“He is very passionate,” I agreed, taking another sip of coffee. “He is a historian as well as a teacher.”
“Does he know you are here?” Luc licked his fingers. Definitely not Valenian table manners, but I let it pass as if I had not noticed.
“No. No one knows where I am, who I am with.” I felt Jourdain’s gaze on me again, as if he was beginning to understand how painful this arrangement was for me.
“It is difficult for us to predict when we will be able to recover the stone,” Jourdain said. “Part of it will rely on you, Amadine, and this is not to pressure you, but we really do need another one of your ancestors’ memories to manifest, one that will hopefully give us solid evidence as to what forest the stone is buried in. Because there are four major forests in Maevana, not to mention all the other little thickets and woods not worthy to note on a map.”
I swallowed, feeling a piece of toast scrape all the way down my throat. “How would you like me to do this? I . . . I have little control over them.”
“As I know,” Jourdain replied. “But when the Dowager first sent her letter, stating she had an arden of knowledge who had inherited ancestral memories . . . I began to do my own research on the matter. Luc found some documents at the archive at Delaroche, which proved to be useless, but one of my clients—a fellow passion of knowledge who is a renowned physician—has done some fascinating research on the topic.” I watched as Jourdain reached within the inner pocket of his doublet. But instead of fetching a dagger, this time he brought forth a bouquet of papers, extending them to me. “This is his dossier, which he generously loaned to me. Here, have a look.”
I accepted them carefully, feeling the wear of them. The penmanship was sharp and slanted, and crowded page after page. As Agnes began to clear away the china, I let my eyes move over the words.
The experience with the ancestral memories of my five patients differ greatly, from age of onset to how deep and extensive the memories flow, but one thing I have found constant: the memories are difficult to control, or subdue, without prior knowledge of the ancestor.
The memories cannot be commanded to start without a bond (sight, smell, taste, sound, or any other sensory pathway), and there is difficulty in halting them once the stream begins.
I paused, my gaze still hovering on the words as I tried to absorb this. I looked to the next page and read:
A boy of ten, fallen from his horse, concussion, odd memories surfacing and compelling him to climb the highest bell tower. His ancestor had been a notorious thief, living in the crooks and shadows of the steeple. A young woman, an inept passion of wit, whose ancestral memories were conjured after she jumped from a bridge in Delaroche to drown herself . . .
“You want me to try and force a bond?” I said, glancing up to Jourdain.
“Not necessarily force,” he amended. “But encourage one. Luc is going to help you with this.”
My passion brother smiled and raised his cup of coffee to me. “I have no doubt we can accomplish this, Amadine. Father has already mentioned the other bonds you have made, one through the book, one through music, and one through your wound. I think we can easily manifest another memory.”
I nodded, but I didn’t feel as confident as him. Because my ancestor had lived a good one hundred and fifty years before me. He was not only a man, he was a full-blooded Maevan. He had not grown up among polite society, but in a world of swords and blood and gloomy castles. There truly was not much we could have in common.
But this was why I was here. This was why I was sitting at this table with Aldéric Jourdain, who was really someone else I was not supposed to know, and with his sanguine son, Luc. Because the three of us were going to recover the Stone of Eventide, uproot King Lannon, and set Isolde Kavanagh on the throne.
So I poured a little more cream into my coffee and then took up my cup and said, as vibrantly as I could, “Excellent. When do we start?”
FIFTEEN
ELUSIVE BONDS
The most obvious place to start would be music. Because I had already shifted, albeit very weakly, to the sound of a Maevan melody, and Luc was a musician.
We began right after breakfast, retreating to the library, which was bound to become our exploratory chamber. I brought him the roll of Merei’s song, her red ribbon still fastened over her perfectly inked notes. I watched as Luc sat on a stool and unrolled it, eagerly reading the notes, and I felt that lump lodge in my throat. I missed her, and this song was not going to sound the same, not even played by a fellow passion of music.
“An interesting title,” he remarked, glancing up at me.
I had not even seen the title. Frowning, I stepped closer so I could read it over his shoulder.
Brienna, Two in One.
I turned away, pretending to find something fascinating on the crowded shelves. But it was only to give me a moment to tame my emotion. I would not weep here; I would cry only once my jar of tears refilled, and that would hopefully be a long time from now.
“Why don’t you play it for me?” I suggested and sat in the chair by the spinetta again.
Luc stood and gently smoothed the pages, weighing each of the corners down with a river rock. I watched as he took his violin and his bow and leaped into the song, the notes dancing in the air about us as will-o’-the-wisps, or fireflies, or maybe even how magic might have saturated a room, had it not been dead for so long.
I closed my eyes and listened. This time, I could find those Valenian pieces—spritely, lively, something Merei called allegro—and then I found those Maevan influences—strong and deep, mellow, rising as smoke, building to a victorious crescendo. But I remained in my chair, my mind wholly my own.
I opened my eyes once he had ceased playing, the memory of the song still sweet in the air.
“Did you see anything?” he asked, unable to conceal his hope.
“No.”
“Let me play it again, then.”
He played it through two more times. But T.A.’s memories remained sheltered. Perhaps I had inherited only three of them? Perhaps a bond could be used only once?
I was beginning to feel discouraged, but Luc’s energy and determination was like a cool breeze on summer’s worst day.
“Let’s try The Book of Hours again,” he said, laying his violin safely on its side. “You said reading the passage on the Stone of Eventide inspired the first shift. Perhaps your ancestor read more of that book.”
I didn’t want to tell him that I had read many other chapters of that volume, to no avail. Because everything must be attempted again, just to ensure it was a dead end.
Time, for all her previous mockery, suddenly eased and the hours began to move with speed. An entire week passed. I hardly took notice, for Luc kept me busy trying anything he could think of.