CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
All thought of escape evaporated, like rain puddles in a harsh, hot sun. She could think of nothing but this cousin, this man she barely knew, this priest with his long, slender fingers and delicate constitution.
Who was he? What had he done? How much was he capable of? And what had he done to her? The questions flew up at her from the pages of the novel that she held open in front of her. She could not read. She tried to concentrate on a sentence and found her mind playing with some tidbit of memory, some long-forgotten knowledge.
The memories came back in wisps, like the scent of smoke left in a room after the smoker has gone. She remembered, in pieces, her vision at the church when she was very little. She remembered that younger version of Julien, standing in front of his congregation in Santa Cruz, raising the cup of wine to the heavens. She remembered the clattering sound as it fell to the floor, remembered the foam coming from his mouth.
At that young age, she never stopped to think about what the vision could possibly mean. To her young mind, it was just an interesting story. She would never have asked why—why anyone would hate their priest so much that they would want him dead. All the questions she had never asked at the time came tumbling back now, piling up in a jumbled mess that she felt compelled to try to sort through.
Slowly, bit by bit, she began to connect the dots—the pieces of information that she knew. If her memories of what Julien had done to her were truly memories, if her suspicions about why Julien was poisoned were correct, it might explain why Marie had gone to such lengths to get Adrienne away from France. It would explain Marie’s overwhelming need to keep Adrienne silenced. Did Marie know about Julien? Or worse than actual knowledge, did she suspect that her son was abusing little girls? Is that why she had done all this?
Adrienne took up the feather duster and moved, absentmindedly, about the castle. She positioned herself at windows, looking out at the street below them or at the nuns on the hillside above. She moved through each room, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, trying to see where he went when he left the castle.
She wandered into his bedchamber, at the southwest corner of the castle. She moved around the room, her duster swishing back and forth, her eyes trailing over the objects on his dresser. There was nothing there to suggest something was amiss, only a hairbrush, a bottle of cologne, a folded handkerchief, the bowl of change that she had been slowly stealing.
She moved to the window. This room, Julien’s room, was the only room in the castle that afforded a clear view of the church, a block up the hill. She held the curtains in one hand and stared at the church building, wishing she could use her vision to see inside, to see what he was up to.
Julien stepped out the side door of the church and locked the door behind him. Adrienne stepped back quickly and let the curtain drop. She watched him through the gauzy fabric as he looked around, up at the castle, and then moved up the hill, around the corner, and out of sight.
Adrienne exhaled slowly. She needed to be alone. She wanted a vision, craved a vision. For the first time that she could ever remember, she wanted to use her second sight, to know what was going on in this house. She wanted to know just what Julien was doing, and how much Marie knew.
After all those years of unwanted images, of knowledge she did not want or wish to have, now she needed it. And she had no idea how to make it work, how to trigger the mechanism that allowed her to see and hear and know. Nothing came to her. No words, no images, no sudden feeling of certainty. Nothing. All she had was this knot in the pit of her stomach, this vague feeling that something was dreadfully wrong.
How do you ever know the truth about another person? Without the knowledge that comes through clairvoyance, how could a person ever know when someone spoke the truth? How could you ever know with any certainty what happens behind closed doors?
Adrienne thought of her mother, of the feelings of doubt that had surrounded her like a fog. For years, she had carried an uneasy sense about her husband that she could never prove, never really know. Is this what it felt like? To suspect, to imagine, but to have nothing concrete to allow the relief of certainty?
Adrienne found herself staring at Marie much more often these days. Did she know some dreadful truth about her son? Was that why she had moved heaven and hell to keep Adrienne silent? Or was she, like Adrienne, left with just this vague foreboding, a sinister apprehension that amounted to nothing but shadows in the dark?
Adrienne sighed and turned her head toward the window. His loose change sparkled in the morning light, and she quickly slipped three coins into the pocket of her dress.
They knelt in the parlor—Julien, Marie, and Adrienne—heads bent, beads clicking, rosaries moving between their fingers. A fire blazed. Sparks popped and cracked.
Julien’s eyes were closed; his voice rang in the room, leading them through the prayers. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty.”
Adrienne whispered the words. “I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints . . .” Her mind popped and cracked like the sparks from the fire. She peeked at Julien, kneeling to her left.
Her mind raced to the vision of Julien, standing at the front of the church in Santa Cruz, drinking from the chalice. She saw, once more, the way his eyes bulged, the way he fell to the floor, his lips turning blue from the poison. She heard, once again, the crash of the potted palm after he had kicked it, just a few weeks ago, the way the pot hit the wall and shattered. She could hear one large piece that hadn’t broken rolling back and forth on the floor.
Adrienne snuck another glance at him. His voice led the prayers, like a song. “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”
Someone in that congregation had tried to poison their priest. Adrienne was convinced that no one would try to murder their priest unless he had done something truly awful. Had he stolen from them? Lied to them? Had he let his temper fly and actually hurt someone?
Her breath came faster; her heart pounded. She glanced at Julien again. She thought of the way his fingers had slid, slowly, over the fingers of that little girl, Eliza Creighton. Suddenly she knew, knew with certainty just what he had done.
He had touched one of the children in Santa Cruz, maybe even more than one. Maybe he had done more than just touch. Her knowledge of the act was vague. But it would certainly explain attempted murder. That would certainly explain poison at the chalice.
Through the whirling of her thoughts, Adrienne could feel it, boring into her skull, drilling into the top of her head. She looked up through her lashes. Marie was directly across from her. Adrienne wondered if her thoughts had moved across her own face. Had she left her mouth open? Had she knit her brow? Had she stared too long at Julien?
Adrienne closed her eyes, tried to make her face calm and her heart slow. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners . . .”
The prayers went on forever.