“And if I don’t return willingly, what makes you think he won’t come find me again?”
“She’s right, Thomas. She has to go back, and this time I’m pretty sure I know what she should expect.” Caroline rests a hand on her son’s forehead and looks me dead in the eye. “Unless I miss my guess, your next stop is a marketplace.”
Archer and I turn to Caroline and together ask, “What?”
“Anthony is taking you through Pictures at an Exhibition, movement by movement as best I can tell. Don’t ever forget, I’ve heard the thing a thousand times. You just met ‘Samuel Goldenberg and Schmuÿle’ so ‘The Marketplace at Limoges’ is next.”
“And what do you think Anthony has waiting for me there?” I turn to Archer. The determination on his face would be almost cute under any other set of circumstances. “It’s a French Market. You want me to bring you back a baguette and some Brie?”
Archer doesn’t appear amused. “Have you considered it might be a trap?”
“A trap?” Caroline asks.
“Anthony’s ‘Art Gallery of the Damned’ reaches all the way across town to get Mira’s attention last night and now the boy is literally singing her song. Mira may have friends inside your boy’s head―”
“But I have enemies as well.” My eyes slide closed. “You’re right, Dr. Archer. For all we know, it’s the witch calling out to me, luring me back so she can get rid of me once and for all.”
“That’s my boy you’re talking about.” Caroline turns to me. “He needs you, Mira. Can’t you hear him?”
Of course I can. The fact that the neighbors haven’t called to complain about the screeching is a miracle.
“You’re certain you want me to do this? After everything with Jason?”
“Forget what I said. I was upset. Wasn’t thinking straight.” Caroline buries her face in her hands. “Help my boy, Mira. Please. You’re the only one who can.”
I shoot Archer a glance. “Any other ideas?”
“You already know my thoughts on the matter.” Archer rubs at his eye and sighs. “But it’s your neck on the line. Do what you have to do.”
I brush the hair away from Anthony’s face. “Like I have a choice.”
Two melodies compete for supremacy as I descend through the prismatic torrent of Anthony’s thoughts. Mussorgsky’s “Promenade” on thundering piano clashes against the high-pitched vibrato of the violin playing Scheherazade’s theme, the divergent melodies threatening to deafen me or drive me insane.
“I’m here, Anthony,” I shout. “You can cut the soundtrack.” The ear-splitting music continues to pound at me like invisible fists, as if the invisible orchestra is mocking me. “I know you can hear me. Now cut it out, or I’ll turn around and you can play in here by yourself.”
The music stops immediately and the sensation of falling ceases. As with each trip before, the maelstrom of color around me fades into the all too familiar gallery of Anthony’s vision of Mussorgsky’s Exhibition. Though the herringbone pattern in the wood at my feet remains the same as always, the fresco across the ceiling appears, as always, quite different. No mythological characters this time, no comic book heroes, no horrifying images of crimes against humanity. This time the picture is very simple.
Me, in Scheherazade garb, sprinting down the hall toward one of the open alcoves.
Anthony may not be the subtlest of creatures, but this screams of desperation.
In an attempt to prepare for this particular sojourn through Anthony’s mind, Archer and I did some research. An online encyclopedia revealed a couple of interesting facts. The original picture by Hartmann that inspired “The Marketplace at Limoges” was also known as either “The Great News” or “French women quarreling violently in the market.” What that means for me remains to be seen. A more surprising discovery was learning the sister city of Limoges is, of all places, Charlotte, North Carolina.
Mom always taught me coincidences are just the signposts of fate, a lesson made evident as the frescoed ceiling above my head shifts again. Freed from the Exhibition, the sprinting Scheherazade there now runs toward a nightmare version of the Charlotte skyline.
A shiver travels up my spine. Even as I walk through Anthony’s mind, some small part of him is clearly walking through mine as well.
I creep down the open hallway and come to the alcove where I first encountered Tunny. The Gnomus placard hangs askew, singed at the bottom corner. The painting, once a lush forest of oil strokes now portrays only a burned-out husk, the canvas charred at the edges as if the fire was more than just represented in the painting. The smell of burnt pine and smoke fills the space and a bitter tear trickles down my cheek.
I continue down the hallway past The Old Castle, now barricaded with its drawbridge up. The destroyed canvas that was once the Tuileries painting hangs in tatters from its frame. The fields of Bydło lie fallow with any evidence of Julianna’s body hidden beneath the newly and neatly plowed parallel rows. The stage of Ballet of the Unhatched Chicks remains empty while the dueling voices of the still arguing Samuel Goldenberg and Schmuÿle echo from their alcove, their rich baritone and high-pitched nasal voices playing off each other in syncopated rhythm.
The next alcove opens on a painting of four women in fine French garb from the turn of the twentieth century. As Caroline guessed and the Exhibition’s frescoed ceiling confirmed, the sign above the painting contains four words written in elegant script.
THE MARKETPLACE AT LIMOGES
Rendered in the short thick strokes of an impressionist’s oils, the quartet of women stand in the shade of a tea merchant’s awning exchanging pleasantries. I take a step closer, my heart pounding. A tea stand surrounded by French socialites is anything but terrifying, but neither is a crowd of children standing in a garden. As I debate what to do, the women all turn to face me, bristling with impatience as if they’ve known I was there all along.
As one, they beckon me to enter.
With a skipped heartbeat and a silent prayer, I leap into the painting.
My feet land on the cobblestone walkway, my silk sarong brushing against my ankles like rose petals. An energetic tune leads with a muted trumpet fanfare before launching into alternating strings and woodwinds and brass. Despite my circumstances, the song fills me with a strange joy as I move to join the quartet of women. A fine parasol appears in one hand and a lace fan in the other as my attire shifts to fit my new surroundings. Admiring the fine green dress that now falls from Scheherazade’s form, I open the parasol and rest it across my shoulder to block the impression of sunlight on my back and draw closer to the women. Three of them are unknown to me, other aspects of Anthony’s fractured consciousness, but even from behind and through a fishnet veil, the identity of the fourth woman to my left is irrefutable.
“Madame Versailles. After our encounter in Tuileries, I never dreamed I’d see you again.” I cock my head to one side, surprised to hear my words coming out in French. “It seemed you’d rather die than leave your precious garden.”
“Life and death work a little different around here.” Versailles turns to face me. “Not to mention a lot of things have changed since your first walk along the Exhibition.”
“What are you doing here in Limoges?” I ask.
“I closed my eyes as Tuileries imploded around me and awoke here in The Marketplace.” One shoulder rises in a half-shrug. “Apparently, there is more of my story left to tell.” Her lips turn up in a subtle snarl. “And speaking of people who have worn out their welcome, I’ve caught wind of your continued encounters with our delightful friend from the end of the hall.”
“Have you?” I sidestep her subtle inquiry. “Who are your friends?”
“These are the women of The Marketplace. They come here to talk. I used to visit from time to time, but since the garden at Tuileries is no more, I spend my days here.” She shrugs. “Not to mention my nights.” She leans in conspiratorially and whispers, “I’ve learned a few things since we last spoke. Brigitt
e here was the first to find me. She is quite the gossip.”
“Do tell.”
Madame Versailles and I both glance in the direction of a plump woman across the circle, her hair a long cascade of blonde ringlets. She blushes and offers me a polite bonjour.
“Brigitte,” Versailles says. “Please tell the Lady Scheherazade what you were just saying about the girl, Juliet.”
“We miss her so,” Brigitte says. “It hasn’t been the same around here since she went away.”
“Enough sentiment,” Versailles hisses. “Tell her what you know.”
“About the girl?” Brigitte leans in. “Or the baby?”
“Baby?” My gaze darts back and forth from Brigitte’s blushing face and Madame Versailles’ self-satisfied smirk. “What’s she talking about?”
“The girl, Juliet.” Versailles studies the ground at her feet. “She was with child.”
“Was?”
“You saw her.” Versailles points out of the painting. “In Hartmann’s field.”
The story from Anthony’s classroom. The picture. “Juliet is Julianna.”
“Inasmuch as you are Scheherazade in this place, so is she Juliet. Do you understand?”
“I’m not sure.” I bite at my lower lip. “I understand both more and less with every new jaunt through the Exhibition.”
Versailles throws her head back and laughs. “Now there’s an honest answer.”
I turn to Brigitte. “This Juliet. She was pregnant, you say?” The French flows off my tongue as if I were a native.
Brigitte crinkles her nose in disgust. “A vulgar word, but yes.”
“And the father?”
“You’re a bit slow today, Lady Scheherazade.” Versailles places a hand on her hip and raises an eyebrow. “Answer me this. In whose field did you find the girl’s body?”
“Hartmann’s.” A connection forms in my mind even as my heart goes cold. “Hartman.”
Madame Versailles gazes at me, her eyes triumphant. “At last, you see. A child of Tuileries with the Cart Man from the fields. Until her demise, Juliet served as the fourth of The Marketplace, a position I was more than happy to fill after my own home was ruined.”
Her eyes stab at me as she speaks that last word.
“Did Hartmann know?”
“Oh, Scheherazade. Surely you are not so unschooled in the ways of men. Why do you think he put her in the ground?”
My mind floats back to Glenn Hartman’s baleful glare from the police car, his left eye slowly swelling shut from its encounter with Jason Faircloth’s fist. My hand goes to the hilt of my dagger. “That bastard.”
Brigitte stares at me aghast. “Madame Versailles, your friend has quite the devil’s tongue.”
Versailles lets out a chuckle. “The Lady is not from here and therefore isn’t bound by most of the social constraints imposed on the rest of us.”
“Constraints?” The fear in their eyes answers my unasked question. “The witch.”
Another of the women steps closer to me and whispers. “Silence, Scheherazade. Would you bring her down upon our home like you did when you stood within Madame Versailles’ frame? Tuileries is no more. If The Marketplace is destroyed, where would you have us go?”
“Sophie.” Versailles interposes herself between us. “Stop.”
“I’m sorry.” I step back from the circle of women. “I had no idea.”
Sophie steps around Versailles and continues her rant. “You come here time and again demanding answers to questions that should be left unasked and leave nothing but havoc in your wake. Tunny’s forest and Tuileries have been destroyed, the Ballet is empty save Trilby’s occasional performance, and the bridge at the castle is drawn against us all, friend or otherwise. The Exhibition was never the happiest of homes, but at least everyone knew their place in the scheme of things.”
I step forward, bringing my nose close to Sophie’s. “Apparently, at least one person’s place was six feet below the ground. My questions may be stirring the pot around here, but at least I’m doing something while the rest of you stand around gossiping over tea.”
Versailles steps between us again and raises her hands in a placating gesture to both sides. “Please excuse her reckless words. Lady Scheherazade is a visitor here, and though she doesn’t understand the rules, she was careful to avoid mentioning her name.”
“But I will.” I push Madame Versailles out of my way and step to the center of the circle. “Tell me what I need to know or I will bring her down on all of you. Mortar, pestle and all.”
The fourth woman, who had remained silent throughout the interchange, steps forward. “Please forgive Sophie and Brigitte. They do so relish their place here.”
“And you are?”
“I am called Antoinette.”
I fight back a sigh. “Of course you are.”
She offers me a polite curtsy. “Tell me, Lady Scheherazade. What is it you wish to know?”
“How did it happen?” I work to formulate a more appropriate question. “I mean, did Hartmann come here and take her?”
Antoinette shakes her head. “No. Juliet was ever a free spirit. The three of us were always more than happy with our position here, but with Juliet, the wanderlust claimed her body and soul. In the end, it was her undoing.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was the only one among us to have visited all the other places, barring the Russian wood where ‘you know who’ and her house on chicken legs resides, of course. She amused us with tales of the Gnome’s forest, captivated us with descriptions of the tower view from the castle, even entertained us once with a dance she learned from Trilby. Then, one day, she didn’t come back.”
“We never knew what happened to her, until the day when you found her in Hartmann’s field.” Brigitte blushes and looks away.
“But you knew she was preg―” I stop myself at Versailles’ stern glance. “I mean, with child.” I raise an eyebrow. “How could you know such things in a place like this?”
Versailles’ eyes narrow. “A woman knows these things.”
“Indeed she does.” A sixth voice comes from across my shoulder, the harsh Russian accent made all the more ominous by the intermittent snapping of iron on iron.
I turn to face the witch. She rests atop her mortar, her pestle pointed at my head like a judge’s gavel, while the ever-swishing broom undulates back and forth behind her, appearing to hold her aloft.
“It is as I said,” Sophie whispers. “Scheherazade has doomed us all.”
Brigitte steps forward. “Please, Mistress. Do not destroy The Marketplace. This square is all we have, one of the few places left for us to go.”
Baba Yaga shrugs and offers what passes for a smile. The metal-toothed grimace will haunt my dreams for the rest of my days. The broom stops and the witch deposits both it and her pestle into the mortar bowl before climbing down and making our circle six.
“I have no intention of destroying this place.” Rancid spittle flies from her mouth. “Is it not a place where women meet? Am I not a woman?”
My body assumes a defensive posture, though the witch appears unarmed. “Have you come here for me? To eject me yet again from your precious Exhibition?”
Yaga laughs, the rhythmic wheeze sending a shiver to my core. “Lady Scheherazade, how many times have I sent you from this place? Yet you return and return and return. Persistence may be a virtue wherever you call home, but here, it is little more than an annoyance. How many times must we do this dance? You are no closer now than when you first saw the gnome, and you are quickly running out of places to stick your oh-so-pretty nose.”
“I may be closer than you think, witch. I’ve learned much on this particular visit, and dare I say I am eager to see what hides in the Catacombs. I’m guessing a conversation with the dead in a dead tongue might be rather enlightening.”
Baba Yaga recoils at my words. “You will never see the Catacombs. I have blocked the portal and even I cannot breach t
he seal.”
“Perhaps.” Modesto’s knowing smile flashes across my mind’s eye. “Perhaps not.”
“You think yourself quite clever, do you not, my dear? Do not make the mistake of overestimating your position. Remember in whose realm you now walk.”
“This is Anthony’s mind, you old hag. You are no more real than Brigitte or Sophie or even the lovely Madame Versailles.”
“Yet I have sent you from this place time and again with no more than a waggle of my finger. Have you learned no respect?”
“What I’ve learned is while you may have the power to remove me from what you perceive as your own private Exhibition, you cannot keep me out. I will keep coming and coming until I have learned what I need to know to free Anthony from this prison.”
“And why would you wish to free the boy?” Yaga pulls so close her fetid breath sends my stomach into spasm. “To face a world that will never understand him? He has so much to offer so many, and all the world does is stand and mock.” She turns away. “He is safer here.”
“Safer with you who keeps his mind in chains?”
“Have you never considered the wisdom behind the concept of ‘necessary evil,’ fair Scheherazade?” She offers a subtle bow, before gnashing her iron teeth together yet again.
The sound threatens to stop my heart.
Banishing the fear from my face, I step closer to the witch. “There is nothing necessary about any of this. Mark my words. I will free Anthony.”
“You assume he wishes to be free, and therein lies the flaw in your theory.” She climbs back into her mortar and turns her baleful glare back on me. “You are the one who keeps reminding everyone this is the boy’s mind, but would that not by extension mean when you speak to me, you speak to Anthony himself?”
“Yes.” It’s the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. “Anthony. Speak to me. Not as her, not through her wrinkled lips and metal teeth. Speak to me as yourself.”
Yaga’s face twists briefly into a mask of stark terror that eventually resolves into a smug grin. “The boy cannot hear you. He has chosen his proxy. Now, Scheherazade, begone from this place.” Her eyes close and I am surrounded in color and sound. “And do not return.”
The Mussorgsky Riddle Page 21
