A Place in the World

by Amy Maroney

  Rummaging in her coin purse, Amadina asked, “Do you possess lapis lazuli powder, vermillion, malachite?”

  “I might, but there aren’t many who can pay for such things.”

  She shook a few gold coins into her cupped hand. “I can.”

  His shoulders stiffened. He drew his head back so that his chin vanished into the folds of his neck.

  “Show me what you have in the way of fine pigments,” she said, “and if I am satisfied, I will pay you handsomely.”

  Scowling, he disappeared behind the cabinet again. When he emerged with a wooden box full of small corked ceramic bottles, Amadina relaxed. This was exactly what she needed.

  “I can give you a bit of each of these,” the bookmaker said, uncorking one of the bottles and using a metal stylus to tease out a minuscule portion of brilliant blue lapis lazuli powder, which he placed on a square of linen paper.

  “I shall take the entire box,” she said, giving the sample a cursory glance.

  “This is all I possess!” he exclaimed, affronted. “What will I do if you take all my pigments? I need them for my work.”

  She shrugged. “Buy more with the gold I am about to pour into your hands.”

  Amadina rattled the coins in her palm.

  Watching the churlish shopkeeper fall under the spell of her gold, she felt grateful to Carlo for amassing such a tremendous fortune. A stab of remorse struck her at the thought of him.

  Why had Carlo threatened to destroy all that she held dear? Why had he planned to banish her to the locked cell of a backcountry convent, stripped of her title, her power, her status, her hair? She had kept her long, shining dark waves during all her years as an abbess, though her nuns were shorn like spring lambs at each change of the seasons. But in the convent where Carlo meant to lock her away, she would have been shaved and shamed, raw and vulnerable, inferior.

  Silenced.

  And for that, she had been forced to act. She had to silence Carlo first. It was easy enough to slip the poison in his wine goblet during one of their weekly meetings in his study. She used powdered death-cap mushrooms, the same kind of poison her messenger had employed years ago to end Béatrice of Belarac’s life. Carlo’s death several days later seemed the unfortunate result of a sudden illness.

  Despite everything, she missed her brother. His wise counsel. His generosity. His kind nature. A strange feeling overtook her—a burning sensation in her chest that rose up toward the heavens, swelling her throat, stinging her eyes. To her horror she realized she was weeping. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Thank God her face was shielded from the bookmaker by her veil.

  Inwardly she admonished herself for indulging in rumination. There was nothing to be done about the past. She had to look forward, to keep plowing into the future, to keep hold of her power with whatever means at her disposal.

  Taking a deep breath, she jangled the coins at the bookmaker again.

  “Now,” she said in a voice silky as sable, “let us proceed.”

  66

  Autumn, 1506

  Bayonne, Gascony

  Mira

  Mira hurried to Sebastian’s studio one morning, cloak wrapped tightly around her to ward off the freezing fog that descended upon Bayonne in the night. Lifting her skirts to avoid a steaming heap of mule manure, she caught a glimpse of the hole worn in the toe of her right boot. That she, a woman with holes in her boots, a woman who had perfected the art of darning socks, a woman who ate boiled millet every day—and often little else—was a daughter of barons. She nearly laughed aloud at the thought.

  Winter would strike any day now, Mira reminded herself. She had no business roaming the city with leaky boots. Making a mental note to visit the cobbler’s stall at the market next week, she hustled through the narrow lanes. Sebastian had said one of the merchants they met at the feast would be dropping by today. She did not want to miss a moment of his visit, for fear of losing the favor of a potential patron. Sebastian would not stay in Bayonne much longer. He had promised to remain until Arnaud returned, just as Xabi had—and her husband could appear any time.

  Let it be today, she prayed.

  When Mira went home that afternoon, Xabi was carving a block of alder into the shape of a bear.

  “Ah, there’s your mama,” he said to the baby in relief when she appeared in the doorway.

  Tristan looked up from his work of loudly clapping two wooden blocks together. He lunged forward at the sight of his mother in a confident crawl. A few months ago, when Mira put him on a fleece with a toy to keep him occupied, he could be counted on to stay there for the better part of a morning. Now, he explored each danger in the room with eager hands, pulling himself up at every opportunity. She and Xabi had taken to barricading the hearth with furniture, so all the chairs and the table were laid out in a semi-circle in front of the fire.

  “Has he caused you trouble today?” She scooped up the baby and kissed his cheeks, luxuriating in the softness of his skin.

  “Trouble?” Xabi chuckled. “No. He’s just busy. As babies are. Same energy as puppies, and about as much sense.”

  “You have helped me more than you know, Xabi. I could not be at the studio if not for you. I met a patron today—”

  Tristan grabbed her ears and yanked at them vigorously. Mira extricated his hands, passing him a downy white feather Sebastian had given her this afternoon. The baby waved the feather in the air and gaped at the undulations of the individual barbs.

  “A patron?” Xabi continued shaping the wooden bear.

  She nodded. “A merchant who will pay me to make his portrait.”

  “Ah, that is good news.” He inclined his head at the bed. “A servant came by today to give you those.”

  “What are they?”

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t open a gift for someone else.”

  She put Tristan down on the fleece again and went to the bed to investigate. A pair of twine-wrapped parcels sat there. She opened them with care. One held a wooden box full of ceramic jars topped with cork stoppers. Mira removed the corks from each jar in succession and peered inside.

  “Pigments,” she said, looking over her shoulder at Xabi in excitement. “Lapis lazuli, vermillion, malachite. These are costly.”

  “Are they from Master Sebastian?” Xabi asked, putting down his tools. Tristan had crawled to his side and pulled himself up using Xabi’s knee for support.

  “I do not know. He mentioned nothing of this to me today. Perhaps the second package contains a note.”

  But the smaller item only contained a soft wool felt bag filled with candied fruit.

  She regarded Xabi, mystified. “Who would send me pigments and sweets?”

  “It must be Master Sebastian,” he asserted. “Who else knows you need pigments?”

  “Plenty of people, now that I have been to the tribute feast, parading around for all to see, bragging of my talents as an artist.”

  Xabi settled Tristan on his knee, patiently enduring a pair of little hands exploring the depths of his beard.

  “Maybe it was one of those merchants you met,” he agreed. “Someone who intends to hire you.”

  “I shall ask Sebastian before I use them,” Mira decided. “And I do not want Tristan getting into those sweets. He will make himself sick.”

  She went to the cupboard by the window and placed the bag of candied fruit on the highest shelf.

  67

  Autumn, 1506

  Bayonne, Gascony

  Elena

  Elena, Alejandro, and the knights gazed wearily at the cluster of people and animals in the queue ahead of them. It was just their luck, Elena grumbled, that they arrived at Bayonne on market day, when everyone from outlying villages headed to the city center.

  She glanced at Alejandro. He had a lingering chest cold, though he had always been a robust boy and was rarely
ill. It was the strain of travel, she knew. She decided to use some of Pelegrín’s coins to find a respectable inn so Alejandro could bed down in comfort and be assured of nourishing meals.

  Then a leaden feeling struck her. With market day in full swing, most of the city’s beds would be filled. They might not have the option of staying in a fine inn, regardless of the gold they carried. Silently she said a prayer to Mari, the Basque goddess. Here, by the sea, the mountain gods of Aragón would not be listening.

  At the city gates, the guards directed Elena to an inn near the cathedral on the main square, but warned her only the wealthy could afford to pay its rates. Judging from their dismissive stares, the guards did not consider her to be in that category.

  She did not blame them. Her cloak was streaked by mud, her boots caked in filth. She wore her hair in its customary single braid, a style so simple that even most peasant women shunned it. Alejandro and the knights, in their leather armor, looked more reputable than she—though they, too, were limned in dust and mud from the long journey.

  Once inside the city walls, they guided the horses single-file through cramped lanes to the recommended inn. Elena dismounted and ventured inside, purse at the ready. She was prepared to meet with resistance. After an initial attempt to direct her elsewhere, the innkeeper became amenable when she produced her gold coins.

  “They have beds for you three in a room above the stables,” she reported to the men when she reemerged into the lane. “Alejandro and I will lodge inside.”

  Stable boys materialized and led the knights and horses to the interior courtyard of the place. The innkeeper ushered Elena and Alejandro into a sitting room to wait for their chambers to be prepared. A fire burned in the hearth. Elena led Alejandro close to the warmth of the flames. He stared dully at the fire as she unlaced the straps of his leather breastplate and carefully slid it over his head.

  The front door opened at that moment, setting off a bell affixed to the doorframe.

  A plump woman dressed entirely in black came in from the street, followed by a manservant in black livery. The woman’s face was completely obscured by a gauzy dark veil. She nodded at the innkeeper, caught Elena and Alejandro in her line of sight, and slowed her pace. Behind the veil, Elena spied the faint glimmer of the woman’s eyes.

  Alejandro coughed. Elena turned back to him, smoothing his hair. She heard the creak of the stairs as the woman in black mounted them with slow, ponderous steps.

  “Your rooms are ready, madame,” the innkeeper called out to her, appearing in the doorway. “This girl will show you the way.”

  He dipped his head at a servant who stood nearby.

  With the last reserves of her energy, Elena got Alejandro bathed, fed, and into bed in a small chamber adjoining her own. Exhausted, she checked that the doors were latched and then tended to her own needs. When she finally blew out the candles, lay back on the soft featherbed, and pulled the quilts up around her neck, the great cathedral bell in the central square nearby erupted in thunderous clanging.

  Elena scowled. She clapped her hands against her ears and cursed the church for disturbing her peace. Soon, though, the pealing of the bells subsided.

  Eyes closed, she let her mind travel over the open sea, imagining Xabi asleep in a hammock below decks on a whaling ship. Instead of being frightened by the thought, she was comforted by it. In her mind’s eye, he slept with his hands clasped on his chest, immune to the snores of the other sailors. How she loved his hands, Elena thought. How she missed the feeling of his strong brown fingers laced around hers.

  Folding her own hands loosely over her ribs, she drifted into the first deep sleep she’d had in ages.

  68

  February, 2017

  Bruges, Belgium

  Zari

  Zari lugged her suitcase down the steps of the museum and stood for a moment, listening to the tinny chime of bells echoing over the rooftops. The sky glowered, gray and sullen. She adjusted her hood, zipped her coat all the way up, and set off.

  Bruges was one of her favorite places in Europe. There were two reasons. One was that the city was a perfectly preserved medieval masterpiece, its compact streets, canals, churches, and constant background music of chiming bells all creating a magical atmosphere.

  The other reason was more personal. It was here in Bruges where Zari and Wil began falling in love. Before she met him, Zari had jumped from relationship to relationship, searching for a man who didn’t seem to exist. There was always some key ingredient missing. Sometimes the sex was incredible, yet something essential was lacking—there was no intellectual connection, or their senses of humor didn’t align, or they had few similar interests. Sometimes it was just too much bother to stay in a relationship.

  As she entered her thirties, Zari began to believe she would never fall in love.

  And then she met Wil.

  She checked her mobile. He would be arriving in a few hours. They were staying in the same cozy apartment she rented the first weekend they came here. This morning, she had come to the Groeninge Museum straight from the train, then spent most of the day in meetings with curators who were organizing the upcoming Cornelia van der Zee exhibit. Zari decided to pop over to the city archives, where the scholar who studied Sebastian de Scolna had left a folder of documents for her, then head back to the apartment to shower and change.

  Her suitcase wheels thumped on the uneven cobblestones as she made her way to the archives. Winter’s bite had strengthened since Zari left Geneva, and she was bundled in every warm layer she possessed. Despite the cold, she savored the walk. She loved wandering these ancient streets, admiring the homes that had survived golden eras of prosperity, political turmoil, plague, and wars—dwellings that had endured the ravages of winter and the broiling summer sun for centuries.

  She loved peering in the windows of the chocolate shops scattered around the city. On a whim she slipped into a particularly enticing store, its window display featuring glossy black boxes wrapped with white satin ribbons, and bought several truffles to eat with Wil later.

  In the archives she introduced herself to the woman at the reception desk, who handed her a large envelope. Zari thanked her and tucked it into her messenger bag. The researcher who had amassed the documents was away at a conference, but he had become a valuable contact in the past few weeks. Best of all, he had promised to publish an article about his findings regarding the relationship between Mira and Sebastian de Scolna.

  Zari returned to the apartment via the great central square where the belfry tower set its forty-seven bells chiming every quarter hour. She relished the feeling of expansive space as she crossed the square, admiring the decorative brick facades and steep slate-tiled roofs of the buildings towering around her. The belfry, leaning slightly to one side, dominated the scene. Two horse-drawn carriages stood by an iron lamppost, their drivers waiting patiently for tourists to materialize in the bitter air.

  A fine drizzle straggled down from the gray sky.

  Later, Zari and Wil lay under the blankets in their attic bedroom, watching night descend through the skylight. He had picked up some food on the way to the apartment so they wouldn’t have to go out. Instead, they went straight to bed.

  “Remember our first time, here, in this very bed?” she asked him, propping her head on her hand.

  He smiled. “Every minute of it.”

  “I actually figured we wouldn’t end up together, because the sex was so great,” she confided. “I didn’t believe we could be good together in every way—there had to be a catch.”

  “But there wasn’t.” He stroked her hair, wrapped a long brown tendril around one finger.

  “The catch was I had to come all the way to Europe to find my true love,” she whispered.

  “And now you’re stuck with me.”

  He glanced at Zari sidelong, laughing softly.

  “Oh no,”
she murmured. “You’re doing it to me again.” The deep, languid music of his laughter reverberated through her, molecule by molecule. “Why am I so transfixed by your laugh?”

  He pulled her on top of him. “It’s all part of a master plan,” he said in a villainous growl. “I’ve been sent to this planet to put you under my power. You’ve been chosen to help me repopulate a lost galaxy.”

  Zari collapsed on his chest, laughing helplessly.

  They lay in companionable silence for a while. She remembered the sadness Wil harbored their first night together, his confession about Filip’s accident during a skiing expedition in the Arctic, the guilt he held over his role in it. The playfulness Wil just exhibited had not been on display then.

  The sound of chiming bells penetrated the room. Zari raised her head and listened for a moment.

  “I don’t know about you,” she remarked, “but those bells really light my fire.”

  “I was about to say the same thing.” Wil agreed, grinning.

  He traced a hand from her throat to her breastbone, over the rise of her belly, coming to rest between her thighs. Losing herself in his touch, she shivered with pleasure.

  She let her hands and lips roam the length of him, exulting in his smooth, warm skin, in the taste of him, the scent of him. And then, with total abandon, she set about unleashing her desire.

  Close to midnight, they sat in the kitchen eating the food Wil had picked up. Zari opened a container and eyed it suspiciously. “Hey,” she said. “This looks exactly like the dinner we had in Bruges the first time we were here.”

  “That’s because it is. Chicken cutlets, salad, and chocolate mousse for dessert.”

  “From the same restaurant?”

  Wil nodded, pouring the salad into a bowl.

  “I thought they didn’t do takeout,” she objected, putting the chicken on a plate and popping it into the microwave.