The curtains were the same color as the walls and shimmered in the breeze from the open window. Two velvet couches, upholstered in a slightly darker but still luscious peach, sat opposite each other, a low coffee table covered with books between them. Creamy peach marble faced the fireplace. Above it hung a painting of an elderly man who looked like Merlin, peering into a crystal ball.
“Come,” she said. “Let me show you the rest.”
We went through one of the two doors on either side of the fireplace and entered a studio. There was no carpet here, rather a floor made of stone pavers. The ceiling had a skylight and north-facing windows—the painter’s preferred light.
In the center sat an easel and a taboret, its shelves filled with supplies.
I looked at Madame. “Do you paint?”
She laughed. “No, but a long time ago, I was in love with a painter and had this room turned into a studio for him. I thought it would suit you. Will it suffice? Will you be able to work here?”
I nodded. I did think I’d be able to work there. The space had a peaceful quiet that was unlike the rest of the theatrical house, which sang with excitement.
For the first time since February, I felt calmer about donning the blindfold. After all, as Sebastian kept reminding me, what secrets could a house hold that I needed to be scared of?
“Yes, it’s perfect,” I said. “The light will be ideal.”
“Now, here”—she took me back out through the sitting room and through the other door—“is your bedroom.”
The walls were covered with a decadent damask in the same peach tones. A half dozen ancient mirrors hung on either side of the bed and on the facing wall, so it was like being inside an antique kaleidoscope. The reflections were softened by the weathered glass, but as I peered into one, I saw a distant vista.
“What is it, dear?” she asked.
Frozen to the spot, I couldn’t take my eyes off the mirror.
“There is so much shadow play inside the glass,” I said. I’d learned over the years not to blurt out what I saw and frighten people. It was one thing to tell Sebastian, who was used to it, or my mother, who in a way took credit for it because it was she who’d restored my sight and, with it, this other ability.
“These are the original mirrors of the house. We had them taken from different rooms and hallways so we could use them in this suite like wallpaper. It was the designer’s idea. Do you like them?”
“How old are they?” I was afraid my voice belied my wonder. For I was seeing within the depths of the glass fragments of stories that had to be ancient.
“I wouldn’t know exactly, but the chateau was built before 1200.”
I was afraid to speak, because I was watching a group of six pilgrims climbing up a mountain, slowly, painfully, carefully. As if a movie were trapped in the glass. As if the mirror were a peephole into a play being enacted on a faraway stage. I couldn’t see myself, which was atypical. Was it because these were so old and marred with mercury spots?
As long as I wasn’t in the images and they didn’t relate to me, I wasn’t as concerned as I might have been. If I started to see myself, I could always ask for fabric to cover them or have them removed. Based on what I knew of Madame’s extensive forays into the occult, she’d probably be fascinated by my scrying—if that’s what this was.
Then, in the mirror, I noticed that around the next bend, four marauders were lying in wait for the pilgrims. If only I could call out to them and stop them—but this scene was from the far distant past. I kept watching, riveted. As the group came around the curve, the robbers rode up and blocked their passage. Two of the thieves jumped off their horses, swords pointed. A sharp edge caught the light.
I could hear faint screams as the women watched the highwaymen attack the men, who fell despite putting up a fight. What were mere hands against foils? One woman fainted. Another threw her body over that of her husband—or maybe he was her father.
Laughing, the thieves began attacking the women, pulling rings off their fingers and necklaces from around their necks. Then one grabbed hold of a woman’s robe and ripped it off her body.
“No!”
I didn’t realize I’d spoken out loud until I felt Madame Calvé’s hand on my arm and heard her voice.
“Are you all right, dear? What is it?”
I was going to have to tell her about the mirrors. That she’d have to cover them. Even if it meant explaining more about my talent than I wished. I’d learned one thing very quickly. There were secrets in this house. And my instincts told me I was going to find them. I just couldn’t be sure they would be the ones Madame wanted me to uncover.
Chapter 27
Book of Hours
July 22, 1920
Mathieu shows me his secret Paris but keeps secret parts of himself locked away. I can’t bear to see his suffering. What is it that plagues him so that he won’t even allow himself to talk of it? What secrets hide behind the barricade he’s erected? I’m tempted to offer to draw his shadow portrait. Maybe I can help save him from the darkness that I can see he battles, even though he thinks he’s hiding it from me.
As we walked toward Notre Dame today, Mathieu stopped at various shops. By the time we arrived at our destination, the Square du Vert-Galant at the tip of the ?le de la Cité, we had gathered a feast: a bottle of wine, peaches, cheese, and a fresh baguette.
Sensing that Mathieu’s emotional block had to do with his brother’s death, I decided to try to get him to talk more about Maximilian and asked what he’d been like. At first, he hesitated, and I thought he was going to refuse. But then, with a sigh of resignation, he turned his head, looked out at the flowing river, and began.
“Max was six years older than I. A student of history. I told you he was going to be a professor at the Sorbonne, didn’t I? When I was small, he used to take me all over Paris, showing me the important landmarks, telling me stories. He once said that history was soaked into the earth beneath every step we took.”
Mathieu picked up my hand and held it. If I could have willed him healed, I would have. I sensed the break in his soul again and wondered if it would ever mend.
Then he let go, pulled the cork out of the wine, and handed me the bottle. I took a sip and handed it back to him.
“Right here, for instance.” He gestured to the park around us. “This spot was created by King Henri IV. A most amorous ruler. They called him Le Vert-Galant—the grand spark—and his sexual exploits were notorious. His appetite insatiable. He kept several mistresses at a time and still visited brothels.”
“Why was this spot named for him?” I asked.
“He loved the view and thought it very romantic. But as for what went on here? You’d have to get the trees to tell you. Can you call upon your magick to make them give up their secrets?”
I’ve confided more to Mathieu about my abilities than to anyone outside my family. I have no reason but instinct to trust him, and I hope I’m not making a mistake. Yet each time I see him, each hour we spend together, deepens my conviction.