Shadowsong (Wintersong #2)(34)
“N-no,” I stammered. “I mean yes, I mean, no, I think my brother might have—” My words tumbled over themselves before I could catch them, spilling out ahead of my racing mind. The sounds of the house seemed garbled, muffled, the music from the other room warped and twisted beyond recognition, as though heard underwater. My vision wavered and narrowed, tunneling down so that near seemed far and far seemed near.
“Here.” The woman flagged down a passing server and took two glasses filled with a rich, ruby red wine. “Have a drink, my dear. It will calm your nerves.” She handed me the drink.
Through the haze of my whirling thoughts, I remembered that I wasn’t much for spirits or wine of any kind anymore. I couldn’t help but remember the last time I had been at a ball such as this, the last time I had drunk from a goblet handed to me by a mysterious stranger. The same uncertainty, the same precarious feeling of unbalance between unease and excitement overcame me, but out of politeness, I accepted the drink. I gingerly took a sip, trying not to grimace at the unexpected flowery aftertaste. To my surprise, the drink did soothe me, the liquor a balm to my raw and exposed nerves.
“Thank you,” I said, dribbling a bit. I sheepishly wiped at my mouth. “Beg pardon, ma’am.”
The woman laughed. “It is an acquired taste.” Her eyes through the mask were a pale grass green, startlingly vivid in this color-starved room. “Is this your first ball here?”
I gave a self-conscious laugh. “Is it so very obvious?”
She only gave me an enigmatic smile in response. “And how are you enjoying yourself, my dear?”
“A little overwhelmed,” I admitted. “I was looking for a place to catch my breath. Get some air.”
The winter woman smoothed a stray bit of hair behind my ear and my hand flew up to catch the wilting poppy still tucked there. It was an uncomfortably intimate gesture from someone I did not know, and the queasy feeling arose again. Glancing about the room, I noticed that all those in attendance—save Fran?ois, K?the, and Josef—wore a scarlet bloom pinned to their costumes.
“Are you sure? It’s quite chilly outside,” she said. “I can escort you to one of the private rooms upstairs if you need a moment to yourself.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly,” I said, my cheeks flushing. “I—I think I’m overheated. Perhaps a walk outside will do me some good.”
Those extraordinary green eyes regarded me thoughtfully. “The Count and Countess have a hedge maze in their gardens if you would like to wander.”
“Oh yes, please,” I said.
She nodded. “Follow me.”
I handed my goblet to a waiting server before turning to follow the woman in white through the rooms and corridors to the gardens. She walked with a limp, a clubbed foot peeking out from behind the hem of her skirts as we made our way outside. I knew exactly what her costume was meant to portray. Frau Perchta of the swan-foot, the Christmas spirit who made sure we had spun our allotted amount of flax the previous year. But Christmas was long past and we were nearly to spring with the start of the Lenten season tomorrow. An odd choice.
We arrived at a set of glass doors in an empty room that led onto a terrace. “The gardens need tending,” she said, a bit apologetically. “They’ve grown a bit unruly. Unsightly.”
“I’m not afraid of ugliness,” I said. “I rather enjoy a little bit of wildness.”
Those green eyes studied my face, as though searching for an answer to a question she had not yet asked. “Yes,” she said, placing a hand upon my cheek. “There is the air of the uncanny about you.”
I coughed, opening the door and stepping out onto the terrace to further avoid her touch.
“Don’t tarry too long, Elisabeth,” she warned. “The night is long, and it is not yet spring.”
Elisabeth. The hairs rose all along my arms. “How did you know—”
But the woman was already gone, the doors closed behind her. A shining, unbroken line of white lined the terrace, gleaming faintly in the moonlight. I swallowed hard, then stepped over the salt and into the darkness beyond.
THE LABYRINTH
i was not alone.
A handful of guests were also gathered outside, clustered in dribs and drabs around torches planted in intervals about the gardens. A few gentlemen were smoking pipes while their female companions fanned at the blue haze gathering about their faces, huddled close for warmth. Although the days in Vienna had grown almost warm, the nights still nipped at any bits of uncovered flesh like spiteful icy sprites. The cold air felt good against my flushed cheeks, but I wished I had brought my cloak.
Low laughter and soft murmurs rose in conversation as I descended from the terrace to the gardens, a persistent yet inescapable buzz that followed me like a swarm of flies. I resisted the urge to swat at the words catching at my ears.
“Have you heard about poor old Karl Rothbart?” I overheard one of the women say.
“No!” one of the men exclaimed. “Do tell.”
“Dead,” the woman replied. “Found in his workshop, lips blue with cold . . .”
Their voices faded away as I pressed myself farther and farther into the garden’s murky retreat, searching for the entrance to the hedge maze. For all that I could not bear my own silence, I wanted the voices of the world around me to disappear. Solitude was different from loneliness, and it was solitude I was seeking.