The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(62)
Elena added it all up. “That’s Yvette.”
“You think our foulmouthed girl with the kohl eyeliner is one of these otherworldly creatures?” Alexandre shook his head, doubtful. “I find that highly unlikely. Besides, as the book states, the Fée abandoned this part of the world centuries ago.”
“But some are still drawn to this side of the veil. It says so right here. What if her mother was one as well?”
“There you go. Cleo Marchand lived her entire life in the city until her disappearance.”
“We only know that’s true while she was a dancer. But when she disappeared, it was because she went home, according to Isadora.”
Henri looked up as though an idea had grown too large to keep to himself inside that curious mortal head of his. “But that’s it. Don’t you see? That’s why Tulane called her Mademoiselle Delacourt.”
“I don’t follow, young man.”
Henri pointed to the book in Elena’s hand. “What she read about the Fée, about how they live. Their fancy court. It could be a private joke between Tulane and Cleo, or maybe a secret lover’s language. He calls her his mademoiselle de la court.”
“Oh, Henri, that’s well done,” Elena said, clapping a hand over her mouth at the obvious reference.
Alexandre squinted through his pince-nez and had a look at The Book of the Seven Stars for himself. He read the same exact passage Elena had read out loud and then turned the page. “If one wishes to communicate with the Fée, it is generally advised to do so psychically, considering the convoluted nature of their native language.
“Good heavens, could it be?” Alexandre hurried to the back of his shop and opened a freestanding wardrobe with double doors and a price tag that would set most workers back a month’s wages.
“What is it?”
The proprietor tossed the contents out of the closet, digging past the women’s parasols, buckle shoes, and feathered hats to find what he was looking for at the bottom. Elena wondered if he might have remembered there was a secret portal in the back or some other enchanted nonsense. Instead, he reemerged red-faced and triumphant. “This, mademoiselle,” he said and held up a paper scroll wrapped with gold cord. “It’s merely an odd souvenir piece I picked up at a witch’s trunk sale, however . . .”
The old man stretched the parchment out on the front desk, using the clock Henri had been fiddling with, a pair of candlesticks, and a leather boot to hold down each of the four corners. Once opened, the scroll revealed itself to be a rather old yet detailed map of the night sky. Elena easily recognized the various constellations—Andromeda, Lyra, Cygnus, the families of the zodiac, and of course la grand ourse—only this star chart was not identified by the familiar names one learned in school. The constellations were instead individually labeled with the same filigree-style symbols found in Yvette’s book.
“Astonishing,” Elena said. “The style is almost identical.”
“The man I bought it from assured me it was genuine pixie contraband. I bought it for a laugh, thinking someone might pick it up in the store for a novelty gift or some such.”
“Pixie contraband?” Henri, mouth agape, hugged his satchel and sank in the same overstuffed chair Yvette had previously fallen into.
“So, it could be a fairy language?” And even as Elena uttered the words, a tingle rushed up the back of her neck, assuring her it must be true. She traced her finger over the map, beginning with the seven stars she knew for an absolute fact were part of the constellation of Ursa Major. The symbol hovering over it in black ink showed a set of consecutive swirls and dots. “Do you think it’s possible to translate these symbols so that we can read them, based on the names we already know for the constellations?”
“Certainly not letter for letter I wouldn’t think. But perhaps there’s a way to distinguish certain words based on sounds or pronunciations. And based on a few assumptions, of course.”
“You mean, substitute this symbol here for the letters in the Big Dipper?” Henri said, setting his satchel aside to stand and look at the map.
“Hmm, or do we call it Ursa Major?” Alexandre asked. “Or Ursa Minor, or the Cart and Plow, or the Dead Man’s Coffin? Given how many names there are for that particular constellation, perhaps that wouldn’t serve as the best word-for-word comparison for translation. But another might do. Yes, indeed, it just might.”
Elena’s hopes wilted. Given the scope of navigating the intersection of languages, it would be like trying to sail the open sea without a compass. Still, the book itself would be a bargaining chip if and when Yvette’s captor decided to come out of the shadows and make his demands.
While Henri and Alexandre continued looking for something useful on the pixie map to use in translation, Elena picked up the book, consciously testing how the pages felt under her fingertips as she turned them, how the paint had bled into the paper before drying. Yes, she thought, her instinct tingling, it may yet prove the perfect bargaining chip after all.
Several hours later, the most Alexandre and Henri had to show for their translation effort was a single consistent symbol they were almost certain represented the letter combination of Aq. Or was it Ar?
As Alexandre argued the linguistic sense of a symbol against Henri’s artistic interpretation of it, the clock they’d used to hold down the northeast corner of the star map chimed seven. Elena asked if the time was accurate, then nearly panicked when Alexandre confirmed it with a glance at his pocket watch.