LOUISE'S AMULET | Chapter 23: Power Of Art
“Won’t Tony be a distraction?” Rosalia asked again, making yet another lap around the sitting room.
“He won’t,” Charlie assured her. “I’m used to working in all sorts of… conditions.”
Helga’s older sister had initially mistaken them for prospective clients and showed a level of efficiency Aaron Becker could no more achieve than reach the Eastern Mountains from here. While Rosalia talked on about new fabrics and dress designs, her son ran off to fetch a glass of cool lemonade, which Agnes drained in just a couple of gulps. The heat alone was not to blame for her thirst: the sweets they had bought at the fair would have lasted a week under normal circumstances, but Freckles had annihilated them all within an hour.
After their successful “premiere,” the young sorceress had denied herself nothing, tossing coins left and right. Agnes had grown especially fond of nuts coated in brightly colored jelly shells. Charlie jokingly compared her to a squirrel, for which he was demoted from Harold to Harry. For a while longer they clung to their characters, buoyed by success, but at the tailor’s shop they gave their real names. Agnes entered it speckled with freckles and lightly tanned: she had dispelled the illusion of flawless pale skin after hiding inside a street magician’s “portal between worlds” box. Evidently, he would not be getting any more volunteers for such journeys. Just in case, the minstrel had paid him too — almost as much as he had paid the jeweler for the rush job.
Charlie and Agnes had stumbled upon Thorne’s shop by pure chance, much to the girl’s disappointment — she would have preferred wandering the streets and amusing herself until evening. Now she sighed heavily, suffering from boredom.
“If you want,” Charlie offered, “you can come with me to see Mister Thorne.”
“What would I need him for?” Agnes no longer had any use for the mask of a noble lady, nor for refined speech. “He’s just some weird old man. Sorry,” she caught herself, “Lady Rosa… and you too, Tony.”
Helga called her sister Rosa. Suddenly, Charlie remembered Master Bertrand’s apprentice shortening Helga herself to “Hel” during that conversation about mages and ordinary folk. Ingvar lived in Meyrith, after all. He had invited them and Ed to visit…
“It’s all right,” mother and son replied in unison. Both were visibly nervous. Helga had gone to wake her father, yet she still had not emerged from his room.
Tony — a boy Agnes’s age with dark curls and a birthmark on his cheekbone — added timidly:
“I’ve always dreamed of seeing… a real artist at work, Mister Blanc. I’m very glad you came and agreed to help us.”
Charlie nodded, privately noting: there’s genuine interest flickering in Anthony’s eyes.
“Father was in a foul mood, so I had to entertain him with gossip,” Helga approached them soundlessly, startling her sister. “Now, I hope he won’t make a spectacle of himself in front of you.”
“And I hope,” Rosalia glanced at the clock on the wall and then at her nails, “that you finish before Ben gets back. Father’s idea with the portrait seems like nonsense to him. If he catches you here…”
“Everything will be fine.” The minstrel rose from the armchair and adjusted the collar of his doublet. “I’ll be done quickly.”
Rosalia’s fear was understandable. On the day they met, while speaking about her family, Helga had mentioned that Nigel Thorne and Benjamin waged an unending struggle for authority: the old man refused to acknowledge his son-in-law’s dominance and constantly turned the younger children against their father. With every passing day Benjamin treated both Thorne and his wife worse. Rosalia tried desperately to avoid becoming the target of his temper, while her children struggled to please everyone. It showed. Charlie might have said the three boys and the little girl were sweet, and the house itself cozy, but… inside his chest, anxiety coiled like a snake.
While Lady Hughes’s father lavished praise upon the portrait of his “youngest one,” Charlie kept sensing falsehood where falsehood should have been impossible — especially considering how fiercely Helga championed the truth.
The room’s stuffy, he practically urged himself to think along those lines. And Thorne reminds me of the Hermit. Just as talkative and outwardly friendly… That’s why all this nonsense is crawling into my head.
Open your damn eyes, his inner voice snapped irritably. That old stump looks more like you than the Hermit! He moves far too freely for a man who supposedly spent two years bedridden. Look at his legs! If one of them had been broken, it would be thinner. And the tailor himself would’ve changed — lost weight, turned gray, started to stink. Where’s the smell? Where’s whatever they use to cover that smell up?
William Blanc had wasted away completely — four days before his death, he had stopped eating and drinking altogether. But he had been ill much longer and spent months confined to bed without ever rising. Back then, his room had been filled with two smells: the bitter scent of medicine and that faintly sweet odor only an aging body gives off. Nigel Thorne’s bedroom smelled of little besides wood, and even that only barely.
Was that enough reason to accuse him — or even Helga herself — of deception? No. Besides, Charlie had come here to paint. Everything else was none of his concern.
But the old man draws no worse than you do, the inner voice argued, hunting for evidence against Thorne. All those sketches on the walls! A whole gallery. If his technique is that good, why can’t he paint the love of his life himself?
That particular thread led nowhere. Clothing sketches — even simple patterns — were related to painting, certainly, but the person capable of creating them would not necessarily be equally skilled at depicting a human face.
“All I ever did was dress rich folk and invent new gown styles for their wives,” Nigel Thorne had meanwhile drifted into talking about himself. “In my youth I could do more. Thought I’d become a portrait painter. Then I met the mother of my children and bent under her thumb! It was Magda who wanted the shop. Because of her, I buried the talent the gods gave me.”
Well, that explained it — another unhappy man convinced all the evil in the world came from women. Charles Blanc disliked such simplifications, though for a brief moment he did feel a flicker of sympathy for the tailor. It turned into disgust almost instantly.
“My wife was a stupid woman,” Thorne tapped his fist against his temple. “Rosa takes after her, and Rosa’s children aren’t exactly bright either. Helga takes after me, so she’s not a fool, but first she tied herself to a drunkard, then to Ridley. Ridley’s a thief. Every last one of them up there is a thief.”
Tony, who had entered the room alongside the guests, did not react to his grandfather’s words in the slightest — he was scrutinizing the canvas with meticulous attention. Charlie felt bitter on behalf of everyone Thorne had insulted. On his own behalf as well. What rotten luck, to resemble such a pathetic… gentleman.
And even if Alfred Ridley truly had stolen something magical once upon a time, Charlie had no intention of agreeing with Thorne.
“I cannot say how clear His Grace’s conscience is,” he said, “nor is it my place to judge. I am a painter. I serve the duke and receive honestly earned wages. If you permit me, I would like to begin the task I came here for. Anthony, if you please…”
Tony handed him the stretcher frame and charcoal, then reached for one of the tall-backed chairs to pull it beside his grandfather’s bed. Charlie stopped the boy with a gesture — a better idea had occurred to him.
“No need. It’ll be more convenient if I stay closer to you, Mister Thorne.”
He would never have pulled such a stunt had the old man not insulted his own family right in front of him. Besides, Charlie had something he needed to verify.
To hell with it. I’ll apologize later.
Instead of carefully lowering himself onto the edge of the bed, he collapsed directly onto Thorne’s blanket-covered feet — and the old man instantly jerked both legs back.
Quick enough for a cripple.
“What is the meaning of this, young man?” the tailor frowned. Beneath the surprise on his plump, ruddy face, fear was clearly visible.
Pain would have been a far more natural reaction. A fraud was a fraud. Revolting. Did Helga know about her father’s little “performance”?
“My apologies,” the minstrel bowed his head. “It’s been a terribly hectic day. I’m barely able to stand. Such trifles are part of life. Better tell me about her instead — your Swallow.”
As though at the snap of fingers, Nigel stopped scowling and broke into a smile — the sort of smile two passersby out of three would probably find pleasant. There was not a single harsh feature in Thorne’s appearance, which clashed badly with the venom in the way he spoke about everyone around him.
“My Swallow…” He closed his eyes dreamily. “Now there was a woman! The kind of woman the gods intended women to be. Modest, kind… And she loved me beyond reason. Her father was strict — once he realized I wasn’t asking Swallow to marry me, he forbade us from seeing each other. But how could I marry her, with Magda and those two already in my life? I meant to tell Swallow about them, but I kept putting it off…”
“She died?” Agnes, as usual led by curiosity, could not stop herself from asking.
“Hm?” Nigel needed several seconds to notice the girl’s presence in the room at all. “How should I know? When I left Merenberg, she was alive and well. Her father probably found her a fine match, and now she’s likely rocking” — he snorted — “grandchildren. Grandchildren! Nothing but trouble.”
So Thorne had met this woman in Merenberg. An amusing coincidence…
“Doesn’t take much to upset you,” Agnes muttered. “Everyone’s stupid.”
“I’m from Merenberg too,” Charlie steered the conversation back on course before a quarrel erupted between the old man and the girl. “What did she look like?”
The tailor’s face, stretched tight with indignation moments ago, once again softened into blissful warmth.
“Oh, she was beautiful as the sun. Fair hair, golden — she always wore it in a braid. Big blue eyes. And such a delicate little neck, ah…”
At that moment Nigel Thorne was clearly thinking of something not entirely decent. Suppressing the urge to hurl charcoal at him, Charlie said:
“No, sir, that won’t do. There are countless women with blue eyes and fair hair. Describe her facial features to me.”
“Well…” The tailor thought for a moment. “She had a straight nose, a sweet little nose. Nothing like Magda’s! Her lips… somewhat like yours, actually. And her face was…”
Suddenly inspiration struck him.
“Like mine! Once, at a tavern, they mistook Swallow and me for brother and sister! I remember it like yesterday!” Thorne shifted excitedly in bed, eager to share the story. “Some brute started pestering her while I was chatting with the innkeeper about the latest news. I come back to the table, and he says to me: ‘Your sister here, friend, refuses to dance with me — do something about it.’ So I did! One punch and he hit the floor. The innkeeper didn’t throw us out afterward either — good fellow he was! What was his name? Clint, maybe, or Claude… Ah, right! Clive. He’d only just taken over the tavern then, inherited it from his father. Fine tavern. Swallow and I rented a room there almost every other day… for our meetings, you understand…”
For a time, all other sounds vanished. The tailor waved his arms about, reminiscing over his other exploits, but Charlie heard none of it.
Uncle Clive. Rooms on the second floor… for meetings. Nigel Thorne had not merely lived in the Kingdom of Merenberg. He had lived in the capital, and it was there that he had filled the head of a… naïve young woman with lies.
“And what was the tavern called?” Charlie gripped the canvas tighter, as though it were the only thing he had left.
“The tavern?” Nigel Thorne blinked. “Which tavern? Ah! Something like “The Trail.” They served magnificent roast lamb there.”
“They still do,” the minstrel’s mouth had gone dry. He could no longer blame the heat for it. “I performed at the “Troll’s Trail”. I know Uncle Clive.”
“You performed?” The tailor arched a brow, and Charlie suddenly felt as though he were staring at an older version of himself in a mirror. “Ah yes, Helga mentioned you dabble in music too. When I was a boy, I tried learning to play… what was it called? An instrument like a lute, but not a lute.”
“That’s it, a mandolin! Well, I was never any good at it, so I quit. Probably shouldn’t have. Still… are you going to paint, young man?”
The coincidence was swiftly passing from amusing into what in all the hells is happening? Charlie swung between chills and fever, and his whole world gradually narrowed down to the figure of Nigel Thorne.
This proves nothing. I’ll ask him now, I’ll just… Their names must have been different.
“O-of course,” Charlie tugged at the lace collar of his doublet. The expensive garment had suddenly become unbearable, and he wanted to shed it like old skin. “But first… Please tell me the surname of that woman and her father.”
“The surname?” Nigel looked surprised. “Certainly… Their surname was Blanc. Swallow’s father served in the navy. Introduced himself to me as ‘Second-Rank Captain William Blanc.’ Tell me, young man — do you know them as well?”
This can’t be happening. I’ve had sunstroke. I’m lying unconscious somewhere.
The minstrel rose carefully to his feet and stepped away from the bed. Every part of his body demanded that he run — run until this nightmare ended.
Impossible? You used to think the same thing about dragons.
The dragon. His mother behind the glass of a mirror in another world. Every encounter had been impossible. Charlie had been afraid, then hurt, yet he had looked fear straight in the eyes. And now there was only one way forward — challenge himself. Retreat would mean flight, disgrace. Charlie was not Nigel.
“I mean… yes. Yes, I know them.”
His life flashed before his eyes: his mother confessing to Charlie that “Father died — otherwise nothing could have kept him from returning.” His grandfather spitting on the floor yet again whenever Charlie tried to speak about his father.
There had only ever been two things Charles Blanc never doubted — William’s hatred of his father, and the fact that both his parents were dead. Now he saw with perfect clarity how right his grandfather had been, and how terribly mistaken his mother. Had she truly believed that this… swindler would sooner die than abandon them? Albina had always seen only the good in people — and what had she received in return? What had she expected from Thorne at all? Why had she given herself to him? How could she ever have been drawn to this irresponsible, lying…
“Young man, stop looking at me like that!” Nigel Thorne was still bewildered, though at the same time he had somehow found cause to take offense at Charlie. “I’ve done nothing wrong to anyone. I only want a portrait of the woman I loved. If this is about money, don’t concern yourself — I’ll pay whatever is required.”
“There’s no need to pay anything,” the minstrel shuddered at the sound of his own voice. “As an artist, I would agree to paint Albina Blanc for you. But as her son — I refuse.”
“Son…” Nigel Thorne repeated. He shook his head, then suddenly threw aside the blanket and sprang briskly from the bed. “Son! You’re Swallow’s son!”
“H-hey, Tony… He can walk?!” Agnes looked no less stunned than the tailor himself. “A-and why are you so calm about it? Your grandpa’s been healed!”
Tony merely gave an indifferent snort.
“It’s for Aunt Hel, so she’ll visit us more often. He’s fishing for pity. Right, Grandpa?”
“Shut your mouth, you little bastard!” Thorne waved a hand at his grandson and embraced Charlie. “Oh, this is fate itself! Charles… did I remember your name correctly? In any case, young man, I’m counting on you! Tell me where she is. I’ll go to her tomorrow!”
“Father, is everything all right?” Helga came running at the shouting, though she did not dare enter, stopping before the closed door.
“Yes, daughter! Don’t interrupt.” The tailor let go of Charlie.
Charlie was grateful to her for that. The embrace brought neither relief nor joy. He ought to have felt joy, shouldn’t he? For years he had donated money to orphanages so other children without parents might have easier lives. He grew attached to people far too deeply, helped his friends, supported them, placed them above himself — anything, so long as they would not abandon him again.
All that time, his father had been living in the neighboring kingdom. A man who, judging by all appearances, would gladly abandon his daughters, grandchildren, and life’s work for the sake of… fantasies about a girl from the past.
“Well, certainly not a marquis…” the minstrel laughed dryly. “Not a marquis.”
“What are you talking about?” Thorne blinked rapidly. “What marquis?”
“Your…” Charlie cleared his throat. “Your daughter, Helga — did she tell you my full name?”
He understands nothing… and he never will. I’ll say it myself. I don’t want to say it, don’t want anything tying me to him… I’m afraid again. I’m sick of being afraid!
“My name is Charles Blanc. I bear my mother’s surname. Tell me, sir — why do you think I don’t bear my father’s?”
“Why…?” Nigel Thorne rubbed his chin. “Well… Swall— ahem, Albina divorced her husband? If she did, then all the better — I’ll go to her without delay! To hell with this city, that stubborn Ben, those hens…”
“There’s nowhere for you to go, sir,” Charlie suppressed the urge to smash the stretcher frame against his knee — or the old man’s skull. “Perhaps you should think about the reasons I grew up without a father. I’ll return in three days. Then we’ll talk.”
Handing Tony the clean canvas and charcoal, Charlie wiped the stains from his fingers with a handkerchief. How he wished he could rid himself just as easily of the filth he had been plunged into. But there was no point denying the obvious. His heart had known the truth — that this was his father — long before his mind assembled the facts. The world had not collapsed, nor burst into a thousand new colors. Charlie no longer even felt disgust. The only thing left was to return later and speak to them plainly. In three days, when he came to collect the copy of the amulet.
Let’s expose one terrible actor.
“Agnes, did you like jumping on beds when you were little?” Charlie deliberately spoke in Harold’s mannerisms, hoping Freckles at least understood hints.
“Uh…” The girl hesitated. “Yeah…? But I wasn’t allowed to.”
“I’m allowing it.” Without warning, Charlie grabbed his father by the arms, pinning him in place. “Jump, before he lies back down! Tony, go get everyone!”
Helga’s nephew apparently hurried to obey — Nigel stopped struggling and shouted at Tony:
“Don’t you dare! I’m your grandfather, you little wretch!”
“And I’m… your uncle!” Charlie seized the moment to drag Thorne a couple of feet away from the bed, while Agnes was already bouncing enthusiastically on it. “Go fetch your mother… your aunt… anyone!”
Hurting his father was unthinkable to Charlie. He merely hung onto Thorne, clinging tightly enough that the old man had to keep struggling to free himself while remaining upright. The “battle” lasted perhaps a minute and ended as abruptly as it had begun.
“Rosa… wh-what is this?” Lady Hughes was the first to rush into the room. “Father?”
“Hel, I can explain,” her sister followed close behind. Her father standing perfectly healthy did not surprise her nearly as much as Agnes jumping on the bed in her shoes. “Young lady, have you no shame!?”
“That’s enough, squirrel, get down!” Charlie finally released Thorne. “We’re leaving.”
Nigel Thorne, flushed and breathing heavily, had completely forgotten about his “fracture” — he seemed far more concerned with the wrinkles in his nightshirt.
Lady Hughes stopped several steps away from her father. Perhaps she was searching for the right words. Or perhaps, like Charlie earlier, trying to convince herself she was dreaming.
Dusting off his clothes, Charlie headed for the exit without waiting for Agnes, who for some reason lingered behind.
“What is this…?” Lady Hughes croaked after him.
“The power of art,” Charlie answered without turning around.
Outside the shop, the coachman remarked that Charlie looked “not quite himself.” The minstrel hid from him inside the carriage. For the first time that unbearably long day, Charlie realized he was tired as a dog. His emotional strength had run dry as well — of that he became fully convinced when Agnes caught up to him.
“Now that was something!” the girl exclaimed, yanking hairpins from her elaborate hairstyle. At this point it was easier to mistake her for a village witch than a wealthy bride. “Nobody’d believe it if you told them! Your father! And that means Lady Hughes is… your sister! Makes sense,” the young sorceress nodded to herself. “No wonder we saw her with your mother in that other world. They must’ve gotten along well there, and Lady Hughes knows you’re her brother! Ah, what a shame my dad’s actually dead — I wouldn’t have minded finding him…”
She faltered, lowered her eyes for a moment, then launched right back into her fiery speech:
“Your father keeps calling everyone stupid, but look at him! They all realized whose son you are! And he’s just standing there… Ugh, I could’ve killed him!” The girl slapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry! He thinks your mother had you with some husband. Lady Hughes is crying, her sister’s crying, Tony’s gone for a physician, but Lady Hughes told me she doesn’t want to stay with them and wants to come with us to the “Ray” instead! You’re going to make up with her, right? You have to, you absolutely have to!”
“I never quarreled with her,” Charlie’s head had begun to ache from Agnes’s relentless chatter. “Stop babbling. And… here.”
One by one, he handed Agnes four pouches of gold — all of their wages.
“From now on, you’re the treasurer. Later you’ll give all this to Little Breeze, along with the… ingredients. All right?”
“All right.” Agnes shrugged. “That’s easy enough.”
“Good girl,” Charlie forced a smile. “Now shoo. I need to be alone.”
“The hell’s that supposed to mean?!” she demanded indignantly. “Am I supposed to walk all the way back to the estate?”
“Fair point…” The minstrel reached for the carriage door. “I’ll ride on the back, then.”
It was both his best and worst idea, perhaps. After an hour in the same position, his body had turned to stone — his back, neck, and arms were numb, and after jumping down to the ground, he could not properly straighten his knees for quite some time. On the other hand, during the return journey Charlie had not once thought about Helga or Thorne. His only concern had been not falling from the narrow, slippery seat onto the road below. Whose brilliant idea had it been to upholster them with leather?
At the estate, the commotion had reached unprecedented proportions — it felt as though the number of people had doubled, all of them endlessly rushing back and forth. Every bit of hot water was being used for laundry. The minstrel washed himself happily in cold water instead and even lay in the tub for a while, staring blankly at the ceiling.
“Is the duke arriving already?” he asked the laundress who kindly found him clean clothes and took away the long-suffering costume to be washed.
“In a week,” the woman confirmed. “First His Grace arrives, and then two or three days later Their Imperial Majesties will be here.”
“Why?” nearly slipped from Charlie’s tongue. He remembered just in time the empress’s birthday. Reaching his bed at last, he fell into a deep sleep. Rest fixed nothing. When he opened his eyes at dusk, Charlie still felt utterly drained.
If only this were a dream too… A stupid dream! At least thinking no longer required unbearable effort, and the headache had faded. Now what?
His stomach answered for him a second later. After stopping by Little Breeze’s “laboratory,” Charlie quenched his thirst with water from a jug and checked the time. The common kitchen was still open. He could have made it in time for supper, but there was a chance of running into Lady Hughes there, and he preferred hunger over difficult conversations.
Charlie would return to the tailor’s shop. Without question. But what exactly was he supposed to say to all of them?
As a little boy dreaming of reunion with his marquis father, Charlie had imagined a noble, handsome man consumed by grief: he had returned from his travels too late, and Mother had not lived to see him again. The marquis promised he would always stay by Charlie’s side, while Charlie promised to be an obedient son and never disappoint his father. Even back then, apparently, he believed love had to be earned. But had Thorne’s daughters not deserved at least a drop of love and respect? Rosalia lied to her sister for his sake. Helga sacrificed her pride for him with that portrait of Albina! Alas, even if they threw themselves into fire, the old man would never value the sacrifice — Nigel Thorne loved no one but himself. He would give Charlie no love either. Denying the obvious, searching for a way to reach him, believing the old man would change after discovering he had a son — all of it was a mistake…
Yes. In three days Charlie would tell him plainly that he was Thorne’s son, that Mother was dead, and that Thorne had never deserved her, even if she had been a naïve fool. He would say he laid no claim to inheritance, recognition, or money. He would say that a talent for music and painting, a physical resemblance — those were not enough. That he and Nigel were utterly different, and besides…
In some ways you’re different, perhaps, but handing out nicknames to pretty girls? That part clearly runs in the family… Charlie’s eternal companion — himself — immediately contradicted him.
It was true. Thorne remembered everything about Albina down to her surname, yet still used a pet name for her even after twenty-five years. Charles Blanc himself was not far behind his father with his freckles, squirrels, mice! Mouse… Mary had answered to the nickname gladly, though any other girl might have been insulted to be compared to a rodent.
Mary’s in Merenberg right now.
The only one of the four of them, the only one from the troupe, who’s home.
Charlie rose decisively from the bed and pulled a notebook from beneath the mattress — to cross out today’s date in both calendars and count how much time remained until the empress’s birthday and the end of their mission.
“Not much…” he exhaled, turning the pencil in his hands. “The celebration’s in two weeks, then another five days or so and…”
Then what? The final deadline — the collapse of every hope? No. It was far too early to bury himself or resign himself to eternal wandering in foreign lands. The road home lay through this trial — he simply had to pass it. If everything ended in failure, he would blame only himself, not everyone around him like Thorne did. Besides, today had not been entirely fruitless: they had ordered the amulet copy, and it would be ready soon. All that remained was to wait for the duke, switch the jewelry, and escape while the guests were celebrating. They now had more than enough gold for a wagon, food, even medicine…
The thought, soaring birdlike into the future, broke off abruptly — voices sounded beyond the door. A man’s and a woman’s. Someone inserted a key into the lock.
Ed! Of course. And Helga dragged herself here with him, looking for me. My dear brother won’t refuse her — he’ll let her in!
Charlie darted headlong into the neighboring room — then immediately back again. Every room in the house connected to another. There was not even a pantry to hide in.
Pathetic. Yes, I don’t want to see anyone, but I could at least tell her so to her face! Shame on my gray hairs, he concluded, pulling the wardrobe door more tightly shut.
His inner critic remained silent, having nothing to add. Charlie held his breath as the key finally turned in the lock. He had a key himself now, since the day before yesterday — the blacksmith had made duplicates for the minstrels…
The front door opened, but instead of Edgar’s heavy footsteps, Charlie heard nothing at first.
Then, drawn out and slightly puzzled:
“Little Breeze, oh, damn you…” He squeezed his eyes shut, mostly for appearances’ sake. They still had not fully adjusted to the darkness. “How did you guess I was here?”
“I heard you running around the house. Then I noticed the shoes by the bed and the book. They weren’t there when I left this morning.”
And once again — disgrace, the minstrel concluded inwardly, lowering his gaze. The shoes really had been left beside the bed.
“I brought you supper,” the elf gestured invitingly. “Come on.”
Refusing would have been the height of stupidity. In all his life, Charles Blanc had never tasted anything more delicious — the white bread melted in his mouth, while the ham baked with honey and seasoned with unfamiliar spices seemed like food fit for the gods. Its aroma alone would have driven mad even someone who hated meat.
Elves don’t eat meat! the minstrel suddenly remembered. The dragon said so, and Little Breeze’s father too… He’s probably sickened by it, but enduring it because of me.
“Gilaneris…” Charlie forced himself to swallow the piece of ham he should have chewed more thoroughly. “I’m sorry… Doesn’t the smell of this bother you?”
“Why would it?” the young mage arched a brow.
“Well… your people don’t eat meat. And Lord Zarmian complained that in his elven… form, meat made him nauseous.”
“Ah!” Gilaneris laughed shortly and brightly. “First of all, don’t worry. It doesn’t bother me. We elves need less food to feel full than humans or dwarves do. If there’s nothing else available, I can eat salted meat and feel perfectly fine. Someone larger than me…” He narrowed his eyes, as though choosing between several examples. “Remember Aelyra’s brother?”
“Mhm.” The minstrel nodded, biting into the crust of bread.
“Cantherion, if he isn’t fed like an entire horde of dwarves,” Gilaneris smirked, “will remain perpetually hungry — and therefore dull-witted and completely useless. As for Lord Zarmian… dragon magic can amplify or twist any trait of the creature whose form he takes. For example, in a dwarf’s body he wouldn’t merely dislike water — he’d experience a paralyzing terror of it.”
“Then what’s wrong with him in a human body?” Charlie set the empty bowl on the windowsill after finishing the meal.
“He hides from the world in dark, cramped places. Caves and the like.” Gilaneris shot a meaningful glance at the wardrobe. “Why did you climb in there? In general, how did things go? I’d have asked the girl, but I never got the chance to exchange more than a few words with her.”
After putting on his shoes and hiding the book back in its “secret place,” Charlie began answering his friend’s questions one by one.
“The jeweler agreed to make the trinket for us in three days. Suspected nothing. Charged a hundred gold for the work. Everything you asked us to buy, we bought — Agnes should bring it to you… and I gave her the money too. As for hiding in the wardrobe…” He drew in a sharp breath through his nose. “I was hiding from Helga. I heard voices and thought it was Helga and Ed.”
“It was me. I was speaking with the maid Emma about the dances for the celebration. All the young men will have to learn imperial dances…” The elf’s expression grew intensely focused, his elegant features sharpening. “Charlie, tell me honestly — is Helga going to bring us trouble?”
The minstrel shook his head. Suddenly, the whole story struck him as absurdly funny — as though it had happened not to him, but to the hero of some melodramatic romance.
“No, Little Breeze, I don’t think so. It just so happened that… Helga and I share a father. She’s my sister.”
Perhaps shutting himself away from everyone had been a mistake. The moment Charlie finished recounting everything concerning Thorne in full detail, a weight lifted from his soul.
Though part of that burden seemed to settle onto the listener instead.
“How horrible…” was all Little Breeze managed to say. The story had clearly struck a deep nerve in the elf. He was not even looking at Charlie anymore, but somewhere far away. “Horrible…”
The minstrel knew Little Breeze was capable of compassion. But… this reaction came from something beyond compassion. Could the elf fear something similar himself? If so, what exactly? Surely he knew everything about Anedrion, being so close to his father… Above all, Faorde the Elder’s love for his son was undeniable!
The temptation to provoke Little Breeze into the heartfelt conversation he had long promised was immense. The minstrel fought against it. Fought — and managed neither victory nor defeat.
“Master, are you in there?” Agnes unleashed a barrage of knocks upon their front door. “Master, it’s me! I brought… uh… tea, I brought tea. Master Gilaneris, open up!”
That’s enough for one day.
Charlie immediately began retreating toward the wardrobe again. He would speak with Agnes another time as well.
“Stop.” Gilaneris seized his wrist, his voice quiet yet utterly uncompromising. “If you’re going to hide, do it properly.”
The elf’s eyes flared violet. Sparks of the same color danced around his fingers, folded into some strange sign — like a swarm of fireflies, they whirled around Charlie before fading out two heartbeats later.
“Invisibility spell,” Little Breeze whispered in a single breath. “No one can hear you either, but don’t sit on the bed — the mattress will sink.”
The spell worked. Agnes neither saw Charlie nor heard him creeping on tiptoe across the room toward the mirror. In the mirror, the minstrel found no reflection of himself at all — the magical disguise was flawless.
Gilaneris had studied Agnes well — he predicted her every move before she even crossed the threshold. After disposing of the “treasury” and the ingredient vials, the girl immediately began searching for Charlie. She checked every room, peered beneath beds and inside the wardrobe. She even eyed the windowsill suspiciously! The empty bowl bothered her for quite some time. Soon enough, however, Agnes forgot about everything except her primary mission — sharing the news with her master. She recounted their visit to the jeweler’s shop with such enthusiasm she nearly choked on her own words. But when the time came to retell the story of Helga and Charlie’s kinship, Agnes visibly wilted.
“I just want to be useful, I try to help, and he…” The conflict between brother and sister concerned her least of all. “One moment he’s angry at me, the next…” She lifted her chin. “Do you know what he actually said to me? ‘Shoo’! What am I to him, a cat?!”
Her emotions demanded release — Agnes struck the foot of the bed with her fist.
“Why?” she asked miserably. “Why am I only ever needed by freaks? What did I do to make him hate me?”
“Does he hate you?” Little Breeze, who had been pacing back and forth until then, stopped and glanced over his shoulder at Agnes. “I would venture to suggest he likes you.”
“What…? Oh, come o—” The girl faltered. “Y-you’re joking, Master.”
“I won’t claim certainty. About him, at least. About you, though, I do have a few thoughts. If you’ll allow me.”
“Of course, of course…” Agnes lowered her eyes, and her loose hair fell across her face.
“You’re still far too young to know what kind of person you truly need,” the elf resumed pacing before his student. “And you were barely more than a child when your…” He grimaced with disgust. “Your stepbrother… started laying hands on you.”
“I wish he’d died, Jeff…” Charlie barely recognized the girl’s voice. It sounded lifeless and burning with fury at the same time. “Would’ve been better if that monster had eaten him. Two years he managed without it, then he started threatening me again… Said he’d burn the house down, bring his friends from the city guard, hand me over to them.”
Jeff. Who the hell is Jeff?
The name was familiar. Charlie had definitely heard it before. But where?
“Jeff…” As though reading his friend’s thoughts, Gilaneris sat down on his bed. Then he traced a finger along his own cheek, from ear to chin. “With a scar like this?”
“Yes…” Agnes nodded again, then immediately flailed her hands. “Don’t point at yourself like that!”
The scar… The crossbow aimed at Gilaneris. The guards Jeff and Steve!
On the way back, stop by Maplewood and beat the bastard senseless — problem solved, the inner voice suggested. Though… you couldn’t do it. In a fight, you’re utterly worthless.
“We met him,” the elf pressed his lips thin. “Disgusting man. Because of him, you search for someone who won’t hurt you. And you found one, because Charlie would sooner hang himself than openly show interest in you — or any other woman. He’ll find a hundred reasons to retreat, to resist temptation… Whatever made him this way, it’s convenient.”
Was Little Breeze mocking him or… envying him? Even if he was condemning him, he was still absolutely right.
Why was Charlie like this? Only the gods knew. With women — especially after visiting those unfortunate courtesans — he had become overly cautious. Even with Elinor he tried to behave respectfully, though he did not always succeed. And he had hurt Agnes all the same, simply in a different way. He would have to make peace not only with Helga, but with this… kindred spirit as well. Without fail.
“Charlie went through a great deal today. Give him time to come to terms with the truth,” Gilaneris crossed one leg over the other. “One more thing, girl. If people fail to accept you, the problem is not you. You’re sincere, brave, and one day you’ll become a powerful sorceress. Think about that more often instead of dwelling on the past. Besides, if things had truly been all right at home, your mother would never have written to Master Bertrand to send you away for your own safety. We never would have met. Everything that happens…”
He never finished the proverb — apparently common to both humans and elves — because Agnes interrupted him with a convulsive sob.
“No!” Her throat spasmed shut. “She… Mama wa-wanted me to leave, wanted me gone so I wouldn’t get in her way! She and my stepfather used to fight, and he d-didn’t believe th-that Jeff…”
Agnes clapped a hand over her mouth and doubled over, trembling violently with sobs. Gilaneris instantly sprang toward his student. His hand hovered inches from her back — then his fingers curled into a fist, and the elf smacked himself in the forehead five times in quick succession.
Yes. Touching her now would have been wrong.
“Don’t cry, child…!” Gilaneris looked around helplessly. “Fool, I’m an absolute fool…”
The sight of the bewildered elf stirred an inexplicable anxiety in Charlie, troubling him even more than the girl’s tears. Yet he understood both his friends: Agnes carried a mortal grievance against her mother, while Gilaneris had never suspected such a thing… and had stumbled badly.
Maybe I should bring her water? flashed through Charlie’s mind. She’ll get frightened by the ghost, stop crying, and send both of us to hell.
“Listen, child…” Gilaneris crouched before Agnes. “What do you love most in all the world?”
“Huh?” The girl sniffled. “W-what?”
“What do you love most?” Gilaneris summoned magic, and soft light coiled around his right hand. “I can create whatever illusion you wish. Perhaps you love flowers, or—”
Agnes straightened abruptly.
“It w-won’t work. I l-love… lullabies. My grandmother used to sing them to me. You can’t conjure… my grandmother.”
“I could, using your memories as a foundation,” the elf frowned, and the sparks of magic dissolved. “But that would be… entirely unacceptable.”
“Th-then…” The girl hiccuped as she wiped away her tears. “Will you s-sing me a lullaby…?”
Gilaneris rose slowly, walked to the window, and stared out into the darkness. He could not see that at that very moment Agnes was hitting herself on the head in much the same way.
To be fair, students were not supposed to make requests like that of their teachers.
They really are alike after all, the minstrel smiled sadly. In truth, humans and elves resemble one another far more than either side is willing to admit.
“How strange…” Little Breeze turned away from the window with his usual elegance. “I can’t remember a single lullaby. Ballads, though — those I know!” He watched Agnes attentively. “A great many heroic ones. Adventures, warriors, mages…”
“No need, Master, if there’s nothing… calm,” the girl turned aside. “It’s time to sleep anyway. I just… need to sit for a minute and that’s all. My face is blotchy and red — the girls will notice I’ve been crying…”
“Wait, child,” the elf said gently. Months ago, on a sleepless night, his father had spoken to him in that same tone. “There is something calm. Once, I wrote…” He rubbed his forehead. “Well, verses I intended to sing, under an invisibility spell, as a serenade… to one demanding young lady. At the time, I believed my feelings were unreturned.”
As expected, someone else’s love story instantly caught Agnes’s attention — she stared at Little Breeze like a snake charmer’s cobra.
“The serenade turned out unnecessary — Lyra and I,” the elf absently touched the chain still hidden beneath his black doublet, “grew close before I finished… rehearsing. The verses are foolish, and my singing is mediocre, but the melody truly is calm. Promise you won’t laugh.”
Agnes swore solemnly, and the song began — quiet, full of longing, yet growing louder with each new line:
“High above the earth so wide, your lone star does gleam,
Hidden in the light of day, shining in my dream.
Still I search the silent skies, where its glow may lie,
Brighter than its silver flame are your gentle eyes.
But your gaze seeks not for me in the crowd below,
I am but a stranger’s name — one you’ll never know.
Why we cannot walk as one, I have come to see,
Yet I’ve found a bitter cure for this pain in me.
Other lands await my blade, war without a song,
I shall go and never turn, though the road is long.
Should the Fates permit my steps to your door again,
I'll return a worthy soul — until then... farewell”
Gilaneris Faorde, the author, had every right to criticize his own verses. Charles Blanc, the unwilling listener, would not have rewritten a single line. Besides, the words themselves were not the point. His voice — that same gentle spring wind — slipped everywhere. It was pure, impossibly pure. So pure it was difficult to believe. The elf seemed to exert no effort at all as he drew forth note after note — as though he had no need even for breath.
Charlie himself had certainly stopped breathing. He would gladly have remained in that moment forever. Without any magical tricks whatsoever, Gilaneris had restored order to his soul. The pain and disappointment left by meeting his father, the doubts about his talent, the loneliness, the worries over the mission, the amulet, the elixir of immortality — all of it receded into the background. Shrinking away, like entire cities must shrink for birds soaring high in the sky. But Charlie had risen higher than birds. To a place even Edgar’s music could not always carry him.
If he and my dear brother ever performed together… he told himself. It would be magnificent. Provided my dear brother keeps quiet and simply plays, while I… I’d be content just sitting in the audience.
But all of it was a foolish dream. Ed would drag them not to Uncle Clive’s tavern, not onto a stage, but to Dietmar. His feelings toward elves had hardly changed. Charlie alone would have to expose the deception — and afterward Gilaneris would leave them. What room was there for shared artistry in that?
“Master, that was… really, really wonderful!.. I’ve never heard anything better in my life… Ohhh, sweet goddess of—!” The young elf’s singing had a healing effect on Agnes; she positively glowed with happiness. “You have to perform with them, with Charlie and Ed. Travel all over the Continent so everyone knows your name, literally everyone, you understand?”
“I understand.” Smiling indulgently, Gilaneris unlocked the door with his key and opened it wide, letting the evening coolness spill into the house. “I’m glad you liked it, though I am surprised… Off with you now. It is late.”
The girl nodded eagerly, yet remained standing in the doorway.
“Master, I know it’s none of my business,” she looked him straight in the eyes, “but you said it yourself… dark rituals are vile, rebellion against… uh… the nature of magic! Bad mages practice them, and you’re… one of the good ones.”
“Yes, of course.” Only the deaf could have missed the sarcasm in the elf’s reply. “Good night.”
“I see.” Agnes’s shoulders drooped. “Well, never mind. I’ll pray to the gods for you, so they keep you safe… Good night.”
His student had soured his mood — that evening Gilaneris spoke neither to Charlie nor to Ed again. Charlie, however, was not troubled by it. When the invisibility spell finally faded and his reflection reappeared in the mirror, he felt absolutely certain he had just returned from another world — a truly beautiful one.
