Scarlet in the Snow (19 page)

Then I shrugged on my coat and went out into the chill air of morning. I couldn’t help a little tremor as I walked out of the house, through the gate and down the path. But nothing ambushed me, nothing moved, nothing made a sound. The forest was perfectly still – unnaturally still – but then, this was Old Bony’s realm. I walked up the path, looking carefully first to one side and then the other. It was almost at the very end that I spied it, a glint of white in the undergrowth. The paper was damp and the ink had run a little, but otherwise it was just the same as before. My words, my little drawing and nothing else. Not a line, not a word.

I’d half-expected it to be so but had half-hoped, too, that there would be a message from Ivan. The disappointment of it sat in my belly like a stone as I slowly made my way back to the cottage and the chores Old Bony no doubt would be expecting me to do. Back inside, I laid the paper to dry near the book and set about stoking up the fire, sweeping the house and preparing porridge, for Old Bony was sure to be hungry upon her return. I was hungry too but I made nothing for myself.

Just as I was leaving the porridge to stay warm by the stove, I had an idea. Spies wrote messages in invisible ink or lemon juice. I’d read of such things in stories. To all intents and purposes the paper would look blank, but when held up to candle or firelight, a hidden message would be revealed. What if that was what Ivan or Luel had done?

Excitedly, I went to get the piece of paper. I opened the stove door and held up the paper to the light of the flames. Nothing. I waited for a while and then looked again. Still nothing. Well, I hadn’t really expected it, had I? This wasn’t some silly spy story from a sensational magazine. This was real and . . .

I suddenly remembered what had happened with the photograph. I fumbled in my bodice for the rose petal, and with shaking fingers, laid it gently upon the scrap of paper. Nothing happened. I waited. Still nothing. This time the disappointment was so profound I felt sick with it. Sadly, I replaced the petal and opened the book at a random page, intending to slip in the paper for safekeeping. As I did so, I glanced down at the page and a word instantly jumped out at me, jolting me so that I almost staggered. For it was not just any word, but a name: Felix.

It was buried in an entry called ‘School of Light’. I was now sure Ivan had not just spoken the name by accident. It hadn’t been aimed at the crow-man but had been aimed at me! It was the only clue he could give me, and it was the rose petal that had made me see it.

I scanned the entry carefully. The School of Light was not, as its name might imply, some kind of scientific faculty. It was a famous art school in Palume, which had been founded by a woman named Madeleine St Thomas more than fifty years ago.

She is now deceased but her pioneering work on light in art continues to influence a generation of young artists in Champaine. Students are enrolled from the age of thirteen, and come from all parts of Champaine and well beyond.
There have been rumours that the artists of this school use more than natural methods to produce their beautiful effects of light, but allegations that magic is involved are completely baseless. As is well known, the Faustine Empire stringently bans all non-Mancer magic, and a School of Light artist such as Felix Vivian would never have been allowed to enter, let alone win, the inaugural Imperial Art Prize in that country if there was any magic suspected.

The entry ended there. I looked at the publication date in the beginning of the book. The first Imperial Art Festival had been four Christmases ago, according to that item I’d read in the
Kolorgrod Messenger
. The book was published just after that, early in the following year.
Felix Vivian
. He must have been in that newspaper photograph, along with Ivan and the other artists who had travelled on board the Golden Express to the first Imperial Art Prize in Faustina. I tried to conjure up the vanished photo in my mind’s eye, to remember all the faces. But it was no good. Apart from Ivan’s, the others were a vague blur. I remembered what Felix had said to me: ‘We were students together.’ If only there was more information in the entry! If only it mentioned other artists of the School of Light!

With a shiver, I remembered the sense I’d had that somebody else looked out from behind Felix’s blue eyes – someone who controlled him like a puppet or a ventriloquist’s doll – a presence as evil as it was ruthless, as clever as it was merciless. The School of Light . . . one of the Devil’s names was Lucifer, which meant ‘Bright One, Shining One’. I hastily crossed myself. No, the sorcerer wasn’t the Devil. He was a man. Luel had said so. He was
a man who had perfected a particularly ruthless brand of powerful magic, which had turned one young man into a slavering beast and another into a hollow shell, a puppet obeying his every command.

And the link was the School of Light. This sorcerer was somehow involved with the school. He could be a painter himself, but he was also someone with power. Perhaps he ran the school, or was an important art dealer or a wealthy patron? Whatever or whoever he was, I would find out.

Something had happened three years ago, something which had caused this man to become Ivan’s enemy. Suppose Felix Vivian was a protégé of the sorcerer and had won the Imperial Art Prize through the magical trickery of his master, and that Ivan had found out and threatened to expose them? But while using magic to win a competition was one thing, making an
abartyen
spell-curse was quite another. It was very dangerous not only because it was so difficult, but also because it was magic that was banned everywhere in the world. If discovered, such a spell would land its maker in prison or the gallows. To take such a terrible risk, the sorcerer must have had a very strong motive – much more than the embarrassment of being caught out helping someone to cheat. Ivan must have discovered something much more explosive. The hairs prickled along the back of my neck as I remembered reading my story to Ivan and how he’d reacted. At the time I’d thought he was angry with me, but what if it I’d come to the brink of the truth without knowing it?

Deliberate, calculated murder in the first degree by natural or supernatural means – those crimes were
punishable by the death penalty in Champaine and in other places. And such criminals also had their estates confiscated, so their families would lose everything.

I was breathless. Here indeed was a motive strong enough for the sorcerer to not only risk the
abartyen
curse, but to keep looking for Ivan, to make sure the beast-darkness would consume him. Now, the
abartyen
spell had been broken, but it didn’t matter, for Ivan was in the sorcerer’s hands.

Oh, he will not die, for that would be too easy
. Though it was Felix’s lips that had moved, they were really the words of that wicked presence behind his eyes. Felix had been turned into a soulless puppet. But not Ivan. There must be a reason why the sorcerer couldn’t do it to Ivan . . .

‘There is,’ said a voice behind me, making me jump. I turned to see Old Bony standing in the shadows. I had not heard or seen her come in, not a whisper, not a glimpse. ‘There is,’ she repeated, pulling up a chair by the stove, while the three cats slinked out of the shadows to lie at her feet. She looked at me with a teasing glint in her eyes, and I only just stopped myself from begging her to tell me what it was, pleading with her to have mercy on me – on Ivan. But I knew it was no good. I bit down on my lip so hard to stop the cry from bursting out that I could taste blood.

‘We’ve been riding a long time and far away,’ she said. ‘Fetch breakfast, girl.’ I lowered my eyes so she wouldn’t see the anger that flared in them and, nodding mutely, went to ladle out the porridge into four bowls. When I returned to the table, there was fine pale sugar in a little silver dish, rich cream in a glass jug, and plump juicy
berries in a small basket. Old Bony sat at the table, ladling the goodies onto the porridge for her cats and herself. She looked at me. ‘What are you doing, standing there with your mouth open like a great goose? Fetch a bowl for yourself and come and eat with us.’

I did as I was bid, without showing surprise, and ate the sweet, creamy porridge in silence. When all had finished, I got up and washed the bowls, not even blinking as the sugar dish and cream jug vanished. I was then ordered to drag a large tub from the back of the house, fill it with hot water and scrub a big bundle of stained, muddy clothes Old Bony threw at me. It was very difficult to get them clean because I wasn’t used to such a task, and my hands were red raw by the time I’d finished and hung the clothes, as instructed, to dry on the bone fence.

Straight after that there was a scrawny, freshly dead chicken on the kitchen table to pluck and gut and make into a soup
and
a pie. Thank heavens I’d helped Sveta do that on more than one occasion so that I was able to do it swiftly and efficiently. After lunch I was allowed a bowl of soup, but the pie was entirely devoured by Old Bony and her felines.

I was then ordered to polish a large set of heavily tarnished silver cutlery that had mysteriously appeared from nowhere and just as mysteriously disappeared once I’d finished. Then Old Bony took out a little flute and commanded me to dance to her tune, all the while mocking me for not being light on my feet. I felt like yelling that it was hardly surprising, for I was so tired I could have crumpled into a heap and slept where I fell. But
anger and defiance stilled my tongue, and I danced like a sullen performing bear.

When darkness fell, Old Bony set me to boil thirteen eggs, allowing me to eat one while she and the cats shared the rest. Then once again they left, but not before Old Bony warned me, again, not to step outside before daybreak. I didn’t watch them leave this time but sat by the stove with the book and re-read the entry on the School of Light. If only there was more! I took out the rose petal and laid it on the page, but nothing happened. The page didn’t flutter to another, the book stayed boringly dense, and after a moment I realised I wasn’t going to get any more, because there
was
nothing more. I closed the book and, cupping the petal, brought it to my face to inhale its faint sweet fragrance – the fragile thread that linked me to Ivan and which brought me the elusive but certain breath of his presence from somewhere far away.

‘Not for long,’ whispered a voice at the door. It wasn’t Ivan’s this time but Luel’s. ‘If you don’t leave tonight, Natasha, it will be too late. The moon is bright tonight and it will show you a path that will lead you safely through the forest and on your way to us!’

I put my hands over my ears, trying to stop myself from hearing, trying to stop myself from imagining that path. Oh, how I wanted to go and find it, how I wanted to leave this place and begin my search! But I knew I must not; I knew it was all lies.

The voice changed its tone. ‘What kind of coward are you, anyway, skulking in the house of bones and meekly doing the bidding of the forest witch like a dumb sheep
while my poor lord is tortured and tormented? His suffering is so great and I cannot help him. I am helpless, and that is your fault too, you foolish, selfish child!’

I put my hands over my ears, trying not to listen, but the voice carried on, nakedly articulating my fear and my guilt. ‘And what gives you the idea that the forest witch will let you go even when your servitude is over? Whose bones do you think make her fence, Natasha? Whose skulls do you think adorn her path? Why, none other than those foolish sheep like you, who have made the mistake of trusting a wicked being. When your time is up, she will chop you into little pieces and feed you to her wolves, and your bones will join those of countless others who have ventured into her realm.’

I knew it wasn’t Luel speaking out there. I knew it was our enemy. By now the sorcerer knew my name, for Felix Vivian would have given it to him, and that meant he could home in on me. I also knew that he wasn’t there physically, that it was only his will, seeking and probing for weakness, and that he could not harm me unless I chose it. If I went out into the night, trying to find that path, I’d get lost and wander around the forest for ever and never get out. Unless I went out, he could do nothing. And yet, despite knowing all these things, it was hard to hear that voice speak aloud all those things that troubled me. Only the small, steady warmth of the rose petal against my skin kept me from screaming.

It was a long night, but at length I fell asleep wrapped in a blanket in front of the stove. When I awoke, it was bright daylight and Old Bony was sitting in her chair, smoking
her pipe and watching me, the cats by her feet like rag dolls. Dismayed, I scrambled to my feet, dry-mouthed, gritty-eyed, my head still spinning from the restless snatches of dreams.

‘What’s the matter, girl?’ said Old Bony. ‘You are looking at me with those great fish eyes. Cat got your tongue?’ She laughed heartily at her own joke. I smiled weakly and scurried off to the kitchen corner, but she called me back. ‘No, I’ve had breakfast already; hardly was going to wait for you, lazy lie-abed, now was I? And you have no time to eat. Drink some tea and then warm up enough water for the tub. You have a big job on your hands today.’