“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.”