Grey clouds hung heavy over the city of C— that New Year’s Eve morning.
It felt to Celeste, as she sat on the window-seat in the dining room of Quigley’s house, that the clouds were tapping on the window, knocking at the door, filled with bad news. Breakfast was laid on the table but she wasn’t hungry and to pass the time she watched people walk past, huddled and wrapped tight against the bitter cold.
Hildegard might wake up, she told herself, and feel well enough to go on the Empress. But everything felt brittle, hopeless.
‘Don’t let there be bad news,’ she whispered to the frosty window.
Last night Dr Marks had taken Hildegard to her mother’s house and Anna had gone with them. The police had arrived at the opera house and arrested a dazed Madame Sabina Petrova and charged her with attempted murder. For a while after Hildegard had gone and Madame Sabina had been taken away, no one knew what to do until at last Mr Gautier told them all to go home.
Celeste had hardly been able to sleep. It had still been dark when she’d got up and for want of anything better to do she had packed her toy theatre, then the dress Anna was going to wear on the ship and the shawl Stephan had given her. On top of the shawl she’d found a piece of card on which Hildegard had written:
Dear Anna,
I love you very much. I would have been lost without you.
With love, Hildegard.
PS I wasn't really scared of Celeste, I just wanted you all to myself. But I think you knew that.
PPS The frame is for you to put your wedding picture in. You can take mine out quite easily.
Celeste looked everywhere for the frame, anxious that she might have missed it. When she finally thought to turn over the card she discovered that the card was the frame. Hildegard had made it and had gone to such a lot of trouble. She’d cut herself out from a photograph that originally must have included her mama, and put bright pink paper behind it. Celeste didn’t know that Hildegard was good at art and thought that there was much she had yet to learn about her. She wrapped the picture in the shawl. Even as she did it she thought that they wouldn’t be going anywhere today, on this the last day of the year, her last chance to meet the man in the emerald green suit, her last chance to win the Reckoning. But without Hildegard, who would be able to sing the song? But then she remembered: ‘the song of a bird who can’t sing’ – it was the song that was important, and the bird can’t sing it because she’s ill.
How many times had she gone over everything in her mind? A thousand times, perhaps more. She had wondered if the three things had to be in a certain order. Was it the song first, or the play? She felt that becoming invisible must be last. Or was it the first? And did it matter? She heard the doorbell ring as she traced Hildegard’s name in the condensation on the windowpane and spun round when the door opened and Viggo came into the room.
‘Any news?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Uncle Peter sent me here to tell you to be ready.’
‘We can’t go,’ said Celeste.
‘My uncle says you have to. He says whatever else happens today, you and Anna must be on the Empress. And I agree. I want to see Maria again – I want that as much as you do. Remember, it was you and Maria who explained about the gutter in time – perhaps there is a chance this story will end in a different way. If it doesn’t, though I might have no memory of you and Maria and Anna, I will live my life knowing that I never met the person I was supposed to meet, that there is an empty space where she should have been.’
‘If I do win the game,’ said Celeste, ‘and we’re all in Copenhagen, you won’t know you knew us here. But I’ve thought about that,’ and she took from her pocket the cut-out figure of the little dancer, of Maria. ‘If I win the Reckoning, and we meet again, Maria will ask you for this. You won’t know why you have it but we will know.’
Viggo put the figure in his pocket as Quigley came in.
‘Good morning, Viggo.’ He poured a cup of coffee and sat down. ‘Any word?’
‘No, but my uncle has gone to the Petrova house to collect Anna. She and Celeste mustn’t miss the ship’s departure.’
‘You’re right. I believe this day, New Year’s Eve, is a very important day.’
‘We can’t leave if Hildegard isn’t with us,’ said Celeste.
Quigley thought about this, then said, ‘As we’re waiting for news and there’s nothing we can do but wait, let me tell you a story about my brother.’
‘Was he a clown?’
‘No, my brother was a tattoo artist. He worked not far from here. He was famous for his designs and many sailors and sea captains came to him. They often had stories to tell and there was one that he heard again and again from those who made their living on the water. They spoke of the great white bird, an albatross, and of the blind man who does his bidding. It was believed that he was once a drowning sailor who, in exchange for his life, had given up his soul and lost his sight to the great white bird. Legend says that this man was allowed back on land whenever there was a Reckoning.’
Viggo looked alarmed and Celeste slipped her arm through his.
‘Should I carry on?’ said Quigley.
Celeste nodded.
‘If there was a child on board a ship from which he had taken the passengers and crew, the blind man felt obliged to play the Reckoning, to give the child a chance to win back his or her life and the lives of everyone else on the ship. Though he boasted that no child would ever win the game. One day, my brother was told this same story by a blind man and he asked the blind man if there was a way a child could beat the albatross and win.
‘The blind man laughed and said, “No.” But then he thought again. “Identical twins,” he said, “that’s what the great white bird fears.” My brother asked why. “Because two children could play the game as one. It has never happened,” he said. And then he had my brother tattoo two names on his arm: Maria and Celeste. My brother asked if they were twins but the blind man wouldn’t answer.’
‘Who was he?’ asked Viggo, though he knew the answer.
‘He didn’t say his name.’
‘When was this?’
‘A little over twelve years ago,’ said Quigley. He sipped his coffee. ‘I, being a curious man and, being a clown, thought too foolish to be taken seriously, asked the blind piano tuner, Mr Albert Ross, if he knew that there was a Celeste at the opera house and that there had also been a Maria. He asked if it was a riddle and I said yes, a riddle of sorts.
‘He said, “The answer is that they are one person and the same person, not two people.” Now, here is the conundrum: I saw the dress rehearsal of The Saviour, and I know that Celeste is not Maria. I will say no more except that you, Celeste, must be on that ship with Anna. You understand? Too many ships have lost their passengers and crew and the more often this happens the more isolated the city of C— becomes.’
Celeste went to the clown and hugged him.
‘No, no, no,’ said Quigley, laughing. ‘And, by the way, I don’t want to know how you become invisible in your bright lights. We all need our trade secrets.’
They heard the bell and then the front door opening, and voices in the hall.
Quigley stood up and the three of them braced themselves as if expecting the grey clouds to rush in. Peter came in with Anna who looked beyond tears, and told them what Celeste, Viggo and Quigley never wanted to hear, not this year, not next year and never in all the years to come.
Hildegard was dead.
