The Golden Key (120 page)

“
You
don’t understand. They can still force you to do what they want.”

“But there is Edoard now.” Rohario heard triumph in Beatriz’ usually sweet voice.

“They could—”

“You are not thinking!” cried Beatriz. “Why should they do anything? They have what they want—a Grijalva Mistress for the Heir. I have what I want. When Edoard marries, I will get a manor house and a fine dowry. Perhaps I will marry a count, as our great-aunt Tazia did, although not, I hope, with the same unfortunate outcome! I do not want to rule as Nazha Coronna. I just want to be left alone to live my life
as I please.
To marry whom I please, if I marry at all. Then I can raise my children as Grandmother Leilias and Uncle Cabral were raised—in my manor, all of us together, including my little ‘Rico.”

“But—”

“This is so unlike you, Eleyna! You are full of objections. I thought you would be pleased! I would never have done this if I thought you wanted to be Mistress, but I thought you did not want Edoard.”

Rohario sucked in a breath.

Eleyna’s reply took forever, and ever, and yet even longer. The rain misted down outside, a light drone. A gardener walked by the window, face shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat. He wore a curl of grape leaves pinned to his loose shirt, the symbol of the Visitassion, and in his right hand he carried pruning shears. In a hearty voice, audible through the glass, he sang the joyful hymn, “Ila. Visitassion.”

When Eleyna spoke at last, her words came hesitantly, as if to
contrast with the gardener’s joyous song. “It is not that I want Edoard, or do not want him, just that I … can’t bring myself to—”

“I can bring myself to, and I have, and I’m not sorry for it, Eleynita. And you will be sorry when I steal every fine dress in your wardrobe and then order a dozen more besides. But I won’t have you thinking I did this for you!”

Rohario could barely think, he was consumed by such delirious happiness. Eleyna did not want Edoard.

But why in heaven should Eleyna then turn around and want him instead? Edoard was by far the more eligible and attractive. “Moronno,” he whispered to himself.

“—and they will expect you to produce Gifted sons,” Eleyna was saying. “They will not let you marry as you please or live outside the Palasso, even with your manor house and the protection of Don Edoard.”

“I had more than one conversation on the subject with Grandmother before she died, while you were thinking of nothing but your art and then your husband.” Beatriz sounded unnervingly pragmatic. “Only men are Gifted, but it is the Grijalva
women
who produce Gifted sons, no matter who the father is. The man’s seed must not matter. Grandmother had two Gifted sons, neither of them by Grijalva men. So I can have Gifted sons without marrying a Grijalva. It is like the pea plants Grandmother grew. Some were tall, some short. Some had red blossoms, some white. Some had wrinkled peas, some unwrinkled. There must be a way to know what caused each plant to become one or the other. Just as we can trace the lineage of Gifted Grijalva males through their mothers and mother’s mothers.”

Eleyna laughed, a refreshing sound. “You and Grandmother and those boring pea plants. That’s what comes of too much gardening!”

“Ah!” said Beatriz in an altered tone. “Here is Edoard.”

Edoard! An instant later, Rohario heard his brother speak.

“Corasson meya.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. Rohario stood and edged toward the door,

“Eleyna, I appear before you with some embarrassment. I hope you will forgive me. Your sister assures me—”

“No, grazzo, Don Edoard. I am very happy for you and Beatriz. We will all come to see that it is for the best.”

“Most generous. Now, Bellissimia, I have sent a letter to Patro asking him to prepare the Dia Fuega ball for us, at Penitenssia, in
Palasso Verrada. But in the meanwhile, I have sent messengers to my particular friends, only some twelve or fifteen of the young men and women who are my companions at Court, to join us here at Chasseriallo in seven days’ time. We will amuse ourselves with dances and games and hunting and strolls in the garden and music, whatever you most wish. If you do not wish, I will send messengers and tell them not to come—”

“Not at all, Edoard! I want nothing more than to amuse myself! You cannot imagine the dreary life I have led up until now. But— eiha, Edoard. Have I the right dresses to appear before your friends?”

“En verro! You must have more dresses. More jewels! I shall send to Meya Suerta and have a dressmaker conveyed here—only the best. I will ask Lizia. She inherited the do’Dregez fortune, as you might know. We are the same age and cousins twice removed, and she can recommend a fine dressmaker, for Lizia is the woman who sets the fashions, and together the two of you can do everything as you wish to make you the most beautiful woman in Tira Virte. You will like Lizia.”

But will Lizia like Beatriz
? Lizia do’Dregez was the granddaughter of Arrigo Ill’s elder sister Lizia, and every bit as formidable a force in Meya Suerta as her redoubtable grandmother had been. Lizia would see Beatriz as an opportunity, not a threat. Once Lizia made it clear that Beatriz was acceptable, no one would snub the new Grijalva Mistress. Perhaps Edoard was smarter than Rohario gave him credit for.

“We must have a horse for you as well,” Edoard continued, “a placid gelding, I think, since you have not ridden very much. Come, we will go this instant and consult the groom.”

“Edoard, you promised we would speak with the gardener about planting a new herb garden.”

Thus engaged, they left the room. Their chatter receded down the hallway.

In the hush left by their leaving, he heard a soft sound coming from the parlor. Eleyna Grijalva was weeping.

  SIXTY-SEVEN  

Long
dead? Can this be true? Surely only three days have passed. And yet the boy whom I see in the mirror has become a man, and the clothing they wear now, all the people I see passing by when I look in the mirror, all is so strange to me.

Could he truly hear me? Did he know I spoke of Alejandro when he said those words, “long dead
?”

It cannot be true. Even Sario could not be so cruel.

Matra Dolcha, let it not be for nothing that I have read Sario’s
Folio
and struggled to find a way out of this prison though he left me nothing, no paints, no brushes. Let Alejandro’s child be born and come to know his father. Let it not be for nothing, I beg you with all my heart.

All for nothing.

She had thrown away her chance to have children—however small that chance might have been—for nothing. The suggestion spell painted on her had died with Felippo, but this one would not die until she herself did, and then it would no longer matter. Groping, she found a handkerchief and dried her eyes. She had not minded very much being painted barren when she thought there was a purpose in it. Now, still young, she was like a tree that has been pruned back so far it will never bear fruit.

And yet. It left her free to paint. She was of no use to them now.

She rifled through her sketches and drew out the three letters Agustin had sent her, fingering the fine marbled paper, itself a reminder of the manufactury that had brought the Grijalvas their first fortune. What amazing magic these simple pieces of parchment revealed! Agustin wrote with a graceful, if boyish, hand.

Dearest Eleynita
,

Uncle Giaberto says we can spy through paintings and carefully rendered studies of chambers and halls into the palassos of other countries. That is why the Itinerarrios and Embajadorros are sent to foreign courts. So when you sent me the drawing of the corner of the parlor in
Chasseriallo—so precise! so exact in every detail!—I thought, if not only that, spying through paintings, could I not also redraw the scene in the same exact detail, at the same time of day, with the same lighting, only add this letter to you, and have it be there? Please send word by a messenger if you receive this, for then we will know it is true.

Your devoted brother, Agustin.

Please remember to burn this letter.

She had found the letter in the corner of the parlor seven days ago, in the evening, after a dinner made agonizing by her embarrassment and Edoard’s puzzled but formal politeness. In fact, Edoard had found the letter, and she—with an instinct for danger—had snatched it out of his hand before he could read it. But perhaps Beatriz was right: perhaps Edoard deserved to know about the Grijalva Limners and their magic. Knowledge hoarded was knowledge that could be terribly misused.

Eleyna opened the second letter, sniffing back the last of her tears.

Dearest Eleynita

It is true! It works! I received your letter and sketch of the dining room by messenger today, and Mother tried to grab it out of my hands, but I thought of what you would say to her and I did say it, and I was amazed she did not scold me, but she did not! Perhaps it will not be so bad being a Limner, even though I must paint all day and there is no time to roll hoops with the little ones and I am always tired. But please don’t worry about me. It is so amazing, I only wish you could study here with me. I would give you my Gift if I could, since you deserve it more than I do. I know you don’t care so much about having children, but I cry at night thinking I’ll never have any of my own. I hope Beatriz and the twins will have many nieces and nephews for me to love. Do not think I am sad about being a Limner, but I sometimes think about what I am losing by having the Gift. I must never tell Mama, for she tells me that I am her One True Hope. I miss you very much.

Your devoted brother, Agustin.

You are wondering what I used. I used ink on parchment and mixed tears and sweat into the ink to give it potency.

To give it potency. Had the other Limners started this way? Regretful of what they had lost? But the Limners she knew had been eager to give up their fertility in order to be granted the power of the Chieva do’Orro. As she would have, in their place.

She closed a hand into a fist.
I will not regret what I can do nothing about.
She opened the third letter.

Dearest Eleynita
,

Please do not forget to burn my letters. I am afraid Zio Giaberto suspects what I am learning to do, but I won’t tell him. I just won’t. I don’t like the way they want to rule me. They want me to obey them without asking why. When I ask them questions, they cluck like so many fat hens and say unkind things about you, and I won’t let them criticize you. You’re a better painter than any of them! Even if they are Limners. Well, you are an artist! So there! I have bad news to report. Nicollo’s carriage was set upon by ruffians and turned over. He broke his legs and an arm, and the arm is infected so badly the Viehos Fratos have called in a sancta. But the rumor is that it wasn’t ruffians who tipped the carriage but protestors, honest apprentices, who want the Corteis to reconvene, who think the Corteis ought to vote on what taxes the Grand Duke can levy. Zio Giaberto says it is the influence of the rabble, a disease from the north. Some people even say the entire royal family of Ghillas was murdered by a mob, but I don’t think people would do that kind of awful thing. Mother always comes in to make sure I’m sleeping, so I daren’t keep the candle burning long. I hope you are happy. Your letters are very short, but I suppose you must be cautious.