wanted to admit it, but that is
exactly
what we expected. Ludmilla had been one of the foremost practicing sorceresses of Pava, before such practices were outlawed, and she turned her webbed hand to cosmetics. “Come, perhaps this will be more to your liking,” beckoned our guide. She ushered us through the lab and to another door. Before she opened it, she passed out earphones.

“This is where we keep our pherophone laboratory,” she said. “You never can be too careful.” Inside, to our amazement, there was a muse of dragonka, housed in gilded cages. In front of them was a technician holding an orchestra conductor’s wand.

“Shall we give our guests a little listen to the sound of our latest scent?”

“Sound,” spat Tatiana. “Perfume doesn’t
sound
like anything.”

“That is what you think,” said Ludmilla archly, before nodding to the conductor. With a tap of his wand, the dragonka sprang to attention. He lifted the wand in the air, then let it fall. With that, the dragonka raised their snouts and began to sing.

Before smelling a thing I was overcome by the hypnotic charm that was delivered along with the song, so like a tasteless poison in wine. That’s what happens when a dragonka sings; it inadvertently takes the listener to another place, outside the realm of their reality. Sometimes it is a path into the listener’s memory; sometimes they are transported to a dreamlike place that would be forgotten when they wake; sometimes the listener is given a window to the spirit world, or granted a vision of the future. Singing dragonka were usually muzzled, and allowed to perform only at well-orchestrated ceremonies, or in the dead of night at pagan summer festivals. Such is the power of the song that sprang from the throats of dragon offspring, which ancient Pavians had bred into the pets, owned by so many of my classmates.