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Antuniet was alive. That much could be said. And the alchemical treatise that had provided her only hope of success was not entirely lost to the world. But it was lost to her. Any success she might achieve now would come as charity at others' hands--hands that had been instrumental in her family's ruin.
***
Footsteps echoed on the stairs and a knock rang on the door. Mefro Feldin. Not quite a housekeeper—there wasn’t much house to keep—but here to keep things in order, along with Petro to do the man’s work that Iakup used to cover and the two rough men whose names she hadn’t sorted out yet whose sole purpose was to advertise that Antuniet Chazillen had a patron who would see to her protection. None of them lived in—there wasn’t room for that and Feldin, at least, had starkly refused—but she was never left alone.
The knock came again and she realized she hadn’t answered it. “Enter.”
The woman looked her over with a silent sniff. Margerit had gone to some trouble to find a housekeeper willing to dare the uncertain peril of an alchemist’s house. There had been emphatic assurances that she wouldn’t be asked to touch any of the equipment. And beyond that, it wasn’t any part of her duties to play lady’s maid. She sniffed again. “I was going to the market, Maisetra, and wondered if there was anything in particular you wanted.”
“No.” Was there anything she wanted? What good had it ever done to want things? She wanted her old life back: the house on Modul Street, to own more than a single garment, to have the company of minds worth talking to. She wanted her work back. She wanted her book: that mystical talisman that had sat in her hands like a lover’s touch, the scent of years rising from its pages like incense. It had meant more than the text inscribed on the pages; it had been hers, the proof of her talent and the promise of her success. Now there were only marks on a page and even that came from someone else’s charity now. In those last weeks when fear had haunted every step, at least the work had been all hers. The hope of triumph had been there, drawing her on. There would be no triumph now, only the failure to fail.
***
Footsteps echoed on the stairs and a knock rang on the door. Mefro Feldin. Not quite a housekeeper—there wasn’t much house to keep—but here to keep things in order, along with Petro to do the man’s work that Iakup used to cover and the two rough men whose names she hadn’t sorted out yet whose sole purpose was to advertise that Antuniet Chazillen had a patron who would see to her protection. None of them lived in—there wasn’t room for that and Feldin, at least, had starkly refused—but she was never left alone.
The knock came again and she realized she hadn’t answered it. “Enter.”
The woman looked her over with a silent sniff. Margerit had gone to some trouble to find a housekeeper willing to dare the uncertain peril of an alchemist’s house. There had been emphatic assurances that she wouldn’t be asked to touch any of the equipment. And beyond that, it wasn’t any part of her duties to play lady’s maid. She sniffed again. “I was going to the market, Maisetra, and wondered if there was anything in particular you wanted.”
“No.” Was there anything she wanted? What good had it ever done to want things? She wanted her old life back: the house on Modul Street, to own more than a single garment, to have the company of minds worth talking to. She wanted her work back. She wanted her book: that mystical talisman that had sat in her hands like a lover’s touch, the scent of years rising from its pages like incense. It had meant more than the text inscribed on the pages; it had been hers, the proof of her talent and the promise of her success. Now there were only marks on a page and even that came from someone else’s charity now. In those last weeks when fear had haunted every step, at least the work had been all hers. The hope of triumph had been there, drawing her on. There would be no triumph now, only the failure to fail.
