“This is my daughter, Amadine Jourdain, adopted through passion,” Jourdain continued.
Agnes, who had the aura of a mother hen, came forward to hold both my hands in her warm ones, an intimate greeting. She smelled of citrus and crushed pine needles, betraying her obsession with keeping all things clean and orderly. Indeed, from what I could see of the mahogany paneled walls and white tiled floors, this was a rigorously tidied house. And I could not help but feel as if I was beginning a fresh life—a blank slate with endless possibilities—and returned her smile.
“If you need anything at all, you simply call for me.”
“That is very kind of you,” I answered.
“Where is my son?” Jourdain inquired.
“With the consort, monsieur,” Agnes was swift to respond, dropping my hands. “He apologizes in advance.”
“Another late night?”
“Yes.”
Jourdain appeared dissatisfied, until he noticed I was carefully watching him and his face lightened. “Pierre? What is on the menu tonight?”
“We have trout for tonight, so I hope you like fish, Mistress Amadine,” the chef responded. His tenor voice was raspy, as if he had spent far too many hours singing while he cooked.
“Yes, I do.”
“Excellent!” Pierre bustled back down the hallway.
“Dinner is at six,” Jourdain informed me. “Agnes, why don’t you give Amadine a tour of the house? And show her to her room?”
Just as Jean David entered carrying my trunk, Agnes led me around the first floor, showing me the dining hall, the small parlor, Jourdain’s austere office, and the library, which was crammed with books and instruments. I knew Jourdain was a lawyer, yet his house was eclectically grand and polished, bespeaking one who was educated and seemed to favor the passions. It felt like home, and relief washed over me; it was the last thing I expected, to feel at ease in a new place.
“Is Jourdain’s son a musician?” I asked, taking in the scattered sheets of music over the covered spinetta, the piles of books on the floor that my skirts threatened to upset, and a very old lute, which sat upright in a chair as a faithful pet waiting for its master to return.
“He is indeed, Mistress,” Agnes answered, her voice thick with pride. “He is a passion of music.”
Fancy that. Why hadn’t Jourdain mentioned such to me?
“And he is part of a consort of musicians?” I looked to the hasty scrawl of his handwriting, the broken quills, and the vials of inks with half-plugged corks.
“Yes. He is very accomplished,” Agnes continued, beaming. “Now let me show you to the second floor. That is where your room will be, as well as Master Luc’s and Monsieur Jourdain’s.”
I followed her from the library, up a set of horribly creaky stairs to the second floor. There was a linen room, Jourdain’s and Luc’s rooms, which she did not open but pointed to their closed doors so I would know where they were, and at last she took me down the hall to a chamber that sat at the back of the house.
“This is your room, Mistress,” Agnes said and swung open the door.
It was beautiful. There was a pair of windows overlooking the river, with thick rugs over the wooden floors and a canopy bed that could comfortably sleep two people. It was simple, yet perfect for me, I thought as I approached a small desk before one of the windows.
“Monsieur says you are a passion of knowledge,” Agnes commented from behind me. “I can bring you any book from the library, or I can fetch paper and ink if you wish to write.”
I had no one to write to, I thought somberly, but smiled anyway. “Thank you, Agnes.”
“I will go and draw you water so you can freshen up before dinner.” She bobbed another curtsy and then was gone.
Jean David had already set my cedar chest at the foot of the bed, and while I knew that I should begin to unpack, I felt far too tired. I lay down on my bed, staring up at the gauzy canopy. Did Agnes and Pierre know about my situation? Did Jourdain trust them enough to tell them about my memories? And what of his son, this Luc? Did he know?
I wondered how long I was to live here, how long before we pursued the stone. A month? Half a year?
Time, my old nemesis, seemed to laugh at me as I closed my eyes. The hours began to move unbearably slowly, mocking me. A day would feel like a month. A month, like a year.
I wanted to rush; I wanted to hasten and reach the end of this journey.
I fell asleep with such desires tumbling through my heart as stones down a well.
I woke just before dawn, in the belly of night’s coldest hour.
I sat forward with a jolt, unsure of where I was. On the desk, a candle was burning, its wax almost completely eaten. Blearily, I soaked in the surroundings by the fragile light, and I remembered. This was my new chamber at Jourdain’s. And I must have slept through dinner.
A quilt had been laid over me. By Agnes, most likely.
I slipped from the bed and took the candle, my hunger complaining in my empty stomach. Barefoot, I descended the stairs, learned which ones creaked so I could avoid them in the future. I was about to make my way to the kitchens when the velvet darkness of the library—the rich scent of books and paper—caught me in the hall.
I entered it, taking care to look where I stepped. The bizarre piles of books stroked my interest. I had always been the same, aggregating strange clusters of books ever since I had chosen knowledge. Kneeling down to examine which titles lived in one stack, I set my candle aside and began to go through them. Astronomy. Botany. Musical theory. The History of the Renauds . . .
I had read most of these already, I thought. I was just reaching for the next pile when a strange voice spoke through the darkness. . . .
“Oh, hello.”
I whirled about, unsettling the stack of books and nearly catching the house on fire. I caught the candle just before it plummeted and stood up, my heart pounding.
In the dim light of my candle, I saw a young man sprawled in a chair, the lute cradled in his arms. I had not even noticed him sitting there.
“Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you,” he apologized, voice dusty from sleep.
“You must be Luc.”
“Yes.” He sleepily smiled and then rubbed his nose. “You must be my sister.”
“Were you sleeping in here?” I whispered. “I am so sorry. I should not have come down so early.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he reassured me, and set the lute down to stretch. “Sometimes I sleep in here when I get home late. Because the stairs creak.”
“So I discovered.”
Luc yawned, leaning back into the chair to regard me by the light of the sputtering candle.
“You are lovely.”
I stood frozen, unsure of how to respond. And then he baffled me even further when he lumbered to his feet and folded me into a tight embrace, as if he had known me his entire life and we had been separated for years.
My arms were stiff as I slowly returned the affection.
He was tall and skinny, and he smelled of smoke and something spicy that he must have eaten for dinner and spilled on his shirt. He pulled away from me but his hands remained on my arms.
“Amadine. Amadine Jourdain.”