If I Should Die

by Amy Plum

  Right, Vincent said, laughing.

  Mamie was already up and having her coffee. “Bran, the healer, has found something. I need to go.”

  “Okay, Katya,” she said, looking worried but bustling to the hall closet and grabbing her coat. “Just let me see you downstairs and make sure someone’s there to accompany you.” I didn’t tell her that Vincent was already here. It would have taken too long to explain, and maybe even freaked her out that he had been in my bedroom, invisible.

  Two revenants I had seen at the New Year’s party appeared out of nowhere when we stepped through the door. Mamie kissed my cheeks and said, “You be on your way. Your Papy left early for his shop. Let him know what was discovered as soon as you can. He really wants to help.” She tried to look hopeful.

  When we arrived, Gaspard was waiting for me at the door of the library. “Come on in,” he said excitedly. “Vincent told me you were on your way.” He led me to where Jean-Baptiste sat with Bran, who was pointing to a section written in a tiny scratching script in black ink.

  “Ah, here’s Kate,” Bran said, as Jean-Baptiste stood and pulled out a chair for me. The guérisseur looked up at me and did the painful squint he had been doing ever since the numa punched him. I had begun to get used to it, but it still made me feel uncomfortable. “I’ve already given a summary of this to Messieurs Tabard and Grimod,” he said, “but I can read it to you word for word if you wish.”

  “Please do,” Gaspard said, picking up a pencil and taking notes.

  Bran began speaking in a spooky monotone—as if he were reading a spell—and followed along with his finger as he read.

  “‘The Tale of the Thymiaterion, as recounted by a member of a group of flame-fingered guérisseurs—’”

  “What’s that mean?” interrupted Gaspard.

  Bran peered up at him, confused. “A thymiaterion? I have no idea.”

  “No, no. I know what a thymiaterion is. It’s a type of ancient incense burner. What does ‘flame-fingered’ refer to?”

  “Flame-fingers. It’s what our kind are called, the guérisseurs who deal with revenants.”

  That explains all the hand paintings in the cave! I thought.

  Bran continued, “‘Guérisseurs from Byzantium who fled the Plague and were now itinerant.’” He looked back up at us. “From the order that these tales were transcribed, I would suspect this refers to the Black Plague. Which means the mid-fourteenth century.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Jean-Baptiste impatiently. “Please continue.”

  “‘Just before the Plague, a group of bardia from Italy moved to Constantinople, bringing a valuable Etruscan treasury with them. Soon after, a powerful numa named Alexios killed the bardia chieftain, Ioanna, and bound her to him. Ioanna’s kindred destroyed Alexios, thus freeing her spirit from its bond to her numa captor.’

  “‘Ioanna’s kindred sought out the flame-finger Georgios, to conduct a re-embodiment, telling him that the process had been conducted several times, ages before. He resisted, not knowing what he could possibly do. They instructed him that a giant bronze thymiaterion in their treasury was to be used, and that the object itself held enlightenment. Instructed by ancient symbols carved into the object, Georgios conducted the ceremony and reunited the wandering soul with a man-made body that became as her own.’”

  My heartbeat accelerated. This meant there was hope for Vincent! I felt light-headed and had to restrain myself from leaping up and hugging everyone in the room. Instead, I calmed myself and listened harder. I didn’t want to miss a single word.

  “‘We asked the travelers what became of the magical object. They told us that during the siege of their city the thymiaterion was smuggled out with the rest of the bardia’s trove, which had since been plundered and scattered throughout the land.’

  “‘Thus was the story given us by flame-finger Nikephorus—previously of Constantinople but now a wanderer—transcribed as it came from his very mouth. We marveled at the fantastical story, and some disbelieved it. But my grandfather, who had not yet passed his gift to my mother, said that he sensed it was true. That this power was one of our own.’”

  Bran carefully placed a piece of paper on the book to save his place. “So you see, my memory did not fail me. I knew I had heard of re-embodiment.”

  And? I thought. I glanced at the others, who seemed to have the same reaction. We were all waiting for more.

  Jean-Baptiste lowered his face to his hand and massaged his temples. Then, clearing his throat, he said, “And just to reconfirm. This is definitely your only record of re-embodiment—the fourteenth-century account of a band of itinerant bardia.”

  Bran wrinkled his brow and looked defensive. “Well, my family seemed to think it had merit, because this was one of the tales that was kept and passed along, and one which my own mother pointed out to me as describing one of our powers, even if it was rarely used. But it seems that the instrument itself—the thy . . . whatever it is—is essential for the task we would be undertaking.”

  My heart plunged. “So, just to clarify, we are looking for a giant incense burner that was lost over six hundred years ago,” I said, trying not to sound incredulous.

  “I would suppose that more than one of these objects existed,” Gaspard responded carefully. “If it was, in fact, an important magical tool in the ancient times, I would guess that several were created. It wasn’t as easy to fly across the globe to a convocation of kindred, but there was communication between widespread revenant cultures. Information did manage to spread globally between revenants.”

  An ancient legend about a magical incense burner. That wasn’t exactly what I had hoped for, but at least it was something. Determined not to let my disappointment show, I took my notebook from my bag and jotted down some notes, asking Bran a couple of questions to clarify. Gaspard gave me a curious look.

  “I thought my grandfather could follow up on any leads you find with his own resources,” I said.

  Gaspard frowned. “Not to disrespect your grandfather, my dear, but I doubt he would be in possession of anything that our extensive library would not already have.”

  “Well, I found the copy of Immortal Love in his gallery, which is what led me to finding Bran and his family in the first place,” I countered.

  “That is true,” Gaspard conceded, “but I honestly don’t think you should trouble your grandfather with this. With our resources here we should be able to turn up the information needed, if it exists at all.” He waved his hand to indicate the size of the library.

  “Why are you reluctant to have me include my grandfather in this research?” I asked him point-blank.

  Gaspard umm-ed and ah-ed for a second, and then Jean-Baptiste cut in to save him. “We aren’t used to including humans in our dealings except on a support level,” he said in an apologetic tone. “Maybe that is shortsighted on our part, but our insularity has a purpose: survival. It’s just what we’re used to. This isn’t to say we don’t respect your grandparents and value their trust.”

  I nodded. “But now we’re in a race against time to find the information, right?” I stood and tucked my notebook into my bag.

  Gaspard nodded.

  I grabbed my coat. “So, with your permission, I’ll work with my grandfather to see what we can find.” I began walking out the door, and then turning, gave them a competitive grin and said, “Beat you to it!”

  TWENTY

  “YOU SAY IT WAS A GIANT THYMIATERION,” PAPY confirmed. “Ancient Greek?” He flipped through an auction catalogue as he launched questions at me. We were ensconced in the back room of his gallery, sitting between life-sized statues of gods and warriors.

  “No, Bran said the bardia came from Italy,” I replied, checking my notes.

  “Ah, Etruscan then,” Papy said, replacing the catalogue and pulling out another.

  “Yes, that’s what he said—Etruscan,” I confirmed. “When Constantinople was under siege, they snuck their treasury out, hid it, and it was later plun
dered.”

  “I wonder what exactly they mean by ‘giant,’” Papy said, opening a two-page spread of ancient objects for me to see. “This is an example of an ancient Etruscan thymiaterion.” He pointed to a picture of a red clay chalice. Its stem was shaped to look like a man who was holding the cup’s bowl on his head.

  “They were used to burn incense during religious ceremonies, and were usually only around a foot or two tall. You can find them made in limestone, clay . . .”

  “This one was bronze,” I said, showing him the scribbling on my notebook.

  Papy thought for a bit. “Something like that would be a major object. Museum quality. I haven’t come across anything like it in my own dealings, but between the world wars there were entire collections of museum-quality objects coming out of the Middle East and being sold on the art market—under quite iffy circumstances. The unacknowledged fact was that they were the product of plundered graves.

  “I don’t know if any of these collections involved revenant artifacts . . . if they did, the revenant collectors would have made sure all mention of them were taken out of the public records. But the first place I would start looking is in the auction records from those years.”

  “Do you have any?” I asked.

  Papy turned and walked to his bookcase, running his finger along the spines of some old books, and then pointed to one. “Let’s see, here is 1918.” He moved down two shelves and stopped at another book. “And here is 1939.”

  My jaw dropped open. The section he was pointing to comprised about fifty books. “Are those records by any chance on the internet?”

  Papy gave an amused smile and shook his head. “Tell you what. I’ll take the ones in German and leave you the catalogs in English and French.”

  We worked all morning and into the afternoon. After a few hours Papy had interrupted my work saying, “You realize, princesse, that we are just working on a hunch. We might not even find anything.”

  “I know, Papy,” I had replied. “And you don’t need to help me if it takes a long time.”

  Papy said, “N’importe quoi,” a phrase that means, “Don’t be silly.” And though he got up to make some phone calls and show one lone client around the gallery, he spent the rest of the day working side by side with me.

  We checked in with Mamie at one, and Georgia arrived a half hour later carrying a picnic basket with lunch for the three of us. Hanging her coat on the outstretched arm of a marble nymph, she sat down and pulled over a volume, flipping through the pages until she reached an illustration. Angling it away from Papy, she held up a page showing a nude statue of Perseus holding Medusa’s head.

  I lifted my eyebrows, waiting.

  “Nice package,” she commented matter-of-factly, and then flipped to the front of the book with a faux-studious air. I tried to hide my laughter from Papy, who was looking at us quizzically.

  “So, what are we looking for?” my sister asked with a straight face, and once I explained, she got straight to work.

  From time to time, one of us would find something. An unspecified Byzantine collection of bronze objects. An ancient incense burner. Papy would have a look, and then shake his head, saying that he knew that collection or that piece, and it couldn’t be associated with our thymiaterion.

  But a couple of hours later, when I found “Ten Important Etruscan Objects, unearthed in Turkey,” Papy sat up and studied the entry more carefully.

  “‘Includes bronze temple objects: statues and incense burners, engraved with unidentified mystical symbols,’” he read. “‘Several items of massive size. Part of a hoard discovered outside Istanbul. See also lots forty-five and forty-six.’” He read the descriptions of the other two lots, and then checked the back of the book for the insertion that listed the successful bidders.

  “I think you’ve found something here, Kate,” he said, glancing up from the book. I tried not to get too excited, but my blood felt like it was buzzing through my veins when I saw Papy’s face light up.

  “This is a major collection that I have never heard of. And probably for a very good reason: Once it was bought, it must have been hidden away. Also, the buyer is only listed as ‘an anonymous New York collector,’ so it could possibly refer to one of our secret collectors of revenant subject matter.”

  He sat thinking for a moment, and then closing the book he rose to his feet. “It’s worth following up on. I know only one New York collector of antiquities living at that time to whom this might refer. His son took over his collection and has long been one of my clients in Manhattan. Besides collecting antiquities, he has me contact him when I have anything even remotely referring to revenant lore. ‘G. J. Caesar’ is what he calls himself, which is obviously an alias.”

  “Why?” asked Georgia.

  Papy looked at her. “I would assume that the G. J. stands for Gaius Julius . . . Caesar, as in the Roman general and statesman.”

  “I knew that,” Georgia said lightly.

  Papy shook his head. “I don’t even have a phone number. A couple of decades ago, I used to send descriptions and photos of the objects that might interest him to a post office box. Now, of course, he has email. But I doubt he would answer me if I inquired about an object already in his collection. Our contact has been limited to buying and selling.”

  “Well, where do you ship his purchases to?” I asked. “If we have a mailing address, we could probably look up his phone number. That is, if he is even listed.” Hope was filling me like helium. I felt buoyant. Like I was ready to go to New York and track the guy down myself. So far this was just a lead, but it was the only one we had.

  “He has his own shippers pick up the objects,” Papy said. “I’m afraid this is going to be a bit of a dead end, unless I do something I’ve been putting off for the last couple of days.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “I’ll need to meet Monsieur Grimod,” Papy said. “And if things are as urgent as you say, I should go ahead and do it now.”

  “Well, Kate and I better go with you!” Georgia said quickly. She snapped her book shut, jumped to her feet, and began putting on her coat, throwing me a look that said she had been waiting all day for a reason to visit La Maison.

  I already had my coat on and was halfway to the door. “I’ll call to let them know we’re coming,” I said, pulling my phone out of my bag. As I began dialing, it rang.

  “You were about to call?” Jules said from the other end of the line.

  “How did you know . . . ?” I began.

  “Vince is here with me, in full fortune-teller mode,” he responded. “And, yes, you can come over. I’ll let JB know you’re on your way.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  FOR TWO SECONDS AFTER JB OPENED THE FRONT door, it looked like we might not make it over the threshold. I’d never seen my grandfather uncomfortable in a social situation, but Papy’s jaw was clenched so tightly that I was surprised he was able to wrench it open again to say, “Bonsoir.” But he finally managed to speak, and the two men tipped their heads to acknowledge each other before giving a formal handshake.

  “Kate. Georgia,” Jean-Baptiste greeted us and, then stepping out of the way, said, “Please, Monsieur Mercier, come in.” He gestured toward the staircase. “We might as well proceed directly to the library.”

  “They look like they should be going to a steeplechase or a musty old man’s club instead of to a library to discuss the re-embodiment of my immortal boyfriend,” I whispered to Georgia as we followed them into the foyer.

  “Maybe that’s what old guys discuss in their leather chairs while puffing their cigars,” she responded with a grin. “And here we were imagining it was the stock market or property prices.”

  The sitting room door opened and Arthur stepped into the foyer. “Bonjour, Georgia,” he said, striding eagerly toward us. He took her hand and was about to lift it to his lips before remembering which century he was in and opting for cheek-kisses instead. “How are you?”

  Georgi
a lifted her face up for inspection. “Better, wouldn’t you say?” she asked.

  “Yes. You look . . .” He was going to say “beautiful.” I could tell. But he stopped himself and said, “Much improved. I’m glad you’re healing.”

  Georgia smiled flirtatiously at him and said, “That sure was sweet of you to call to check up on me this morning and leave me those messages. I’m sorry I couldn’t phone you back. I’m really trying to take it easy. To recover my health, you see.”

  “Of course!” Arthur exclaimed, jamming his shoulder-length hair self-consciously behind his ears. I noticed that he hadn’t shaved, and that he was wearing black jeans and a T-shirt instead of his regular button-down and suit pants. I had to smile. Arthur was making an effort for my sister.

  “I didn’t expect you to phone me back,” he said. “I was just checking in, you know. But why don’t you come back to the kitchen with me and I’ll get you something to drink. Did you have lunch? Are you hungry?”

  As they walked through the door to the hallway, Georgia threw me a backward glance, wagging her eyebrows in victory before turning back to him. I could barely restrain myself from cracking up. Georgia was the queen of games. And she was obviously playing this one very carefully.

  Mon ange, came a voice in my head.

  “I was wondering where you were,” I said, following Papy and Jean-Baptiste up the double staircase.

  I can tell you’ve discovered something—your cheeks have gone all rosy. Which, I must say, suits you, mon amour. Would it be out of place for me to tell you how utterly ravishing that makes you look?

  I touched my fingertips to my cheeks and felt them flush even redder. “Yes, that is completely off-topic,” I chided jokingly, but his compliment made me feel radiant. As usual.

  What did you find? he asked, amused.

  “Some old auction catalogue with a sale that might have contained our thymiaterion.”