* * *
Rakoczy’s favorite gaming club was the Golden Cockerel, and the wall in the main salon was covered by a tapestry featuring one of these creatures, worked in gold thread, wings spread, and throat swollen as it crowed in triumph at the winning hand of cards laid out before it. It was a cheerful place, catering to a mix of wealthy merchants and lesser nobility, and the air was spicy with the scents of candle wax, powder, perfume, and money.
He’d thought of going to the offices of Fraser et Cie, making some excuse to speak to Michael Murray, and maneuvering his way into an inquiry about the whereabouts of the young man’s aunt. Upon consideration, though, he thought such a move might make Murray wary—and possibly lead to word getting back to the woman, if she was somewhere in Paris. That was the last thing he wanted to happen.
Better, perhaps, to instigate his inquiries from a more discreet distance. He’d learned that Murray occasionally came to the Cockerel, though he himself had never seen him there. But if he was known …
It took several evenings of play, wine, and conversation before he found Charles Pépin. Pépin was a popinjay, a reckless gambler, and a man who liked to talk. And to drink. He was also a good friend of the young wine merchant’s.
“Oh, the nun!” he said, when Rakoczy had—after the second bottle—mentioned having heard that Murray had a young relative who had recently entered the convent. Pépin laughed, his handsome face flushed.
“A less likely nun I’ve never seen—an arse that would make the archbishop of Paris forget his vows, and he’s eighty-six if he’s a day. Doesn’t speak any sort of French, poor thing—the girl, not the archbishop. Not that I for one would be wanting to carry on a lot of conversation if I had her to myself, you understand.… She’s Scotch; terrible accent …”
“Scotch, you say.” Rakoczy held a card consideringly, then put it down. “She is Murray’s cousin—would she perhaps be the daughter of his uncle James?”
Pépin looked blank for a moment.
“I don’t really—oh, yes, I do know!” He laughed heartily, and laid down his own losing hand. “Dear me. Yes, she did say her father’s name was Jay-mee, the way the Scotches do; that must be James.”
Rakoczy felt a ripple of anticipation go up his spine. Yes! This sense of triumph was instantly succeeded by a breathless realization. The girl was the daughter of La Dame Blanche.
“I see,” he said casually. “And which convent did you say the girl has gone to?”
To his surprise, Pépin gave him a suddenly sharp look.
“Why do you want to know?”
Rakoczy shrugged, thinking fast.
“A wager,” he said, with a grin. “If she is as luscious as you say … I’ll bet you five hundred louis that I can get her into bed before she takes her first vows.”
Pépin scoffed.
“Oh, never! She’s tasty, but she doesn’t know it. And she’s virtuous, I’d swear it. And if you think you can seduce her inside the convent …!”
Rakoczy lounged back in his chair and motioned for another bottle.
“In that case … what do you have to lose?”
Next day
She could smell the h?pital long before the small group of new postulants reached the door. They walked two by two, practicing custody of the eyes, but she couldn’t help a quick glance upward at the building, a three-story chateau, originally a noble house that had—rumor said—been given to Mother Hildegarde by her father, as part of her dowry when she joined the church. It had become a convent house and then gradually had been given over more and more to the care of the sick, the nuns moving to the new chateau built in the park.
It was a lovely old house—on the outside. The odor of sickness, of urine and shit and vomit, hung about it like a cloying veil, though, and she hoped she wouldn’t vomit, too. The little postulant next to her, Sister Miséricorde de Dieu (known to all simply as Mercy), was as white as her veil, eyes fixed on the ground but obviously not seeing it: she stepped smack on a slug and gave a small cry of horror as it squished under her sandal.
Joan looked hastily away; she would never master custody of the eyes, she was sure. Nor yet custody of thought.
It wasn’t the notion of sick people that troubled her. She’d seen sick people before, and they wouldn’t be expecting her to do more than wash and feed them; she could manage that easily. It was fear of seeing those who were about to die—for surely there would be a great many of those in a hospital. And what might the voices tell her about them?
As it was, the voices had nothing to say. Not a word, and after a little she began to lose her nervousness. She could do this and in fact, to her surprise, quite enjoyed the sense of competence, the gratification of being able to ease someone’s pain, give them at least a little attention—and if her French made them laugh (and it did), that at least took their minds off pain and fear for a moment.
There were those who lay under the veil of death. Only a few, though, and it seemed somehow much less shocking here than when she had seen it on Vhairi’s lad or the young man on the ship. Maybe it was resignation, perhaps the influence of the angels for whom the h?pital was named … Joan didn’t know, but she found that she wasn’t afraid to speak to or touch the ones she knew were going to die. For that matter, she observed that the other sisters, even the orderlies, behaved gently toward these people, and it occurred to her that no particular sight was needed to know that the man with the wasting sickness, whose bones poked through his skin, was not long for this world.
Touch him, said a soft voice inside her head. Comfort him.
All right, she said, taking a deep breath. She had no idea how to comfort anyone, but she bathed him, as gently as she could, and coaxed him to take a few spoonsful of porridge. Then she settled him in his bed, straightening his nightshirt and the thin blanket over him.
“Thank you, Sister,” he said, and, taking her hand, kissed it. “Thank you for your sweet touch.”
She went back to the postulants’ dormitory that evening feeling thoughtful, but with a strange sense of being on the verge of discovering something important.
That night
Rakoczy lay with his head on Madeleine’s bosom, eyes closed, breathing the scent of her body, feeling the whole of her between his palms, a slowly pulsing entity of light. She was a gentle gold, traced with veins of incandescent blue, her heart deep as lapis beneath his ear, a living stone. And, deep inside, her red womb, open, soft. Refuge and succor. Promise.
Mélisande had shown him the rudiments of sexual magic, and he’d read about it with great interest in some of the older alchemical texts. He’d never tried it with a whore, though—and, in fact, hadn’t been trying to do it this time. And yet it had happened. Was happening. He could see the miracle unfolding slowly before him, under his hands.
How odd, he thought dreamily, watching the tiny traces of green energy spread upward through her womb, slowly but inexorably. He’d thought it happened instantly, that a man’s seed found its root in the woman and there you were. But that wasn’t what was happening at all. There were two types of seed, he now saw. She had one; he felt it plainly, a brilliant speck of light, glowing like a fierce, tiny sun. His own—the tiny green animalcula—were being drawn toward it, bent on immolation.
“Happy, chéri?” she whispered, stroking his hair. “Did you have a good time?”
“Most happy, sweetheart.” He wished she wouldn’t talk, but an unexpected sense of tenderness toward her made him sit up and smile at her. She also began to sit up, reaching for the clean rag and douching syringe, and he put a hand on her shoulder, urging her to lie back down.
“Don’t douche this time, ma belle,” he said. “A favor to me.”
“But—” She was confused; usually he was insistent upon cleanliness. “Do you want me to get with child?” For he had stopped her using the wine-soaked sponge beforehand, too.
“Yes, of course,” he said, surprised. “Did Madame Fabienne not tell you?”
Her mouth dropped open.
“She did not. What—why, for God’s sake?” In agitation, she squirmed free of his restraining hand and swung her legs out of bed, reaching for her wrapper. “You aren’t—what do you mean to do with it?”
“Do with it?” he said, blinking. “What do you mean, do with it?”
She had the wrapper on, pulled crookedly round her shoulders, and had backed up against the wall, hands plastered against her stomach, regarding him with open fear.
“You’re a magicien; everyone knows that. You take newborn children and use their blood in your spells!”
“What?” he said, rather stupidly. He reached for his breeches but changed his mind. He got up and went to her instead, putting his hands on her shoulders.
“No,” he said, bending down to look her in the eye. “No, I do no such thing. Never.” He used all the force of sincerity he could summon, pushing it into her, and felt her waver a little, still fearful but less certain. He smiled at her.
“Who told you I was a magicien, for heaven’s sake? I am a philosophe, chérie—an inquirer into the mysteries of nature, no more. And I can swear to you, by my hope of heaven”—this being more or less nonexistent, but why quibble?—“that I have never, not once, used anything more than the water of a man-child in any of my investigations.”
“What, little boys’ piss?” she said, diverted. He let his hands relax but kept them on her shoulders.
“Certainly. It’s the purest water one can find. Collecting it is something of a chore, mind you”—she smiled at that; good—“but the process does not the slightest harm to the infant, who will eject the water whether anyone has a use for it or not.”
“Oh.” She was beginning to relax a little, but her hands were still pressed protectively over her belly, as though she felt the imminent child already. Not yet, he thought, pulling her against him and feeling his way gently into her body. But soon! He wondered if he should remain with her until it happened; the idea of feeling it as it happened inside her—to be an intimate witness to the creation of life itself! But there was no telling how long it might take. From the progress of his animalcula, it could be a day, even two.
Magic, indeed.
Why do men never think of that? he wondered. Most men—himself included—regarded the engendering of babies as necessity, in the case of inheritance, or nuisance, but this … But then, most men would never know what he now knew or see what he had seen.
Madeleine had begun to relax against him, her hands at last leaving her belly. He kissed her, with a real feeling of affection.
“It will be beautiful,” he whispered to her. “And once you are well and truly with child, I will buy your contract from Fabienne and take you away. I will buy you a house.”
“A house?” Her eyes went round. They were green, a deep, clear emerald, and he smiled at her again, stepping back.
“Of course. Now, go and sleep, my dear. I shall come again tomorrow.”
She flung her arms around him, and he had some difficulty in extracting himself, laughing, from her embraces. Normally he left a whore’s bed with no feeling save physical relief. But what he had done had made a connection with Madeleine that he had not experienced with any woman save Mélisande.
Mélisande. A sudden thought ran through him like the spark from a Leyden jar. Mélisande.
He looked hard at Madeleine, now crawling happily naked and white-rumped into bed, her wrapper thrown aside. That bottom … the eyes, the soft blond hair, the gold-white of fresh cream.
“Chérie,” he said, as casually as he might, pulling on his breeches, “how old are you?”
“Eighteen,” she said, without hesitation. “Why, monsieur?”
“Ah. A wonderful age to become a mother.” He pulled the shirt over his head and kissed his hand to her, relieved. He had known Mélisande Robicheaux in 1744. He had not, in fact, just committed incest with his own daughter.
It was only as he passed Madame Fabienne’s parlor on his way out that it occurred to him that Madeleine might possibly still be his granddaughter. That thought stopped him short, but he had no time to dwell on it, for Fabienne appeared in the doorway and motioned to him.
“A message, monsieur,” she said, and something in her voice touched his nape with a cold finger.
“Yes?”
“Ma?tre Grenouille begs the favor of your company at midnight tomorrow. In the square before Notre Dame de Paris.”
* * *
They didn’t have to practice custody of the eyes in the market. In fact, Sister George—the stout nun who oversaw these expeditions, warned them in no uncertain terms to keep a sharp eye out for short weight and uncivil prices, to say nothing of pickpockets.
“Pickpockets, Sister?” Mercy had said, her blond eyebrows all but vanishing into her veil. “But we are nuns—more or less,” she added hastily. “We have nothing to steal!”
Sister George’s big red face got somewhat redder, but she kept her patience.
“Normally that would be true,” she agreed. “But we—or I, rather—have the money with which to buy our food, and once we’ve bought it, you will be carrying it. A pickpocket steals to eat, n’est-ce pas? They don’t care whether you have money or food, and most of them are so depraved that they would willingly steal from God himself, let alone a couple of chick-headed postulants.”
For Joan’s part, she wanted to see everything, pickpockets included. To her delight, the market was the one she’d passed with Michael on her first day in Paris. True, the sight of it brought back the horrors and doubts of that first day, too—but, for the moment, she pushed those aside and followed Sister George into the fascinating maelstrom of color, smells, and shouting.
Filing away a particularly entertaining expression that she planned to make Sister Philomène explain to her—Sister Philomène was a little older than Joan, but painfully shy and with such delicate skin that she blushed like an apple at the least excuse—she followed Sister George and Sister Mathilde through the fishmonger’s section, where Sister George bargained shrewdly for a great quantity of sand dabs, scallops, tiny gray translucent shrimp, and an enormous sea salmon, the pale spring light shifting through its scales in colors that faded so subtly from pink to blue to silver and back that some of them had no name at all—so beautiful even in its death that it made Joan catch her breath with joy at the wonder of creation.
“Oh, bouillabaisse tonight!” said Mercy, under her breath. “Délicieuse!”
“What is bouillabaisse?” Joan whispered back.
“Fish stew—you’ll like it, I promise!” Joan had no doubt of it; brought up in the Highlands during the poverty-stricken years following the Rising, she’d been staggered by the novelty, deliciousness, and sheer abundance of the convent’s food. Even on Fridays, when the community fasted during the day, supper was simple but mouthwatering, toasted sharp cheese on nutty brown bread with sliced apples.
Luckily, the salmon was so huge that Sister George arranged for the fish seller to deliver it to the convent, along with the other briny purchases; thus they had room in their baskets for fresh vegetables and fruit and so passed from Neptune’s realm to that of Demeter. Joan hoped it wasn’t sacrilegious to think of Greek gods, but she couldn’t forget the book of myths that Da had read to Marsali and her when they were young, with wonderful hand-colored illustrations.
After all, she told herself, you needed to know about the Greeks if you studied medicine. She had some trepidation at the thought of working in the hospital, but God called people to do things, and if it was his will, then—
The thought stopped short as she caught sight of a neat dark tricorne with a curled blue feather bobbing slowly through the tide of people. Was it—it was! Léonie, the sister of Michael Murray’s dead wife. Moved by curiosity, Joan glanced at Sister George, who was engrossed in a huge display of fungus—dear God, people ate such things?—and slipped around a barrow billowing with green sallet herbs.
She meant to speak to Léonie, ask her to tell Michael that she needed to talk to him. Perhaps he could contrive a way to visit the convent … But before Joan could get close enough, Léonie looked furtively over her shoulder, as though fearing discovery, then ducked behind a curtain that hung across the back of a small caravan.
Joan had seen gypsies before, though not often. A dark-skinned man loitered nearby, talking with a group of others; their eyes passed over her habit without pausing, and she sighed with relief. Being a nun was as good as having a cloak of invisibility in most circumstances, she thought.
She looked round for her companions and saw that Sister Mathilde had been called into consultation regarding a big warty lump of something that looked like the excrement of a seriously diseased hog. Good, she could wait for a minute longer.
In fact, it took very little more than that before Léonie slipped out from behind the curtain, tucking something into the small basket on her arm. For the first time, it struck Joan as unusual that someone like Léonie should be shopping without a servant to push back crowds and carry purchases—or even be in a public market. Michael had told her about his own household during the voyage—how Madame Hortense, the cook, went to the markets at dawn to be sure of getting the freshest things. What would a lady like Léonie be buying, alone?
Joan slithered as best she could through the rows of stalls and wagons, following the bobbing blue feather. A sudden stop allowed her to come up behind Léonie, who had paused by a flower stall, fingering a bunch of white jonquils.
It occurred suddenly to Joan that she had no idea what Léonie’s last name was, but she couldn’t worry about politeness now.
“Ah … madame?” she said tentatively. “Mademoiselle, I mean?” Léonie swung round, eyes huge and face pale. Finding herself faced with a nun, she blinked, confused.
“Er … it’s me,” Joan said, diffident, resisting the impulse to pull off her veil. “Joan MacKimmie?” It felt odd to say it, as though “Joan MacKimmie” were truly someone else. It took a moment for the name to register, but then Léonie’s shoulders relaxed a little.
“Oh.” She put a hand to her bosom and mustered a small smile. “Michael’s cousin. Of course. I didn’t … er … How nice to see you!” A small frown wrinkled the skin between her brows. “Are you … alone?”
“No,” Joan said hurriedly. “And I mustn’t stop. I only saw you, and I wanted to ask—” It seemed even stupider than it had a moment ago, but no help for it. “Would you tell Monsieur Murray that I must talk to him? I know something—something important—that I have to tell him.”
“Soeur Gregory?” Sister George’s stentorian tones boomed through the higher-pitched racket of the market, making Joan jump. She could see the top of Sister Mathilde’s head, with its great white sails, turning to and fro in vain search.
“I have to go,” she said to the astonished Léonie. “Please. Please tell him!” Her heart was pounding, and not only from the sudden meeting. She’d been looking at Léonie’s basket, where she caught the glint of a brown glass bottle half hidden beneath a thick bunch of what even Joan recognized as black hellebores. Lovely cup-shaped flowers of an eerie greenish-white—and deadly poison.
She dodged back across the market to arrive breathless and apologizing at Sister Mathilde’s side, wondering if … She hadn’t spent much time at all with Da’s wife—but she had heard her talking with Da as she wrote down receipts in a book, and she’d mentioned black hellebore as something women used to make themselves miscarry. If Léonie were pregnant … Holy Mother of God, could she be with child by Michael? The thought struck her like a blow in the stomach.
No. No, she couldn’t believe it. He was still in love with his wife, anyone could see that, and even if not, she’d swear he wasn’t the sort to … But what did she ken about men, after all?
Well, she’d ask him when she saw him, she decided, her mouth clamping tight. And ’til then … Her hand went to the rosary at her waist and she said a quick, silent prayer for Léonie. Just in case.
As she was bargaining doggedly in her execrable French for six aubergines (wondering meanwhile what on earth they were for, medicine or food?), she became aware of someone standing at her elbow. A handsome man of middle age, taller than she was, in a well-cut dove-gray coat. He smiled at her and, touching one of the peculiar vegetables, said in slow, simple French, “You don’t want the big ones. They’re tough. Get small ones, like that.” A long finger tapped an aubergine half the size of the ones the vegetable seller had been urging on her, and the vegetable seller burst into a tirade of abuse that made Joan step back, blinking.
Not so much because of the expressions being hurled at her—she didn’t understand one word in ten—but because a voice in plain English had just said clearly, “Tell him not to do it.”
She felt hot and cold at the same time.
“I … er … je suis … um … merci beaucoup, monsieur!” she blurted, and, turning, ran, scrambling back between piles of paper narcissus bulbs and fragrant spikes of hyacinth, her shoes skidding on the slime of trodden leaves.
“Soeur Gregory!” Sister Mathilde loomed up so suddenly in front of her that she nearly ran into the massive nun. “What are you doing? Where is Sister Miséricorde?”
“I … oh.” Joan swallowed, gathering her wits. “She’s—over there.” She spoke with relief, spotting Mercy’s small head in the forefront of a crowd by the meat-pie wagon. “I’ll get her!” she blurted, and walked hastily off before Sister Mathilde could say more.
“Tell him not to do it.” That’s what the voice had said about Charles Pépin. What was going on? she thought wildly. Was M. Pépin engaged in something awful with the man in the dove-gray coat?
As though thought of the man had reminded the voice, it came again.
“Tell him not to do it,” the voice repeated in her head, with what seemed like particular urgency. “Tell him he must not!”
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women …” Joan clutched at her rosary and gabbled the words, feeling the blood leave her face. There he was, the man in the dove-gray coat, looking curiously at her over a stall of Dutch tulips and sprays of yellow forsythia.
She couldn’t feel the pavement under her feet but was moving toward him. I have to, she thought. It doesn’t matter if he thinks I’m mad.…
“Don’t do it,” she blurted, coming face-to-face with the astonished gentleman. “You mustn’t do it!”
And then she turned and ran, rosary in hand, apron and veil flapping like wings.