“Fine, we can go up,” said Clements. “But I’m not whispering any sweet nothings to you.”
It was not as if they could have done any whispering to each other anyway. Once they had climbed the spiraling, far-too-broad-and-shallow stairs, they came to the balcony of the Whispering Gallery, where there were a number of visitors. Some were seated on the bench that circled the gallery, staring up at the dome. Some were standing at the iron balustrade (which seemed far too flimsy to Odette), looking down at the orchestra below. Others were walking around gingerly to the exit on the other side of the gallery. One or two could be seen whispering fruitlessly to the wall, their voices drowned out by the sound of the orchestra.
There were also several children trotting fearlessly around, apparently unconcerned that the balustrade could snap away at any moment, allowing gravity to drag them over the edge and send them plummeting, screaming, into the orchestra far below.
Remember, Odette told herself, you may be able to imagine the falls with exquisite, painful detail, but you can cope with heights. You climbed the outside of the Cologne Cathedral. Still, she took a seat on the bench, very close to the entrance. Clements walked along a little ways and then sat herself down. Odette leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes.
Then, delightfully, the noise of the orchestra below faded away. Presumably, they were all tuned up. The natural sounds of a cathedral appeared — the footsteps of visitors, the hushed voices, the breath of the building. After a few moments, the tourists realized their opportunity, and a susurrus of whispers curved around the gallery. Odette could half catch words from the other side of the balcony.
“— ello?”
“Can you hear —”
“— ispering to the —”
“Shall we go up —”
“Odette.”
She opened her eyes and looked to the left. Clements was still sitting there, but she was leaning forward, looking at her phone, and very definitely not whispering to the wall. Did I imagine it? she wondered. She looked about the gallery. There were many people of all ages with their faces by the wall, but from the little she could see, none were familiar. Certainly, they all looked perfectly normal, not a white, rubbery-skinned bald person among them. She leaned back carefully.
“Odette, you can hear me.” The voice sighed in her ear. It wasn’t a question, but despite herself, she nodded slightly. “We’ve been watching you. We saw you through that secretary’s eyes.” She felt her mouth twist at the memory of Anabella, possessed at that meeting. “We are coming for you. Not today, but soon.”
Odette felt a tremor in her heart, and even she didn’t know what emotion she felt. Fear? Rage? Sorrow? She looked down to see that her spurs had slid out of her wrists without her realizing it. Thankfully, no one had noticed, and with an effort, she retracted them. Then, slowly, she turned her head and put her cheek against the wall. She had no idea if her words would get lost in all the murmurs of the visitors or if the owner of that voice could pluck her utterances out as easily as he had cast his message into her ear.
“I warn you,” she whispered to the wall, sending her words out to mingle in the dome, “that is a very bad idea. We don’t want war. You should leave this place, leave this country. Run away.”
If the voice came back with an answer, she didn’t hear it, because below them, the orchestra and choir chose that moment to burst into “O Fortuna” from Carmina Burana, and all the whispers were obliterated.
What do I do now? she thought. Should I call Marie? She shied away from the idea. Should I try and identify them, maybe get a picture?
“Miss Leliefeld?” a voice next to her asked, and Odette jumped. It was, of course, Clements. The Pawn jerked her thumb in the direction of the exit and raised her eyebrows questioningly. Odette nodded, and they headed over. Odette, taking care to keep a hand on the balustrade, examined every person they passed. It was useless. Not only were there no people with paper-white skin or nodule-concealing hats that she could see, but there was still half of the gallery that she didn’t get a look at. I can’t very well insist we make a full circuit, thought Odette. Plus, the whisperer may have left already.
“Miss Leliefeld, did you want to climb to the top of the dome?” Clements asked just outside the gallery exit. Odette didn’t answer for several moments. She stood with her eyes closed, ignoring the put-upon sigh and the presumably rolled eyes of the Pawn. She had caught the telltale smell of oranges. It was faint — so faint that no one without exquisitely hand-tuned olfactory senses could have caught it — but unmistakable, and it went down the stairs.
“Let’s go,” said Odette firmly, opening her eyes. “I’m a bit hungry.” The Pawn looked surprised but agreed. Odette led the way, scurrying down the stairs far more quickly than was safe. The startled Clements hurried behind her, obviously too proud to tell her to slow down. They dodged past cautiously slow groups of descending tourists, and Odette mentally cursed her heeled shoes, which were exactly the wrong shape for running down spiraling staircases.
They burst onto the main floor of the cathedral, where crowds of people were meandering about, listening to the music and peering at the curiosities of the cathedral. Odette looked around wildly and saw nothing that stood out. No man in all-enshrouding clothes hurrying away. No civilians staring bewildered in the direction of someone who’d just shoved through them. The scent of oranges was still there in the air, but fainter, rapidly getting washed out by the maelstrom of odors that seeped out of a couple hundred tourists at the end of the day.
“So, was there a specific restaurant you wa — hey!” exclaimed Clements as Odette took off again. She pushed through the crowds, determined to follow the trail as long as she could. The scent wove back and forth across the nave, detoured down into the crypt, then came up again.
“What are you doing?” asked Clements behind her, but Odette ignored her. She had her phone ready in her hands, the camera function all cued up so she could get, if nothing else, a shot of the Antagonist. But the scent grew fainter, and the renewed blare of the orchestra and the motion of the crowds made it all worse, and soon Odette could not be sure if she was following something real or just her imagination.
Finally, though, she came to a small side door, tucked away behind a column. It was obviously not for use by the public, but when she bent close to the handle, there was the unmistakable tang of oranges on it.
“Are you trying to lose me?” asked Clements as she caught up. “Even after our little talk yesterday?”
“No,” said Odette distractedly. She started to open the door, and Clements made a noise of objection. Odette was half ready for an alarm to go off, but the door opened silently, and no outraged priests appeared to ask what on earth she thought she was doing.
The door led outside to a square that scores of people were crisscrossing on their way to a thousand different destinations, all of them leaving clouds of scent in their wake. The wind was blowing, completely and indisputably dissipating any chance of tracking the owner of the voice from the Whispering Gallery. Odette stared at the vista in shock. She’d been so intent on the hunt that it seemed impossible it was suddenly over, suddenly unsuccessful.
“See someone you knew?” said Clements behind her.
“What?”
“Someone you wanted to say hello to?” The Pawn’s voice was cold, dangerous.
“No!”
“Indeed,” said the Pawn. The disbelief in her voice was palpable. “Lucky for you, you were never out of my sight.” Odette could almost feel the leash tightening around her neck.
“So... lunch?” said Clements acidly.
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