But the house on the Rue des mes Perdues was an exception. It was still livable. Since my arrival here, I’d discovered some of its secrets: The servants’ entrance, for example, next to the kitchen on the first floor, was a lot easier to navigate than the zillion marble steps leading to the main doorway in the center of the courtyard. I’d bet that humble entrance had been used by the house’s inhabitants from the very first. And the library, with its oil lamps and walk-in fireplace, was connected to the downstairs kitchen via a set of stairs just outside the door.
But the best thing about the library was that Sophie and her cronies never went there. It was a place for reading, for one thing. For another, there weren’t any mirrors.
I spread out the pages of the book on the heavy oak table in the middle of the room, and settled in for another installment of the old man’s story.
1349
Plague
The new abbess sent word to Jean-Loup in May, informing him of the death of Sister Clément.
Paris had become a city of the dead, its streets littered with so many swollen, discolored bodies that it was not possible to bury them before they putrefied. The Black Death was sweeping through Europe with a ferocity that could only be attributed to the Devil.
In the Abbey of Lost Souls, the women had sealed the room where Sister Clément, who had been their abbess for the past 149 years, had died three days earlier.
Jean-Loup offered to bury her, glad he had insisted that Veronique remain at Toujours while he answered the abbess’s summons. Sister Clément’s body was already beginning to decay. Retching, Jean-Loup carried the corpse to the courtyard and deposited it into a grave he had dug.
“Are you surprised that we can die?” the new abbess asked.
“No,” Jean-Loup said. “Of course not.”
“Some come to us believing we can make them immortal, but that is not true.” She nodded toward the room where Sister Clément’s plague-ridden body had lain. “It’s just that if we can avoid death through pestilence, accident, or violence, our natural lives will be long.”
“Yes, I know,” Jean-Loup said, wondering why the woman was behaving as if he were a stranger to the longevity of Veronique’s followers. “My wife founded this, er, order.”
The abbess went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “The problem, of course, is that sooner or later we will approach old age, despite our magic. And when we do, we fall prey to all the miseries that come with the end of life. More, since we linger longer than most.”
Jean-Loup set his lips into a tight line. By “falling prey,” was she referring to the dreadful act of his monstrous son nearly a century and a half before? Everyone in the abbey had heard the terrible story about Drago’s violation of Sister Béatrice so many times that it had taken on the trappings of legend. “Drago will not return, if that is what you mean,” he said tersely.
She shook her head. “Actually, he might have done us a service.”
He did not understand her meaning, but he was tired from digging the grave and wanted to be back home with Veronique. So he dropped the conversation, bade the young abbesss good-bye, and left for home.
By the time he arrived back at Toujours, he was already feverish.
Within two days the dread buboes, the swollen black lumps that were the sure sign of the Black Death, appeared in his armpits. “Stay away,” he croaked as his wife tried to wipe his sweat-sheened face.
“Nonsense,” Veronique said.
“Even you can die.”
“But I won’t. And neither will you.” She smiled at him confidently, but even through his fevered vision Jean-Loup could see that she was worried.
He became delirious. Over the next few days he sank deeper into madness, shrieking and talking gibberish. Finally, he quieted as he fell slowly into a coma, separated from death by only a few shallow breaths.
“No, my love, no,” Veronique whispered. She had not left his side since the first night of his illness, and had grown thin and haggard herself. At last she knew what she had to do. She was not able to cure him—that was not exactly her talent—but she could ward off his death. So now, when her beloved husband was so near to crossing over, she took his trembling hands in her own and willed her life force into Jean-Loup’s ravaged body, all the while singing as if to a child:
My love, my love
Walk through the door
The voice that was calling
Is calling once more
Be well, my angel
Be strong, be whole
Your suffering has ended
Awaken your soul!
Her breath, sweet as lilacs, washed over him like a benediction.
But when her song was finished, Jean-Loup opened his eyes and saw the terrible toll that bringing him back from the brink of death had taken on his wife. “Oh, Veronique,” he cried as a flood of hot tears coursed down his cheeks.
She sat in the chair beside him, her white hair fluttering gently with the breeze from the window. Straining, she raised her eyelids, and her violet eyes lit up her ravaged, ancient face.
“Take care of my sisters,” she said. “Welcome others and give them sanctuary.”
He nodded, unable to respond.
In her hand was the heart amulet Jean-Loup had given her so many years before. “Mon amour toujours,” she said as her fingers opened.
“No!” he screamed. He had taken the last, the very last, of Veronique’s life. Filled with inexpressible sorrow, he wept until the sun left the sky and the night wrapped around the two of them, as it had when they were first wed.
“Toujours,” he whispered, and kissed her eyes closed.
The love of his life was gone forever.
• • •
I wiped the tears from my face. I didn’t know if I was reading an allegory, or if Azrael had fallen into dementia, remembering a woman he had only read about as his wife Veronique, but it didn’t really matter. It was a beautiful story. I wondered if Peter and I could have anything as good as the love those two had shared.
Love was hard. I was finding that out. There were so many distractions, pitfalls, temptations, mistakes. Seductions from sweet words, wild promises, ambition, hope, arrogance, impatience, greed.
Seductions. Yes.
Had we already taken those first steps in the wrong direction? A single misstep would be all that was necessary for Peter to abandon me for the golden future that awaited him, or for me to turn toward someone else for love . . .
No. I wouldn’t think of that.
That wasn’t going to happen.
CHAPTER
•
TWENTY-SEVEN
I stayed in the library until I heard the stirrings of the ritual participants. The door knocker banged constantly, so I knew the ritual included people who didn’t live in the house. They all seemed to be gathering in the main parlor, where there was a lot of talking and laughter, but no music.
I checked the clock: five minutes to midnight. They’re ready to go down, I thought. I expected everyone to come through the library and the kitchen below it en route to the basement, and I’d even planned a few choice remarks for Peter—the traitor—but no one showed up. The noise from the parlor diminished and then died into silence. Another stairway, then. There must be some sort of opening in the parlor that led directly to the ritual chamber in the basement.
Even better. No one would see me at all. I went down the rickety back stairs into the kitchen and uncovered the hole I’d staked out as my observation tower.
Crouched on my hands and knees, I watched as the stone chamber filled up with what appeared to be half of Paris, all wearing gray hooded robes and carrying candles to light their way. This is a real coven, I thought as they assembled into rows packed tightly against one another in a circle around the central shaft of moonlight from the skylight I’d discovered earlier. I reasoned that the full moon at midnight must pass directly overhead every month.
I strained to identify some of the people I knew, but
their hoods shrouded their faces in shadow. There were so many! From the rituals I’d attended in Whitfield, I understood that the more participants there were, the more magic would be created. That is, provided the participants had magic of their own to begin with. When witches get together—the groups are always in multiples of nine or thirteen—and use their combined powers for a common goal, the results can be mind-blowing.
Finally, one of the robed figures—the leader, I guessed, and a woman, judging from her graceful hands—stepped out of the circle and into the moon-drenched light at its center as all the candles in the chamber were extinguished. The smoke from them curled in the shaft of moonlight, where the leader raised her slender white arms as she spoke the opening words of the incantation:
We are the wave of the space between
We are the flood that rushes to shore . . .
I recognized her voice. It was Sophie.
She began to turn deosil—clockwise—and the entire assemblage turned with her like a gigantic wheel circling the stone-walled space.
We sweep past all barriers set in our path
Through corridors of time we pour
Then everyone chanted in unison:
Our Magick lends eternal proof
We receive in return Beauty and Youth.
I was having a moment of déjà vu. There was something about the chant that was familiar. This was the first time I’d watched this ritual, but I could have sworn I’d heard these words before.
And what was the point of the ritual? With so many participants, the magic produced had to be strong. Was this coven performing some sacred service, like keeping world peace? Did they protect Paris from alien invasions? Slow global warming? Prevent Earth from colliding with another planet?
If they were, then it was a little disconcerting that Sophie de la Soubise would be the leader of this group, but that seemed to be the case. Maybe Sophie had depths I hadn’t noticed.
Then she stopped and slowly began to turn in the opposite direction. Once again, the others followed.
We circle and bind the hands of time;
Years swim in our embrace.
Our power spins in widdershins
To undo the riptide’s pace.
Widdershins. A witch word. It meant counterclockwise, but was used only in rituals. But I’d heard it before, and recently. Where had that been? Sophie chanted and the rest repeated:
Our Magick lends eternal proof
We receive in return Beauty and Youth.
Oh, of course! I knocked myself on the head as it finally came to me. Azrael’s book! I hadn’t heard this ritual; I’d read it, in the spell the Abbaye “nuns” had used to heal Veronique.
But how could that be? The events in the book I was reading took place centuries ago. Could he have been writing about this ritual, perhaps, and the ancestors of these people?
The group repeated the last lines. This time I paid close attention to the words.
Our Magick lends eternal proof
We receive in return Beauty and Youth.
Beauty and youth? I almost laughed out loud. It wasn’t the same spell at all! What a travesty. Veronique and her followers had cast a spell for healing and truth, and in exchange they received long lives, which they’d spent in service to the poor. They would never have used their magic for something as shallow as . . .
I sucked in air. That was what Fabienne had meant when she’d said that, as a member of the Enclave, she “must do nothing selfish,” while always looking beautiful. This coven, evidently an offshoot of the one begun by Veronique and her followers, had somehow transformed over the years from a sanctuary for extraordinary women into a pointless gathering led by a vain and shallow creature who cared about nothing but her own beauty. It was hard to believe that people born with the gift of magic would throw it away on something so trivial, but there it was: Each month these people pooled all the talents they’d been blessed with and sacrificed them simply to be attractive.
While I was ruminating about the purpose of the ritual, it ended. Suddenly everyone was talking again, shrugging out of their robes and heading toward the south end of the house, below the main parlor.
“You’re kidding,” I said out loud as, in the room below mine, Sophie tossed back the hood of her robe as if it were a dead animal perched on her head, and laughed gaily. Her hair, dotted with jewels, looked like spun gold in the moonlight where she stood. Once the robes were off, it was clear that everyone was dressed to the nines and ready to party once again.
I finally saw Fabienne, who had been standing right in my line of sight all along. As everyone was heading toward the stairwell, she turned to the tall figure beside her—it was Peter—and shrugged as if to say, What was the big deal with that?
Which was also what I was thinking. I mean, it was hard to believe all those people had been after nothing more magical than nice hair and acne-free skin. I’d have to read the paper tomorrow to see if a war had ended or a collision with another planet had been averted, but I somehow doubted that.
And Peter. What was the role Sophie had planned for him? To take over Jeremiah’s job as Mr. Moneybags, funding the coven so that its members could go on living like pretty parasites? Was that really what Peter wanted to do with the rest of his life?
The room quieted down, and I looked back through my spyhole to see what was going on. Sophie was waving her arms above her head, calling for attention. “I just wanted to say one more thing,” she said, smiling. “Tonight marks the last full-moon ceremony for one of our longtime members, Marie-Therèse LePetit.” She held out her arms, palms up, as if she expected Marie-Therèse to run into them. Some of the assembled guests applauded; the rest, deeming the announcement unimportant, buzzed with their own private conversations. “Marie-Therèse will be going on to greener pastures, and we’re all going to miss her.”
Did she really say greener pastures? As if anyone would miss the “put out to pasture” reference. I wanted to gag.
“So this evening, our refreshment hour will be in her honor!” Sophie went on ebulliently. “Make sure you say hello to her and wish her well!”
There was some more scattered applause. My heart ached for Marie-Therèse. That must have been so humiliating.
A moment later the moonlight shifted and the ritual chamber was cast into deep shadow. Sophie vanished into the crowd. Jeremiah led Peter and Fabienne away toward the general exodus, their candles relit and moving together through the darkness.
I was lying on the floor with my hands cupped around my eyes when someone spoke quietly behind me. “See anything interesting?”
I literally jumped to my feet, my heart pounding. It was Belmondo. He was smiling, leaning against the kitchen door frame. “What . . . what are you doing here?” I sputtered, my eyes darting from him to the hole in the wall where I’d watched the ritual.
“I came this way because there’s always a traffic jam at the other stairwell,” he said. “But I didn’t expect to find such a pleasant surprise.” He came up to me and put his arms around me. “Mon Dieu, I can feel the magic coming off you.” He sniffed deeply, as if I were wearing some exotic perfume.
I squirmed away. “You’re one of them,” I whispered.
“The Enclave? No.” He laughed easily. “I do not require their paltry tricks. But I am like an old family retainer, always present but usually invisible. I only observe, like your paramour, Peter.”
“He’s not—”
“Does he do this to you?” he asked, brushing my neck with his lips. Then, in a whisper, “Does he make you feel like this?” He kissed me behind my ear.
My breath caught. Suddenly it felt very warm. I could hear myself breathe. My knees threatened to give out.
“Make magic for me, my beauty,” he whispered. Dark curls were stuck to his temples.
“What kind of magic?” I asked.
He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and laughed. “How about snow?” he suggested.
“Easy.” With
a nod of my head, the refrigerator door opened. It was a prehistoric model, probably from the sixties, and I knew from the dinner I’d cooked that the freezer compartment was definitely not frost-free. I shot out five fingers, and the two inches of frozen condensation on the coils peeled away and floated over to us, where we were showered with ice-cold flurries.
“Snow,” I said triumphantly as Belmondo blinked away the fat flakes that had settled onto his dark eyelashes.
“You are a marvel,” he said.
“I aim to please.”
“And you do.” He brushed snow out of my hair. “You please me very much.”
I felt myself melting as fast as the snow on my skin. Too fast. Too dangerous. “Belmondo—”
He shook his head. “I know what you are about to say, Katarine. ‘You must not love me, Belmondo. You must stay far away, for my lover will be jealous and beat me.’ ”
“I’ve told you, he’s not my lover,” I said. “And he doesn’t beat me.”
Belmondo smiled. “Of course not,” he said gently. “Even an American boy would know how special you are.”
I wouldn’t exactly go that far, but I didn’t say anything.
“So if you cannot give me love, perhaps you will accommodate me with the next best thing.”
“Which is?”
“Supper,” he said. “I cannot resist your cooking.”
“Mais certainment,” I answered, flattered.
The refrigerator door was already open from my trick with the snow, revealing a platter holding a ham. I sent it rocketing overhead, along with some lettuce, tomatoes, two hard-boiled eggs, a cold cooked potato, and a bunch of grapes. A half baguette floated from the bread box, and a bottle of wine came swinging out of the wine rack, uncorking itself as it flew toward us.
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