Toccata of Shadows

Cordelia,

I would begin by offering my apologies for not being present to greet you upon arrival to my home, but the necessity of my business does require travel from time to time. And I have again been delayed; therefore, I will not be able to greet you until the soiree this evening. Jacques has spoken highly of your passion and virtuosity, and I look forward to seeing what the diamond of my old university can do.

Remember, the carriage will arrive precisely at 7:15 p.m. Be dressed, ready, and in the courtyard.

Yours with fondness,

Danielle S.

Cordelia donned one of her more daring ensembles for this evening’s performance. Instead of her usual underpinnings, she chose a black thong, stockings and garters, and a black leather miniskirt. After donning her over-the-knee stiletto boots, she slipped into a bell-sleeved lace overdress and then topped that with a black and silver brocade underbust corset. With her violin case slung over her shoulder, she descended into the courtyard as the clopping of hooves sounded on the street outside.

A gasp of genuine shock burst from Cordelia’s lips. Although she was told a carriage would bring her to the estate, but she assumed it was naught but a mere formality of language. And yet, beyond the wrought iron gate stood a cream-hued carriage, its doors emblazoned with a French helmet atop a red shield with three white circles, pulled by two white horses.

Cordelia stepped through the gate, and the coachman assisted her in stepping into the carriage. As she sank into the softness of the red and white harlequin-style velvet upholstery, the door closed, leaving her in darkness within the windowless carriage.

Once the carriage stopped, the driver opened the door to a carriage house. Cypress planks, varnished and polished to an immaculate shine, lined the floor, and Cordelia noticed arched, cathedral-style windows and an arched door in the wall opposite her. That door opened, and an elderly man dressed in a formal black, grey, and white tailcoat and trousers approached.

“And who might you be, mademoiselle?” He asked in a nasal tone that bordered on the abrasive.

“Cordelia von Kraat,” she said.

Recognition dawned. “Ah, the young virtuoso. I must say, he has sung your praises more than a cherub in heaven. You are greatly anticipated.”

He spat the word heaven with more derision than Cordelia’s mother ever spat the word lesbian. The butler then produced a silk cloth and said, “Please do not be offended. As a guest who is not a member of the master’s circle, you must be blindfolded. I hope he remembered to discuss that with you?”

Cordelia nodded. “He did.”

“Good. You will perform near evening’s end,” the butler said. “You are a guest, so please enjoy the fellowship.”

A chill shivered Cordelia’s spine in that moment, and she gasped as his breath, moist, cold, and stale, brushed against her skin. The silk cloth felt cool and dry, and though the knot securing it was firm, it was not uncomfortable. The butler offered Cordelia his arm, and he guided her through the house, up the stairs, and into what she assumed to be the dining hall due to the din of conversation emerging through the air.

The door opened, and a dozen conversations fell silent. Cordelia tensed; multiple pairs of eyes appraised her. Whispers swirled. Cordelia closed in on herself. A swish told her the butler pulled a chair out.

As he guided her to the chair, a husky voice said, “Ah, I see my house guest has arrived. Welcome, Cordelia.”

“Danielle?” Cordelia turned toward the sound. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

The butler said, “Belpharoë, you and Miss Sanders, please assist Miss von Kraat with eating and drinking, given the rules governing her presence this evening.”

And then a voice whose breath smelled of warm spices brushed against Cordelia’s neck as Belpharoë teased, “Fear not, Laurent; she is well accustomed to my touch.”

Giggles and murmurs swelled within the crowed. Danielle placed a gentle hand atop Cordelia’s and said, “It’s okay, dear. I was in your seat three years ago. You will find flavors so bold and intense they will border on orgasmic.”

And then the butler, Laurent, addressed those assembled. “This is Miss Cordelia von Kraat, the violinist Master St. Germain has hired to transform his most recent composition, ‘Dawn Song for the Fallen,’ into a musical poem. She is the only person aside from the master himself to read the poem.”

As he walked away, Cordelia felt a familiar touch brush the back of her hand as the base and stem of a wine glass was placed beneath her fingertips.

“Here, my little one,” Belpharoë said, “drink.”

Cordelia nodded, pausing to assess her body. The air was cool, but she felt warm. It must’ve been the warmth spreading from her core and her quickened heartbeat. She brought the wine glass to her lips and sipped. Sweet, fruity, and earthy. But another flavor—tart, earthy, sour, and acrid—danced at the faintest edges of her perception. Still, her body relaxed at the taste; she sipped again, and its taste grew sweeter.

“So, Danielle,” a woman with a strong Caribbean accent began, “this young woman from St. Albertus Magnus, that is your alma mater. No?”

“It is, Nayeli,” Danielle said. “A good education if one can stomach the required mass attendance.”

“But you did not finish, correct?”

“The requirements of my work alongside Dagon necessitated stepping away from my studies. Unfortunately, my task has been unending, as of late.”

Danielle’s vocal tone, her hesitancy, and the strange warbling vibrato at times suggested a deep sadness. There was, however, a resolution in her words—almost as if she accepted the lack of finishing her degree as a necessary sacrifice.

“While Danielle was a scholar of this country’s education system,” Belpharoë said, her voice dripping with praise as she slid an arm around Cordelia’s shoulders, “Cordelia seeks a doctorate in musical arts. She is both a virtuoso performer and a visionary composer with her first symphony set to debut one week before the solstice.”

“A symphony?” A deep voice with an Eastern European accent, Cordelia guessed Russian, asked. “Is that customarily a requirement for your graduation?”

She shook her head. “No. Most opt for something like a suite, a concerto, or a collection of smaller pieces. Fewer instruments makes scheduling and rehearsing far easier. But I’ve never made things easy for myself. I didn’t start playing until I was in high school, but I earned a full ride to Juilliard and then made my way here so I could work with Professor Ascani.”

“Yes,” a honeyed baritone with an accent at once familiar and exotic said. “Such ambition matched with talent appears to be why Jacques chose you to compose to his poem.”

“But, sir,” Belpharoë asked, “was it not you who brought her to his attention?”

The man with the honeyed baritone chuckled a dark and stormy chuckle. “As with so many things attributed to me, Belpharoë, I cannot claim credit without deception in this matter. I was made aware of Miss von Kraat’s talents almost two months ago through you and Randall. I thought he had packed up and moved on, but it seems he has remained at that particular crossroads to good effect.”

Trumpets sounded; their notes echoed through the dining hall, bouncing off all surfaces at once. Doors opened to Cordelia’s right. The trumpets fell silent.

Two sets of footsteps emerged, one slightly out of sync to the other. The resonance in their thumps resembled that of Cordelia’s block heels. They stopped with a stamping of a foot. Then two voices, one a deep baritone and the other a mezzo-soprano, in unison, said, “All rise for the arrival of the Magus Philosophicus, the Walker in the Shadows and Veils, and the Grand Priest of the True Communion.”

Belpharoë and Danielle helped Cordelia to her feet. They turned her to face the doors that had opened as all assembled said, “Greetings, Magus Philosophicus.”

And then this Magus Philosophicus spoke in a low tenor with a pronounced French accent. “Bon soir, one and all. Welcome, one and all, young and old, veteran and… virgin. Upon this most sacred and unholy of nights, we welcome a man who needs no introduction among our circle, a man of impeccable wealth and taste who has done more for humanity than all whom thunder may declare greater.” He paused to chuckle at what appeared to be his joke. “We welcome, the old hobgoblin himself, Nicholas Scratch.”

Those assembled applauded with great vigor. Their applause faded, and the Magus Philosophicus then said, “And joining us on this night is the virtuoso Cordelia von Kraat.”

They applauded again; Cordelia bowed in response. As the applause faded, Belpharoë and Danielle tugged on Cordelia’s arms, gesturing for her to return to her seat. Belpharoë’s hand descended down Cordelia’s spine; a snaking shiver followed as the room chilled further. Cordelia felt the eyes of the assembled upon her, a situation she had long grown accustomed to as a musician; however, what unnerved her was feeling one unique pair focus their gaze upon—or through—her.

And then the Magus Philosophicus addressed her, “I wish to offer both a personal welcome and expression of gratitude to you, mademoiselle von Kraat for your presence and the present you shall give to us all upon this glorious night. Please, as we are all equals here, you may refer to me either as Jacques or as Monsieur St. Germain, as you may prefer.”

Cordelia exhaled a breath she had forgotten she held. She smiled a confident smile that crept toward arrogance as she inclined her head and responded. “Thank you, Monsieur St. Germain. I was both excited and honored, and a bit surprised, by your request.”

A single pair of hands clapped, and Jacques St. Germain said, “Now, upon this glorious Samhain, our feast may begin. We must thank Madame Sanders for the generosity of labor and time in sourcing the rare meats for our feast.”

After a round of applause for Danielle’s efforts, St. Germain clapped his hands together thrice and said, “Bring forth the body and blood of our fellowship’s communion.”

Rhythmic strides shuffled into the hall and placed what sounded like a serving tray upon the table. St. Germain said, “This bread, which I now break and pass to all assembled is the body of true fellowship and community. This do in defiance of him.”

Cordelia blinked at the oddity of his phrasing. She heard and felt bread placed in her hands, and she moved to cross herself, but Belpharoë stopped her.

“No, little one, this is not that kind of communion. Taste.”

Cordelia nodded. The bread had a hard crust and a soft interior. Its taste was almost like a sourdough but earthier than any she had ever had. As she chewed the bread, she heard wine being poured into glasses.

And then St. Germain said, “And this wine, which flows into your cups, is the holy blood of life eternal of the covenant forged between us. This do in defiance of him.”

She drank the sweet and full-bodied wine and noted its metallic and sweet notes dancing beneath those of the berries. It tasted off, but each taste became more craveable than the last.

Footsteps thundered, carrying the herbaceous aromas of sage, rosemary, and thyme; the pleasurable but pungent scent of roasted garlic and onion; and the smoky char of a wood fire into the hall. Clinking communicated the wine glasses were being changed to ones appropriate for the meal. Cordelia traced her new glass from stem to bowl with her index finger, noting how the bowl slowly thinned as her finger neared its rim.

Cordelia felt Belpharoë place several morsels on Cordelia’s plate. As she reached for the knife and fork, her fingers traced the grooves of the handles. She smiled; this reminded her of her grandmother’s silverware only brought out for supper on Christmas Eve.

As she plunged her fork into a tender cut of what felt like meat, a hand atop hers halted her movement and Belpharoë whispered, “Not so fast, little one. Permit me to present your lips with the first of many pleasures this evening.”

The hairs on the back of Cordelia’s neck stood and trembled. Belpharoë brushed a loose lock of hair behind Cordelia’s ear as she slipped what felt like a chilled grape against the young woman’s lips, which parted without hesitancy, allowing her to slip it into Cordelia’s mouth. The smokiness of roasting contrasted the chewy, gelatinous texture; warm spices tempered the natural sweetness. Unexpected but not unpleasant.

Cordelia swallowed. “I’ve never had a grape taste like that before.”

Danielle chuckled. “Ull grapes are a rarity in this part of the world, and they are an acquired delicacy.”

Belpharoë’s voice acquired a smiling yet conspiratorial tone. “Danielle has outdone herself this year in sourcing a dozen for each of us.”

“That is only for the meal,” Danielle whispered beside Cordelia’s ear with a purring tone only she and Belpharoë could hear. “I have more with different preparations at home for the evening’s enjoyment.”

“The world has given you many opportunities for a harvest, Danielle,” Belpharoë said.

Harvest? Cordelia thought. If she studied education, what caused her to change to agriculture for a career?

Belpharoë interrupted her train of thought by saying, “Now, on your plate, you will find a salad with preserved lemon, spouts, and za’atar-roasted pecans.” She described the rest of the dishes as being a priest’s pie, which is similar to a shepherd’s pie but with meat accustomed to dining upon younger and more tender fare as well as slices of the long roast of a pig in a black lager gravy with sauteed mushrooms and onions; and roasted apples and Brussels sprouts. The cheeses are paired with toasted rounds of a rye baguette; pickled strawberries; and a jam of bacon, heart, and sweet onion.”

Cordelia cut a small piece of the roast pork. The earthy spices and richness of the gravy surprised her as pops of heat, subtle sweetness, and hints of acid danced on her tongue, their movements both harmonious and pleasantly dissonant. This was pork, but its taste was closer to lamb. That must have been the sharp, cooling hint of mint causing that confusion. Still, she danced happily and continued eating.

Wine and conversation flowed freely throughout the meal; each time a glass neared emptiness, a servant refilled it. Cordelia listened and joined in the discussions of topics ranging from art and literature to politics and philosophy. All at the dinner table appeared to have both a breadth and depth of knowledge rivaling—if not exceeding—her professors. There was a joy in this gathering Cordelia had not experienced in many months.

And then a new scent emerged—a spicy, earthy scent reminiscent of the incense burned in churches but with a darker timbre. The din of conversation diminished, and Cordelia felt and heard the movement of servants as they cleared the table.

“Before our sweetest course,” St. Germain then said with a chuckle, “Mademoiselle von Kraat, would you be so kind as to grace us with your performance before I read my poem aloud?”

Cordelia nodded. Rising from her seat, she fumbled around for her violin. She stiffened as an arm slid around her waist, but she relaxed upon hearing Belpharoë say, “Come. I will guide you, as I always have.”

Once her hands had tuned her violin and rosined her bow, she bowed and said, “Dawn Song for the Fallen, a Tone Poem based upon a poem by Jacques St. Germain.

Agitated tremolo bowing brought anger and anguish. The notes rose and fell, mimicking the motion of turning one’s face to and then away from the blazing sun in the sky. Cordelia’s own feelings regarding Louisiana’s humidity and seven-month summers fueled her passion. Without pause, she transitioned into a series of variations of a theme drawn from minor key transpositions of the tenor lines from the “Hymn of the Angels” as prayerful repetitions. None of the variations resolved, evoking the sorrow of prayers ignored. And then tritone inclusions and smooth legato phrases punctuated by elegant and elongated vibrato notes transformed the piece into the bluesy wail of a soulful banshee.

The sniffling of those holding back tears brought a cocky smirk to Cordelia’s lips as she began the second half of her composition with a Phrygian dominant march full of imperial bombast and heroic swagger. Once she established the rhythm of the march, she punctuated it with powerful melodic lines resembling choruses of praise.

As she reached the final portion of her tone poem, a chromatic chordal phrase transformed the Phrygian dominant march to a glorious hymn with an undercurrent of love’s declaration. As the resolving tonic sounded the finale, those assembled released a collective gasp and then applauded. Cordelia bowed, her muscles tense in an effort to hide the trembling heat demanded explosion from within.

“Excellent work, little one,” Belpharoë whispered as she kissed Cordelia’s cheek before she escorted her back to her seat amid rapturous applause.

As St. Germain read the poem to the assembled diners, servers passed around the dessert for the evening and switched the glasses to a cordial set to pair with the delicate flavors of the Chantilly cake., Belpharoë whispered that this was Mr. Scratch’s favorite dessert, despite what others have presumed in the past.

All applauded and offered words of praise when St. Germain finished his poem. As the applause died down, a chair slid back, and then Mr. Scratch himself addressed them. “Thank you, everyone, for this lovely evening of music, poetry, conversation, and food. I must say, Jacques, you have outdone yourself this year. And to you, Miss von Kraat, I’ve not heard music played with such passion and grace in many, many a year.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said with waxing pride and curiosity.