by M. J. Rose
“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.
We ate the bread and cheese and fruit. When we were finished, we drank more of the wine, and Mathieu licked its remains off my lips.
Then, as we sat and looked out at the Seine, clouds rolled across the sky, and a storm blew in. When the rain came, we took shelter and huddled beneath a chestnut tree, the water releasing the leaves’ sweet smell.
We watched the swans swim past. They were as untroubled by the rain as we were.
Mathieu reached out, took me in his arms, and kissed me. A kiss that lasted until the rain stopped. Five minutes? A half hour? I didn’t know, but the swans had returned by the time we stopped. Mathieu studied them for a moment. Two of them faced each other, their curved necks forming a perfect heart.
“They aren’t that different from what you told me about the women in your family, you know?”
“What do you mean?”
“They find one partner and mate for life.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a midnight-blue velvet ring box.
“I probably should be quoting some magnificent poem now. I usually have verses at the ready, but you, darling Delphine, leave me speechless.”
He opened the box and held it out to me. Inside, nestled against a silk cushion, was a crescent-shaped moonstone surrounded by a curve of pale blue sapphires.
“Will you be my swan?” he asked.
I felt the tears sting my eyes and saw my own sudden joy reflected in Mathieu’s eyes. For a moment, every trace of sadness was gone, forgotten.
When the rain ceased, we collected our things. As we left, Mathieu took my hand, rubbing his fingers over the ring I now wore.
“Ah,” he said. “I just thought of the perfect line of poetry. I can’t believe I forgot about it till now. From a verse by Alfred de Musset.”
“Tell me.”
“ ‘I don’t know where my road is going, but I know that I walk better when I hold your hand.’ ”
Chapter 28
I dreamed every night of the ten days I was trapped in the château. Later I would discover that I was dreaming not only my dreams but also those of other people, some long dead and buried, but I didn’t realize that at first. The castle housed more than Madame’s eclectic collections of art, esoteric objects, and antiques. There was magick in the cracks of the stone walls, in the crevices in the foundation, in the very air that circulated through the drafty hallways and endless rooms.
That first night, I dreamed I was traveling in a foreign land, unrecognizable to me. A snake charmer sat, bare-chested and cross-legged, in front of a hand-woven basket. Playing a plaintive melody on his reed, he swayed slightly. I began to move to the rhythm of the song. Slithering and sliding, uncurling, pushing my way up through a murky and dank hole toward the light. Then, with utter disgust, I realized I was the snake the charmer was calling. I was that monstrous forked-tongued creature, and as I pushed off the top of the basket and emerged, screams greeted me. Women shrank back in the crowd. Men struggled to hold their ground. Children ran away. Even the snake charmer himself seemed disgusted by me, as if he had been anticipating a much more lithe and lovely creature and I’d disappointed him.
I awoke exhausted. Downstairs I found Sebastian and Madame Calvé at the piano. She was singing for him, and he was charming her. The maid brought me some coffee, and I sat and listened and tried to shake the nightmare.
When she stopped playing, Madame asked me how I had slept. There wasn’t any reason to beleaguer her with my dream.
“Very well, thank you.”
“I’m so glad. The castle can be drafty and sometimes damp, even with all the wall hangings and carpets.” She shook her head, disturbed. “Nothing ever seems to solve it completely. But I didn’t notice it last night. I had the best sleep I’ve had in a long time,” she said. “And the mirrors?”
I smiled. “They behaved.”
Sebastian looked over at me inquisitively. “Mirrors?”
“There are a dozen antique mirrors in my bedroom. But Madame covered the larger ones with scarves, and they’re not bothering me at all.”
“Now, are you sure?” Madame asked. “I can remove them. I want you to be completely comfortable.”
“I’m sure.”
“Will you join us for some breakfast? There’s always a buffet in the dining room in the morning.”
I declined her offer, saying the coffee was enough, and excused myself, telling them I wanted to take a walk so I could get my bearings and understand the placement of the house and its surroundings in preparation for the portrait.
A cloudy sky threatened more rain, but I took my chances. I walked out past the courtyard, through a wooden door, and into an extensive, exotic garden in full colorful bloom. Like in Monet’s gardens in Giverny, the flowers here were arranged so the colors either contrasted or flowed into each other. Nothing appeared accidental, and yet it looked natural. In one bed, royal purple and ultramarine delphiniums grew next to violet and deep fuchsia foxgloves, while orange daylilies brightened the bouquet. Bushes of fat, fragrant roses in shades of pink surrounded a fountain where several beautiful black-and-white jaybirds splashed. On either side of a stone path, red-orange and salmon-pink poppies grew in profusion, their paperlike petals blowing in the breeze.
To the right was a knotted garden bordered with privet and to the left an old-fashioned herb garden. All the various shades of green—from yellow to blue and purple—had been planned out with a painter’s eye.
My mother had created elaborate gardens in Cannes. She claimed not to sprinkle any spells on her flowers, but I never quite believed her. These gardens put hers to shame. The gardener here had to be not only an artist but some kind of magician.
Beyond the gardens, I followed a stone path through a field of wildflowers until I reached a rusted iron gate. The latch stuck at first, but after a few tries, it swung open. Beyond was a wooded glen without any discernible path. I stood for a few moments, wondering if I should continue or go back. Then I heard the invitation of trickling water just beyond.
After a few minutes, I found a little stream and followed it to a pool being fed by a small waterfall. I sat down on a wide, flat boulder, mesmerized by the sounds of the splashing water, the loamy scent of the earth, the deep, rich black and green colors of the ferns and other foliage that grew between the rocks.
I pulled out my sketchbook and spent a half hour drawing aspects of the scene. Trying but failing to capture any of the magic, until I began to put faces on the stones that circled me, as if a master sculptor had carved them. Each one an ancient, wise-looking man with a tale to tell.
I was lost in capturing their different visages for quite a while. I’m not sure how long I’d been feeling the earth beneath me pulsing without realizing it. But once I did, I couldn’t ignore the subtle but real sensation of a heartbeat matching mine. Not frightening. More companionable. Once again, I felt as if I had been called to this place. That it had been waiting for me. And I for it.
I put away the sketchbook and continued to follow the stream deeper into the woods, not aware until it was too late that I’d entered a labyrinth made of yews at least seven feet high.
A wave of panic hit me. I hadn’t told anyone where I was going. These woods, which had been suffused with enchantment, now seemed to be saturated with diabolical spirits. Could they be trapping me here? Was that even possible? My fear began to overwhelm me. I felt dizzy from the solid walls of never-ending green. If I had to, could I break branches and create a tunnel through a hedge to es
cape?
I turned a corner and found myself at a dead end. I doubled back. But then I faced a choice of two ways to turn. The one I took led to yet another dead end. My panic grew. Stopping mid-step, I shut my eyes. I had to find a way out, rely on something other than sight. Listening hard, I heard birds. I saw a wren fly overhead and land on top of the maze wall, which was about twice my height. Listening harder, I heard insects. But neither the bird nor the bugs could help me crawl or fly out of these evergreen confines.
But perhaps I could do it on my own. My mother had taught me an exercise during my sightless year that allowed me to project my astral self and see through my third eye. Very dangerous if not done correctly and a little frightening to experience. She’d allowed me to do it only under supervision with her voice leading the way. I hadn’t tried it in years, but I needed it now.
I extended my arms until my fingertips brushed the leaves so that I’d stay tethered—a key aspect of the exercise, my mother had warned, because an astral self can have a very hard time, if not an impossible one, reconnecting to a corporeal body if it doesn’t have a bond.
Feeling the glossy leaves, I relaxed my breathing the same way I did when I put on the blindfold. Once I calmed, I focused on the sound of the wren whistling and threw my energy up toward her. Seeing, in my mind, my opalescent aura rising from inside the labyrinth toward the wren sitting on a hedge top. Reaching her, I sat beside her on her perch. And then I peered down. I saw myself standing, arms reaching out. I looked at the configuration of the tunnels, followed the pathways, and saw the way out. And then, still with my eyes shut, I commanded my feet to step in that direction, making sure my fingers were touching the foliage the entire way.
I thought of my mother as I kept moving, hearing her instructions in my mind. When I’d reached the exit, I connected back with my corporeal self and opened my eyes. I’d come out on the opposite end. In front of me was a stone cottage. Relieved that I’d escaped, I stood and caught my breath, aware for the first time that for the last several minutes, I’d been running.
“How did you find your way here?” I heard the man’s astonished question before I saw him. Searching in the direction of his voice, I saw a shadowy figure inside the house, looking out through an open window.
I started to answer, but he was gone. A moment later, the front door opened. A dog ran out and came right up to me, tail wagging. I recognized Pepin, the brown-and-white puppy from the pier the day before. His owner, the silver-haired man, was close behind.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
As he came toward me, I felt that same warmth I’d felt on the pier. It had been a long time since I’d responded in any way to a man, but seeing him again, I felt a flutter of anticipation.
“I think I startled you just as much.”
“Not many people wind up here. I was surprised to see you.”
“I got lost.”
“I know,” he said, nodding as if he understood that I didn’t just mean today, didn’t just mean here.
The dog was jumping around my feet. I petted him.
“Where did you start from?” he asked.
“I’m staying at the castle.”
“You walked from the castle?”
“Yes. Through the gardens into the forest and got turned around somewhere.”
“The gate into the forest was unlocked?” He frowned, concern in his topaz eyes.
“It was.” I’d stopped petting the dog. Pepin barked for more. I leaned over and gave him more pats.
“But it’s never unlocked.” He studied me, taking me in, considering me intently. It reminded me of how my mother looked at people, searching inside them, testing them, seeing if she could trust them. Maybe he was an adept?
I caught myself. It was too soon for me to assign qualities before I had any reason to.
As if he realized what he was doing and how I was reacting, he reached down and pulled the dog back.
“Pepin, don’t be a pest,” he said. Then, rising, he smiled at me. “I hope you weren’t lost for long. The forest is a mean one. She can do that.”
He’d said she can do that, but what I heard was she’s meant to do that.
I was getting the distinct impression that he was disturbed that I’d gotten this far into the forest, as if it was his fault.
“Where are my manners? My name is Gaspard Le’Malf.” He held out his hand.
I took it and felt a slight, almost unpleasant electrical vibration. A warning. My mother had schooled me to recognize the slight and subtle signs that identified people who were like us and in touch with realms beyond our own. Had he felt the shudder, too? Was he aware of his ability? Of mine? His face remained impassive. Alerted, I needed to be on guard. Not everyone uses his or her power for positive outcomes. He could be the best friend I would find at the castle or a true foe.
“Do you live here?” I pointed to the cottage.
“I do. I’m the groundskeeper for the château.”
“Then I need to compliment you. I’ve been walking about, and the gardens and fields are beautiful. It’s all enchanting.”
He nodded in thanks. “You could say it’s been my life’s work.”
“I followed the stream … Did you plant all those mosses and ferns, or are they indigenous to the area?”
“About half and half. You know, very few people notice the stream. Fewer still ever make it to the waterfall.”
“Really? The sound was so inviting, how could anyone resist?”
“Not everyone notices the sound. And you made it through the labyrinth …”
“You say it as if it’s hard to believe.”
“Actually, it is. It’s quite complex. How long were you inside?”
“Not long. Ten minutes?”
He was staring at me now. “I see.”
“Why?”
“I’m only aware of one other person who has made it through without any missteps.”
“Who was that?”
“It was a long time ago, before my time. Just a story. The labyrinth was designed more than two hundred years ago.” He shrugged. “Are you thirsty? Would you like some water or cider before I take you back?”
I realized I was parched and, even more, wanted to see the inside of his cottage.
“Cider would be wonderful.”
He pointed to a group of wicker chairs and a wrought-iron table. “Have a seat, and I’ll be right out.”
I was disappointed but couldn’t very well follow him uninvited. Especially when I sensed he’d known why I had accepted his offer of refreshment. It appeared he didn’t want me in the house. But why? Someone who kept the grounds so well-groomed wouldn’t keep a messy house. Was there someone inside he preferred I not meet? Something he didn’t want me to see?
Gaspard came out with two glasses and a blue enamel jug. Sitting opposite me, he poured out the cider and handed me a glass.
“So are you visiting from Paris?”
“No, from Cannes.”
“Not a bad drive up, then.”
I took a long sip of the dry, crisp drink. “Just an afternoon.”
“She loves her grand parties.” I must have made a face, because Gaspard said, “You don’t like parties much, do you?” He’d guessed correctly.
“No, not at all, in fact.”
“But you came anyway?”
The curious conversation flowed easily, as if we’d been friends for a long time. Unusual for me. Was it for him, too?
I shook my head. “No, I’m a painter. I’m here to paint the castle.”
“A portrait of the castle?” he asked.
“Of a sort.” I explained about being a bit physic and then said, “Madame Calvé wants me to help her find a book.”
I caught the same frown I’d seen earlier.
“Did I speak out of turn? Please tell me you know about the book?” Worried that I’d said more than I should have, I held my breath until he answered.
“Oh, yes, I know
all about her treasure hunt.”
A flicker of anger flashed in his bright eyes—or at least I perceived it as such. The expression appeared and then disappeared so quickly I couldn’t be positive, but he did seem disturbed by what I’d told him.
“You work for Madame Calvé. Perhaps I shouldn’t be discussing this,” I said.
“I don’t actually work for her.” His inflection alerted me.
Had I stumbled onto an area of conflict between Gaspard and his employer?
“I work for the castle, no matter who the owners are. I’m part of the deed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a bit complicated, but suffice it to say that my family has been the castle’s caretakers for generations. We own the bit of land my cottage is on, plus a few other parcels within the castle’s grounds. Our duties include tending Cabrières’s gardens and keeping the forest. It’s written into the contract each time the castle is sold.”
“That’s extremely unusual, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “But necessary.”
“Why?”
“Continuity. With the passage of time and turnover in ownership, there has to be a link from the past to the present to ensure that all continues into the future. Taking care of this land requires a fair amount of specific knowledge.”
There was something beyond what he was saying. I studied his face, and our eyes met. I sensed that by specific he meant magickal. But before I could glean any more, he lowered a curtain. On purpose? Accidentally? I wasn’t sure, but I knew he was hiding something.
My mother said certain people were old souls. They’d lived many lives, had returned to our plane often, and were more highly evolved than the rest of us, since over all those lifetimes, they’d accumulated great wisdom.
She taught me how to spot it in their eyes. And sometimes in their smiles. She also showed me the look of someone who didn’t have many more earth journeys left before he was finally—and blessedly—relieved of the burden of more incarnations.
