by Amy Maroney
Zari pulled the magnifying visor off and thrust it at Laurence. Between them, the archivist, whose intensely floral perfume could not mask an underlying scent of stale cigarette smoke, sat silently. Her white-gloved hands gently held the edges of the book open on its squishy bean bag support.
“Are there other records from this notary?” Zari asked the archivist.
“We have one more of his register books. But it is in very bad condition. We don’t allow it to be handled.”
“I didn’t see that one in the digital records,” Zari said.
“Because it is not there. As I said, we don’t allow it to be handled.”
Zari looked at Laurence.
“I’ll talk to the director,” Laurence said.
They took photographs of both documents. Finally, after offering their thanks to the unsmiling archivist, they headed downtown to find a café.
Laurence forbade Zari to pore over the photos while they ate.
“It is not healthy to do anything else when you are eating,” she explained. “Americans are so proud of this ‘multitasking.’ It is a sign of a cultural malady.”
Zari looked at Laurence’s stubbed out cigarette in the ashtray between their plates. “Smoking and eating is multitasking.”
Laurence rolled her eyes. “It is not the same.”
Zari nearly blurted a retort, but thought better of it and stabbed a forkful of salade frisée aux lardons instead. The plate was beautifully arranged: bitter greens, perfectly balanced vinaigrette, thick crumbles of bacon, and two toasted slices of baguette spread with goat cheese. She ate rapidly, eager to get back to the document.
“Zari!” Laurence held up a hand, her eyebrows furrowed in disapproval. “Calm yourself. Those words are five hundred years old. They can wait a few more minutes for you.”
“I can’t help being excited.” Zari jiggled her leg under the table. “I’m freaking out over here, to be honest.”
“Freaking out?” Laurence pushed away her half-eaten salad and lit another cigarette. “Why do Americans say such things?”
“What about you?” Zari retorted. “J’ai le cafard, for example. Explain why ‘I have the cockroach’ means ‘I’m depressed.’”
Laurence fell silent. The thin gold chain around her neck was strung with a simple circle of gold. A wedding ring, Zari suddenly realized.
“It is not easy, Zari.” Laurence’s voice was low and halting. “Look around.”
Everyone but Zari seemed to be smoking at the tables clustered around them.
Zari watched a man at the next table light up an unfiltered Gauloises, the stench of which never failed to nauseate her. “Yes,” she admitted. “It must be torture.”
Her eyes fell on Laurence’s necklace again.
“My husband’s wedding ring,” Laurence said absently. “I wear it on our anniversary.”
“Today...?” Zari put down her fork.
Laurence nodded. “Yes.”
All at once Zari understood why Laurence had been so testy. Grief threatened to engulf her, an all-consuming sadness that she tried to mask with a cloud of smoke.
“I’m sorry, Laurence,” Zari said. “Smoke to your heart’s content—I won’t say another word, I promise.”
Laurence stretched her lips into a thin ghost of a smile. She closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sun, the cigarette dangling from her fingers.
Zari settled back in her chair, her mind on the swirling rust-red letters scrawled across the notary’s book. Whatever message they contained, Laurence was right. Those words could wait a few more minutes to be discovered.
After their plates were cleared, after their tiny cups of espresso had been served and drained, Laurence nodded at Zari’s messenger bag. It was time.
Zari fished her laptop from her bag and slid it over to Laurence.
“‘Sale of wool cloth: Folio 70r, dated July 26, 1504,’” Laurence read aloud. She stopped and glanced up. “I will do my best to translate, but this is not modern French.”
“‘In the year and on the day aforesaid,’” she began, “‘we, Arnaud de Luz, journeyman cabinetmaker of Ronzal, and my wife Miramonde de Luz, sell to you, Lord Esteven de Vernier, merchant of pastel and wool, each and all of the bolts of fine dyed merino wool fabric which were made from the fleeces of sheep from the Abbey of Belarac...’”
Laurence’s voice faltered and she looked up at Zari for a moment, her eyes aglow. “‘We promise to deliver and to transport this fabric to you in the summer of 1505,’” she went on. “‘If the fabric is not of the same quality of the samples we provided, we obligate ourselves personally and all our present and future property.’”
“A sale of fabric to a merchant in Toulouse,” Zari said blankly. “I thought we were onto something huge. But this?” She slumped in her chair. “Fabric?”
“This is huge, Zari. First, we know they were married. We were never sure before exactly what their relationship was. Now we have proof.”
Zari stayed silent, but she sat up a little straighter.
“We knew from the mortuary roll that Mira had a close relationship with the abbess of Belarac,” Laurence said. “You thought the abbey might have raised merino sheep. Now we know that is true. This helps your case, do you not see?”
“Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but—”
“This woman, Mira. She was forgotten, lost to history,” Laurence interrupted. “And think what you did. You learned she was a nun. And then you learned she was a member of the family of Oto. And then you learned Arnaud de Luz made panels for her and went to a cave in Aragón with her. And now you find out she was married to him! All of this, about a person who lived five hundred years ago. It is fantastic, what you have done.”
“Why are you suddenly the optimistic one?”
“Because I have a reason.”
“You do?”
“When the archives open up again at Bayonne, you will know that every bit of evidence you find about Arnaud means something, because he was Mira’s husband. That alone is something to celebrate.”
“But that’s not until next summer.” Zari’s voice flared with worry. “I need to have a solid paper to present in Bordeaux this spring.”
“No one will accuse you of being lazy. You are studying the archives in every city and museum in the entire region. Just keep searching, Zari. Keep asking questions. That is all you can do. And you’re very good at it.”
Laurence lit another cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled.
They both watched the thin plume of smoke twist upward into the blue sky and disappear.
9
Winter, 1505
Toulouse, France
Mira
The cold had burrowed into Mira’s bones. Even in the luxury of the merchant’s home, with its fires burning in multiple hearths, she was never warm. Here at the inn, she shivered all night long.
The inn was crowded with woad farmers and peasants eager to contract with the city’s growing ranks of merchants. During meals at the downstairs tavern, Mira and Arnaud became students of the woad industry through a series of long-winded monologues delivered by the innkeeper, whose chief pleasure appeared to be the sound of his own voice.
The merchants in Toulouse who invested in woad were obliged to pay out years in advance, he explained, for the process of turning the plant into blue pigment was long and laborious. It took a year from planting to harvest, then many months of washing, soaking, crushing, grinding, and fermenting.
He told them that the tall brick tower built by Lord de Vernier was being copied by the newly wealthy all over Toulouse. Rich merchants were sprouting like mushrooms, he said. And why wouldn’t they? The demand for blue dye grew stronger with each passing year. The ambitious and the greedy flocked to Toulouse, hoping to reap their own reward from the woad industry. If Mira and
Arnaud were lucky, he said, they would benefit too.
They had found a lodging house near a quiet square that had two rooms to let, and soon would have enough money saved to move there. Listening to the scrabbling of rodents and the noise in the tavern night after sleepless night, Mira longed for that day.
This morning, snow swirled around her as she shuffled through the alleyway to Lord de Vernier’s home, slipping now and then on the icy cobblestones. She had taken to first visiting the cellar kitchens for a cup of steaming cider spiced with cloves. She stood with her hands wrapped around the hot ceramic cup, staring into the shifting flames of the kitchen fire. When her fingers began to redden and swell it was time to put down the cup and climb the three stories of the servants’ staircase to the nursery.
She had quickly learned to stay a few paces ahead of the grumpy housekeeper, Heloise, whose lip curled in a sneer every time she caught sight of Mira. Apparently her installation as the new governess had been a personal affront to the woman, who never tired of reminding Mira that though she might claim to be high-born, she was no better than any other servant in the employ of the family.
It was late in the afternoon. The girls had been bundled up and sent to the courtyard to play. Their mother believed in daily time out of doors, and though Mira had never met her she agreed with the philosophy—it was the same one that Mother Béatrice had instituted at Belarac. All the children raised there had spent time each day playing in the cloisters’ gardens, or if it rained, in the covered arcades that lined the inner courtyard.
Mira closed her books and tidied up the room. On her hands and knees, recovering a quill that had rolled under a bookcase, she did not hear the door open. When she stood up, a woman dressed in layers of shimmering blue silk stood in the center of the room. Her dark hair was covered with a fine lace headpiece encrusted with pearls, and a glinting red ruby dangled from a gold chain around her neck. Mira dropped into a low curtsy.
“Please, rise.” The woman’s voice was low, and she spoke in Aragónese.
“Yes, my lady.”
“You are my kinswoman, I hear.”
Mira was startled. Then she realized what the woman meant. “Yes, my lady. I was born in Aragón.”
“Of what house were you born?” The woman walked to the table and opened a book. She turned the pages with elegant fingers. Mira counted four gold rings on her hands.
“I...the house of Oto, my lady.” She was in France now, Mira reminded herself. Far from Aragón. A whole kingdom away from anyone who cared.
“The barons of Oto. I have heard of their exploits. They say a war cannot be won without the house of Oto.”
“Do they?” Heat began to creep up Mira’s neck and color her cheeks.
The lady tilted her head to one side, her dark eyes never leaving Mira’s face.
A cough rose in Mira’s throat and she swallowed it away. Why hadn’t she made up a name? By telling the truth, she would tangle herself in more lies.
“I myself was born in Zaragoza,” Lady de Vernier said. “My father and his father before him were advisers to the king.”
Mira nodded, not daring to speak.
“Noble-born in Aragón. Then fate led you to France and a life of service.” A hint of curiosity swelled in the woman’s voice.
Mira tried to keep her voice light. “Fortune is capricious, my lady, even for the noble-born. Our names do not always help us find a way in this world.”
At that moment, Heloise bustled into the room. Her eyes widened with shock at the sight of Mira conversing with her mistress.
“My lady!” she burst out. “I apologize for this rude interruption to your day. She has been instructed not to speak to you.”
“I spoke first. She was only being polite in answering my questions.” The woman’s voice was mild, but there was a firmness in her tone that neither Mira nor Heloise missed.
“I see.” Heloise glared at Mira. “The children have returned from their play.” When Mira made no move to go, she jerked her head toward the door. “Hurry along, then.”
“Madame Mira.” Lady de Vernier’s voice rang out with authority. “You shall no longer climb the servants’ staircase to reach the nursery. You will walk through the great hall and up the family staircase. Your noble-born status demands it. Heloise, though she means well, is ignorant of such matters.”
Heloise stiffened. Her eyes raked over Mira, glistening with anger.
The lady of the house ignored her housekeeper’s obvious discontent. She nodded to Mira and swept out of the room, her silk skirts whispering over the wool carpet.
Mira began toting a pouch of charcoal sticks to the nursery each day, along with a stack of linen paper remnants that she had bought from a bookseller. Drawing soon became the girls’ favorite activity. They clamored for their turn with the charcoal each morning, and Mira’s greatest challenge was keeping them from ruining their dresses with charcoal dust. She took to wrapping them in linen dishcloths that she cajoled out of the kitchen staff in exchange for quickly sketched charcoal portraits.
A fortnight into the drawing lessons, Mira was putting the finishing touches on a sketch of Sandrine, who was seated in front of her while the other two girls watched at Mira’s side.
“Ooh,” said the smallest one, Blanca. “That is a good likeness.”
“Mmm. But you’ve made her much prettier than she truly is!” added Sophie.
“That is not amusing,” said Sandrine, frowning. “But then your little jests are never amusing to anyone but yourself.”
“That is not true,” Blanca protested. “I laugh at her jests.”
“You laugh at anything.”
“Do not.”
“Do too.”
“Girls!” Mira warned, putting her charcoal down. “Who wants to draw me?”
They all glowed with excitement at this. She handed out paper and charcoal to each girl, then took her place on the chair while they stood three abreast at the polished walnut table, sketching intently.
Their mother entered the room. All three girls turned and bobbed curtsies to her, while Mira stood and bowed.
Lady de Vernier went to the table and looked over the girls’ shoulders. Then she picked up the sketch Mira had made.
“This is no idle drawing.” She glanced up at Mira. “You have some schooling in the arts.”
“I trained in the abbey as an artist, first illuminating prayer books, then painting portraits.”
Lady de Vernier studied the sketch again.
“If the artist we commissioned for our portraits was this talented, he might be worth half what we paid him.”
“Ah?”
“Indeed. Every merchant in this city desires their images captured in portraits these days. The best artists are booked out for years. My husband did not want to wait, so he commissioned an artist whose work, I fear to say, is inferior. The man trained neither in Flanders nor Florence.”
“I can paint portraits in the Flemish style,” Mira said boldly. “My teacher was from Flanders.”
Lady de Vernier’s eyes lit up. “As a gift for my husband, you shall paint my portrait, then. If the quality lives up to your promise, you shall have more work than you can imagine.”
That night in bed, telling Arnaud what had happened, Mira’s gleeful recounting of the conversation was felled by a sudden wave of doubt.
“I have no supplies, no tools, no panels. How can I do this?”
He did not hesitate. “I can make the panels and the brushes. There’s a bookseller in the weekly market who hawks pigments and artist’s tools. We’ll have everything you need in a week’s time.”
“But we had just about saved enough to pay for our own lodging,” Mira objected. “If we buy all those things, we shall have to stay on here another month, perhaps more.”
“I’ve got more work from the wool sell
er I met in the tavern. He’s having me build chairs for him now. Keeping it on the quiet, because I’m not a member of the guild.”
“On the quiet?”
“He pays me, not the guild, and saves himself money. The guild collects extra for tariffs and such.”
“But what if he is caught? You will be jailed—or worse.”
“It’s the risk I must take if I want to work. The guild won’t have me, I’ve told you that. I’ve no recommendation.”
She rolled over and propped her head on her hand. She could just make out the outline of his face in the dark. “Why did you not tell me of this plan?”
“Because I knew you’d do what you’re doing now.” Arnaud was rarely irritated with her, but the exasperation in his voice was plain.
Mira sat up and crossed her arms, fuming. She nearly asked three more questions and just as quickly knocked them back down her throat. Only the knowledge that she might step on a wriggling mouse’s tail if she jumped out of bed kept her sitting at Arnaud’s side.
When she had finally got hold of her patience again, she heard the faint whistling of a snore. Arnaud had fallen asleep. Soon dawn would bear down on the city and the streets would come alive again. A bit of sleep was too precious to spoil with an argument.
She lay down and pressed her cheek against his chest. The steady thud of his heartbeat soon lulled her into unconsciousness.
10
Winter, 1505
Toulouse, France
Mira
Within a fortnight of moving into their rented rooms, both Mira and Arnaud felt rested for the first time in months. Their rooms were small but clean, and overlooked a quiet square. The bedchamber contained a wood-framed bed and chest. They turned the sitting room into a workshop of sorts. It was furnished sparsely, with an oak table, two chairs, a stool, and a small chest. Piled on the floor were their wood panels, tools, and painting supplies.
They quickly fell into a routine, leaving early for work, meeting at a tavern for supper, and returning home for an hour or two of work by candlelight in the sitting room before retiring to their bed. The square was blissfully quiet at night. Only at dawn, when housewives and servants traipsed to the fountain at its center, did it come alive with voices and movement.
