The Mystic Marriage by Heather Rose Jones Page B

transgression.
    De Cherdillac burst into the room as if she were walking on stage. Antuniet wondered idly if she paused before entering to gather herself to assume the role. She was as striking as ever with coal-black curls peeking out from under a turban of gold silk and setting off the creamy perfection of her skin. That perfection, Antuniet knew, owed something to the powder box, but the vicomtesse was enough of an artist that you scarcely noticed. You forgot the question entirely as soon as her dark eyes fixed upon you in delight and she unexpectedly clasped you for a quick peck on both cheeks. “ Ma chère Antuniet! I’m so glad you could come! You’re looking well.”
    By which Antuniet assumed she did not look as if she’d been sleeping under a bridge. “Well” was stretching matters. “Do you have any news for me?” she asked.
    “Tcha, we’ll come to business later. I have a lovely dinner planned. My cook has managed to find the most succulent duckling you have ever tasted and she won’t say where she gets them because she thinks I’d tell all my friends and then she wouldn’t be able to buy any more. Which I would, of course.” She laughed.
    So it was to be the fiction of a purely social call for now. Well, it wasn’t as if she had any other appointments this evening. Antuniet took the indicated seat and started composing a praise for the meal that would sound appropriately artificial. Somehow “It’s been ages since I dined this well” struck the wrong note in her present situation. And she was trying not to bring to mind that last private dinner.
    As the evening wore on it was easier than she thought to slip into the rhythms of her old life, especially with someone so skilled at the game. The food was delicious. And the conversation covered harmless, inconsequential topics. De Cherdillac was a superlative hostess. Almost, she could imagine that the meal would be followed by a concert and then she would return to Modul Street. And her mother would inquire in her acid, pointed way whether she had met anyone interesting. And then, later in the night, she would be awakened by some minor uproar when Estefen returned home.
    Reverie and reality merged in the sound of a raised voice elsewhere in the house, the tapping of quick footsteps and the bursting open of the door. De Cherdillac’s butler was serving at table, so the unexpected guest was trailed by a parlormaid, apologizing profusely, “I’m sorry Mesnera, but she insisted on seeing you and—”
    “And you are always welcome in my house, Benedetta. Thank you, Ainis, you may go. But darling, as you see, I have company.”
    The intruder was a tall, curvaceous woman, wearing a pelisse in the Italian style of deep garnet sarsenet. The elaborate coiffure and the boldness with which her long, oval face was painted advertised her profession as a performer. A singer, Antuniet guessed from the honey-rich tones of her voice, which were at odds with her waspish words.
    “I expected you two hours ago.”
    De Cherdillac rose and, with a brief gesture of apology, took the conversation out into the hallway. It made no difference, as neither woman took the trouble to whisper.
    “Didn’t you receive my note, Benedetta? I have other plans this evening.”
    “And I wanted to see for myself just who these other plans were.”
    “ Chérie , you know I adore you, but this jealousy is so unattractive. You embarrass me in front of my guest.”
    “And you embarrassed me in front of my friends. I promised Hannek you would join us for a drive. You have made me a joke.”
    “But chérie , you should not have promised in my name! Here is a promise for you: I will be there for the performance tomorrow. And afterward we will go to Café Chatuerd.”
    “Who is she?”
    “An old friend. Really, Benedetta, this is growing tedious.”
    And then the voices became less distinct and there was the sound of a door closing. Antuniet rose when the vicomtesse returned to the