by M. J. Rose
“You mean that’s what you want to happen. That’s what you dream in hopes that you will make it so,” I spat out at him.
“Together we would be so much stronger. So much more powerful if we are working on the same side. There’s nothing that you could want that you would not have,” Ruggieri said.
“All I want is for you to take your leave now. And not the way you came.” I pointed to the main door to the laboratory. “You are not welcome here, Ruggieri. Go spew your blasphemous garbage elsewhere.”
I walked to the door, opened it and held it for him.
He walked past me and then stood on the threshold for a moment.
“There will be a day, René Bianco, when you will realize the limitations of your talents and wish for magic to save you, but it will be too late.”
I laughed. “It’s so easy for you to make pronouncements, isn’t it? To suggest the coming doom and the dire days ahead. What is anyone to do with these utterances other than to fear them? It may work with Catherine and with the ladies of the court who line up for you to tell them their fortunes in love and family matters, but you leave me unimpressed. The world is made of matter and minerals, and that is what I deal in, not dreams. Not nightmares.”
“Or so you want to believe,” he said, then turned and finally left.
I listened to the echo of his footsteps as he walked down the darkened hallway. One of the torches had gone out, and no one had relit it. A cold wind blew through the passage into my laboratory.
That was odd. My rooms were deep inside the first level underneath the castle, far from any exits. But the wind was real. And strong. And it had carried with it the noxious odor of burnt wood and sulfur.
I shut the door on the man and the smell and pulled a square of linen from my pocket. I always kept a handkerchief soaked in lavender and orange blossom to bury my nose in when I smelled something unpleasant, but not even that helped with this. It was as if the burning scent was inside me, and the more deeply I inhaled the more intensely I smelled the nasty fire.
The linen was well woven and fine, and I was aware of its texture as I folded it up and put it back in my pocket. Linen impregnated with a scent . . . It made me think . . . what if I could impregnate linen with a poultice that I overmixed . . . went against the warning in Serapino’s notes . . . What if I fashioned the linen into an undergarment . . . a gift for Isabeau’s nobleman to wear next to his skin . . . fragrance and lime and arsenic? I knew what the symptoms would be.
And so I planned my next murder. One I am ashamed to say I enjoyed with a little too much relish because if I helped Catherine dispose of the Protestant, then Isabeau would be free of him. And then I might entreat her to come to me.
Chapter 30
THE PRESENT
SUNDAY, MARCH 23
BETWS-Y-COED, WALES
The plane ride across the channel to Wales had been uneventful. But a storm ruined the limo ride through the countryside. The glimpses of the long stretches of unspoiled rough landscape, sloping mountains and forests around them were blurred by sheets of rain.
The weather was still bad when they reached Betws-y-Coed and pulled up in front of a seventeenth-century castle, but the chauffeur had a big umbrella and escorted each of them, one at a time, from the car to the door, so no one got soaked.
Serge lifted the brass knocker and let it drop twice. And then a third time.
The door was opened by a small man who was in his late seventies.
“I’m sorry, I forgot it was up to me to get the door. My man has had to take his wife to the hospital—she’d got a bit of pneumonia—and the cook is half deaf—but come in, come in. I’m Chester Bruge.”
They stood in the front hall, shaking off the rain. “Don’t worry, the house can handle the weather and the water. It’s survived much worse. Let me warm you up.”
He brought them into a well-appointed drawing room where a fire welcomed them.
“It’s four, but not too early for a nip of Macallan to chase the chill, don’t you agree?” Chester said as he generously poured the expensive scotch into heavy cut crystal glasses.
Allowing only a bit of small talk about the plane ride and the storm, Melinoe got to the subject at hand. “How long have you been putting together your alchemical collection?”
From what Melinoe had explained, Jac knew that Bruge’s collection was thought to be one of the most complete in all the world, some said more extensive than anything in any museum.
“Over fifty-five years,” Bruge told her. “I studied medieval history at Cambridge. One of my professors was a preeminent scholar of alchemy. I took one class about John Dee and the School of Night and was smitten. The more I learned, the more curious I became about magic. I very much believe in magic and that it was the forerunner of modern-day science.” He smiled.
Bruge was a short, spry man with sparkling green eyes and a bald head shaped very much like an egg. And when he smiled, which he did often, his cheeks dimpled. Jac thought he looked something like what an elf might—except that he was wearing what appeared to be a very expensive navy jacket, white shirt, navy foulard pocket square, gabardine pants and highly polished oxfords.
“Do you work in the laboratory you’ve created?” Melinoe asked. Her voice seemed higher pitched and more innocent than normal to Jac. As if Melinoe were acting the part of a slightly less sophisticated, more naive waif. The pretense didn’t sit well with Jac. Serge didn’t seem to be paying attention to the subtle subterfuge. But Bruge appeared to be enjoying it.
“Of course I do. My goal was never just to build the laboratory and stock it, but rather to find the holy grail myself. I became a chemist and a botanist in order to work with the materials and understand them better.”
“And have you achieved your goal?” Melinoe asked.
He shook his head. Jac was reminded of Malachai, who had devoted his life to the study of reincarnation but, like Bruge, not found what he was looking for. The more elusive the goal, Jac thought, the more obsessed Malachai had become. She didn’t blame him for hating this woman who had outsmarted him and bought the collection of breaths out from under him, potentially robbing him of a world-shattering discovery. Malachai had, over the years, held several astonishing discoveries in his grasp—for at least a few moments—but had never managed to reach the end game with any of them.
After a few more minutes of conversation about how Bruge had amassed the items needed to re-create an authentic alchemical laboratory from the Middle Ages, he suggested he show them his “little treasure,” as he called it.
From the drawing room, he led them back out to the front hall.
“It’s a short walk. There are enough umbrellas here.” He gestured to a Meissen stand. Each of them took one of the black-and-white umbrellas and followed Bruge outside.
In the rain, which had been reduced to more of a mist, they crossed a formal garden with late-blooming large ruby roses, their heads hanging as if they’d been beaten into submission by the pelting water.
A steep, twisting stone path led them into woods filled with ancient oaks and yews. They hugged a swollen stream that flowed around boulders. Fans of verdant green ferns grew abundantly in the wet soil.
The sound of waterfalls and birdsong were musical accompaniment to what was becoming a trek. Melinoe’s high heels weren’t up to the task. Bruge had offered boots, but she’d refused. Jac was surprised that somehow Melinoe was managing without stumbling or falling behind.
The path led to a pond fed by a waterfall that flowed over moss-covered rocks. Jac took in the scents of the ripe rich earth and the iron in the water and felt a sense of peace. Here tall hollies and towering pines stood like sentries. The evergreen minty aroma was fresh and powerful.
This ancient site had probably looked and smelled like this for hundreds of years. The cascade only dropped about six feet, and the gentle mo
vement was mesmerizing. Large and feathery willow trees lining the shore almost hid the small ancient stone hut nestled a few feet back. The mystical shed did indeed look as if it had been here since the Middle Ages.
Inside it was just one small room, and the space felt crowded with all four of them inside. The walls were plastered, the ceiling was beamed and hung low, and there was an open hearth, two small mullioned windows, and a wooden floor with wide planks. Everywhere were papers, ceramic jugs, a variety of old uneven glass flasks and shelves of dark bottles. On a simple wooden table, on top of a stack of books, sat a human skull beside an hourglass.
“This was the alchemist’s laboratory. It wasn’t in this state when I bought the castle, but I stayed true to its bones when I had it renovated.” Bruge lovingly ran his hand over the rough-hewn table. “We didn’t alter anything. Just refurbished it.”
Jac could easily see that the hut was in use. The beakers and alembics contained liquids and solids. She noticed accoutrements for measuring and heating. So much of it reminded Jac of the similarities between the arts of alchemy and perfume. Each took elements from nature in order to create an elixir for a kind of immortality. For didn’t perfume keep the smells of flowers and trees and woods and minerals alive for decades—sometimes even hundreds of years?
On the walls of the little shed, Bruge had hung framed engravings from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Now, as he showed them off, he explained their significance.
“All these woodcuts were in Basil Valentine’s Azoth. These are portraits of John Dee and Nicolas Flamel.” He pointed to a very complex print. “This is the alchemical tree standing under the influences of the heavens, letters of the alphabet, signs of the zodiac and states of matter. This is the beast of Babylon. These are symbols of the Hand of Philosophy—the salamander, the star, the key. Here is the symbol for copper, here for iron, for lead, silver, tin and gold,” he said, pointing to the highly designed emblems. “These, though, are my prizes.” He pointed to a series of six framed prints on the opposite wall. “These are from Heinrich Khunrath’s occult work Ampitheatrum Sapientiae Aeternae. Translated to mean The Amphitheater of Eternal Knowledge. These were drawn in 1595. There are only three copies of that first edition. These are from a later seventeenth-century reprinting. Look at how complex they are. Scholars I have discussed them with believe Khunrath created them as a kind of meditation tool to encourage a focus on the nature of the universe and on the links between the earthly and the divine, the corporeal and the spiritual.”
Jac studied the dense circular prints that included Latin inscriptions, flames, and human figures—one a hermaphrodite—angles, globes, chemical charts, animals and birds, including a giant peacock that Jac knew was the symbol for reincarnation.
The prints looked familiar to her, and as she listened to their host continue, she tried to figure out why.
“One scholar”—Bruge closed his eyes as he spoke, as if this way he might concentrate more intently on what he was saying—“Urszula Szulakowska says Khunrath’s images are ‘intended to excite the imagination of the viewer so that a mystic alchemy can take place through the act of visual contemplation.’ She believes the images work much like a mirror, and that the celestial spheres reflect the human mind, which allows for an ‘awakening’ of the ‘empathetic faculty of the human spirit’ to unite, via imagination, with the heavenly realms. She calls Khunrath’s images ‘the alchemical quintessence, the spiritualized matter of the philosopher’s stone.’ ”
Finished quoting, Bruge opened his eyes and smiled at his guests. “Forgive me. I’m very passionate about the subject. This project has been a labor of love for my entire life. Now that you are here, do you have any questions?”
Suddenly Jac knew why the prints looked familiar. So many of these visuals were on the silver bells that protected the bottles of dying breaths. She looked at Melinoe and Serge, but neither of them seemed to have noticed. She’d have to tell Griffin. Perhaps the prints could help them understand the cryptic engravings . . . Maybe they included instructions on how to proceed with the experiment once they had the elixir. She was about to ask Bruge what some of the symbols on certain prints meant when Melinoe began talking.
“The items we talked about over the phone?” Melinoe said. “Are they here?”
“Yes.” Bruge nodded. He gestured to the hundreds of bottles on the shelves. “Right here.”
“On the phone you said you’d allow our expert to smell them to see if there is any way she might be able to re-create the scent?”
“Certainly,” he said. “You said you were interested in tutty . . .”
As Bruge turned his back on them to search the shelf, Melinoe looked at Serge. Jac tried to interpret the glance but wasn’t sure what Melinoe was trying to communicate. Serge, however, seemed to rise to another level of alertness.
As Bruge searched for the tutty, the shadowy room was working some kind of magic on Jac. The combined scents reminded her of the smells inside the memory lurches she’d experienced in Barbizon. During those fugue states, when she was remembering the life of the perfumer René le Florentin, these were the smells that hung in the air of his own shop on the banks of the Seine in Paris.
“Here is the tutty,” Bruge said.
Jac took the proffered bottle gingerly from the alchemist’s fingers and held it up to the light. Inside was a dark, solid substance.
“May I?” Jac asked as she fingered the cork.
“Yes, yes, go right ahead.”
The cork eased out without much effort, and Jac leaned down to sniff. Despite the years since this had been harvested, Jac could still smell burning wood, ash and ancient decaying pine. The odor conjured up memories that were not hers. She closed her eyes and saw René haggling over prices with a Frenchman who had traveled around the world. Saw René smelling the goods from China and Egypt. Handing over coins of gold in exchange for silk pouches of spices and thick glass jars of tars and resins.
“Can I smell it?” Melinoe asked.
Jac handed it to her and watched as Melinoe inhaled the scent and then frowned. “It doesn’t have any odor.”
“It does. Try to concentrate, give it a few seconds,” Jac said.
“Don’t be disappointed if you can’t smell it,” Bruge added. “It can take training to be able to detect the subtleties of an inert material like that.”
“Are you sure you smell something? Are you sure it’s active?” Melinoe asked Jac.
“Yes. Enough so that I should be able to work at re-creating something like it.”
“But not exactly the same thing?” Melinoe asked.
“Very close. But it won’t be made of the same materials. My copy will have synthetics in it. If the formula requires—”
“Don’t worry about that now.” Melinoe gave Jac a sharp look as she interrupted her.
Jac remembered Melinoe’s admonitions not to discuss any of the details of their experiment or goals.
Melinoe handed the bottle to Serge and then turned to Bruge. “Would you be willing to give us a sample so we might be able to re-create it more accurately?”
He shook his head. “As far as I know there is no other tutty from the Middle Ages available anywhere. Even taking a small bit of it would diminish my supply, and my ingredients are more precious than gold.”
Serge handed the bottle back to Bruge, who corked it and replaced it on the worktable.
Melinoe pursed her lips together as if she were not allowing herself to say what she was thinking, and instead smiled as she put her hand on Bruge’s arm.
“Might we smell your specimen of momie?”
Bruge searched the shelves and then seized on a small skull that fitted in the palm of his hand. It was made of a dark-green crystal streaked with amethyst.
“The container itself is a treasure,” he explained as he held the skull out so the thin rays of light s
treaming through the window illuminated the crystal. “It’s made of fluorite, which teaches us to be interdimensional and leads to spiritual awakening. The rock’s magical abilities are said to advance the mind from one mental reality to the next and at the same time help us to increase and assimilate our life force.”
“How old is it?” Melinoe asked.
“The container has been dated to the mid-1500s. And the experts I’ve talked to think its contents date to approximately the same time. Most of the ingredients you asked about do. I found this amazing cache when the Arno flooded in 1966. The stonework in the basement of an apothecary shop in Florence was loosened, and a section of a nineteenth-century wall disintegrated, revealing an ancient closet full of supplies. I paid handsomely to purchase the entire group. And everything—every chemical, element and compound—was intact. I’m not sure what the original constitution of many of them had been—for instance, was tutty once a liquid? A putty? Or hardened the way it is now? At least we know this—” Bruge opened the top of the skull’s head, revealing a black, hardened substance. “According to some ancient texts, momie was once viscous.”
“I’ve read a bit about it in a fifteenth-century book, Livre des Simples Médecines,” Jac said. “It’s such a strange ingredient. Have you used it for any of your experiments?”
“No, I haven’t yet come across any that call for it. Do you have a specific use for it? For the tutty?” he asked.
Before Jac could answer, Melinoe interrupted.
“We’re investigating creating a line of historical fragrances based on different time periods. This one would be a medieval fragrance.”
Jac wasn’t surprised that Melinoe wasn’t telling Bruge the truth, but something about the way she told the lie so easily and with such aplomb shook her a bit.
“Would you like to smell it?” Bruge offered Jac the bottom half of the skull.
She bent her head down. Someone had gone into a tomb . . . exposed embalmed corpses and then harvested this from the brain and the spine. Like tree resins, momie was corpse resin. She shivered and sniffed the shining black solid. Once it might have been aromatic, but it seemed scentless. Jac concentrated. Inhaled. Ah, there was a hint of something . . . She inhaled again. This time she was able to begin picking out odors. Anise, cumin, cinnamon, sweet marjoram. The ancients wrote sophisticated pharmacopoeias that listed medicinal spices in their formulas for both magic and religious rituals. Jac had read some of them and knew that embalming fluid was perfumed in order to please the gods, offering the dead a smooth passage to the next world. Medicinally, the intense spice mixture was also powerful enough to prevent putrefaction.