The Library of Light and Shadow

by M. J. Rose

  “Go upstairs, dear,” Madame said to me. “We need to be thorough, but you don’t have to stay. We’ll meet for lunch.”

  I hesitated. I wanted to stop them from disturbing this horrific place. The people who had lost their lives here had left something of their pain and sorrow behind. It needed to be respected and not agitated.

  “Go ahead,” Sebastian urged. “You did your part helping us find this place. We’ll meet you upstairs.”

  I looked at Gaspard, for some reason waiting for him to give me permission.

  “Your brother is right,” he said. “And maybe put on a sweater.” He smiled.

  An hour later, Sebastian knocked on my door. “It’s time for lunch,” he said, as I opened it.

  “Did you find anything in that awful room?”

  “Not the book, no.”

  “What, then?”

  “I don’t think you want to know.” He looked shaken.

  “That bad?”

  He nodded. “All that matters is that we are done with that section of the house.”

  I needed to know what they’d found. To understand my reaction to being in the room. “No details, but what did you find?”

  “Remains of someone who’d been tortured there.”

  “Oh, how horrible. How is Madame? Shaken?”

  “Not as badly as I was.”

  “And Gaspard?”

  “He’s a curious one, isn’t he? Very quiet, keeps to himself, but he has a look in his eye as if he knows all.”

  “So you noticed it, too?” I asked.

  Sebastian nodded. “And that he seems to have taken a liking to you. But not to me.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “A different look in his eye. I said something after we determined that the book wasn’t down there … about how I was sure you’d find it. And he asked me if you’d wanted to come here or if it was my idea. As if that was any of his business.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Sebastian’s eyes searched my face. “You care?”

  “We’re having a conversation. I’d like to know what you told him.”

  “I said that I was your manager and that you are always happy to take the commissions that I get for you.”

  “In other words, you lied.”

  I didn’t know why it bothered me that Sebastian hadn’t told Gaspard the truth. After all, it wasn’t any of Gaspard’s business.

  “You always have been happy to take the commissions that I get for you.”

  “I used to be. But you know that’s not true anymore.”

  “Madame is waiting, Delphine. Let’s go to lunch.”

  No one was better than I was at deflecting questions and changing the subject, except for my brother.

  I followed him out of the room, leaving my sweater behind. I wouldn’t need it anymore. The crisis had passed, and I never had to go down into that chamber of horrors again. And I could hope we’d find the blasted book soon and leave this medieval alcazar.

  Gaspard had gone back home to eat with his son, so it was just my brother and me and La Diva at the table. Over a quiche and salad with a crusty baguette and more of the delicious fruity rosé from the region, the talk returned to the missing book.

  “What admirable perseverance you have, Madame.” Sebastian was charming her. “To have searched for this book for more than thirty years and still have the energy to carry on.”

  She smiled. “It’s been a labor of love, and I believe it is my mission to find the Great Work and discover Flamel’s secrets.”

  “But you’ve never lost faith,” he said.

  “No, I never have had any doubt.”

  “How is that?” I asked.

  “I have proof that the book is here.”

  She hadn’t mentioned proof before.

  “Really? What kind?” I asked, hoping she was going to say she had a letter written by Flamel himself, which I could look at and touch. I sensed there was a connection between his elixir and my ancestors’ and wondered if I could pull any information from something he’d held. I’d had a little experience with that. Maman had taught me. My sister Opaline could hold stones and learn from them, actually hear them speak. If the stones were combined with a personal item, such as a lock of hair, Opaline could actually receive messages from the dead.

  “Nicolas Flamel told me,” La Diva said, as normally as if she were reporting back on what the cook had told her had been sold at the market that morning. “We’ve had several séances with Flamel over the years,” she added.

  Sebastian raised his eyebrows. “And he spoke to you about the book?”

  “He did.”

  “Did he tell you where it was?” I asked.

  “Yes, but we’ve never been able to find the area he said to search. That’s why it’s so important that you’re here.”

  “What exactly did he tell you? What did he describe?” I asked.

  “You do believe in the power of séances, don’t you?” Madame asked, looking first at Sebastian and then at me.

  “Do we need to remind you who our mother is?” Sebastian smiled.

  “No, of course not. In fact, your mother was present at several séances I attended in Paris. None, though, when Flamel visited.”

  “Maman has always said that séances can be very revealing but they can also be confusing,” I explained. “There are too many powerful influences that can alter and affect what occurs.”

  “Of course. That’s why we’ve conducted quite a few with the great alchemist. And except for Jules and Pierre and me, we always mixed up the attendees, to prevent just such a situation.”

  “Jules? Pierre?” Sebastian asked.

  “Jules Bois. You’ll meet him this weekend; he’s coming to my party,” Madame explained. “Jules is a novelist and my oldest and closest friend. We were going to marry at one point …” A smile lifted the corners of her mouth, and for a flash, I saw the young girl she once was. “And Pierre.” She looked at me. “You knew Pierre Dujols, didn’t you? He owns the Librairie du Merveilleux. He’s quite ill now and bedridden. His nephew has taken over running the shop.”

  After her reference to Mathieu, I changed the subject. “Where did Nicolas Flamel tell you the book was?”

  “He said the book is in the library of light and shadow, but …” She paused as if remembering.

  “But?” I prompted.

  “He told us that only someone who could see in the shadows would be able to find the book.”

  The room was suddenly chillier than it had been. I looked at Madame and Sebastian to see if either of them had noticed, but it didn’t appear so.

  The cold washed over me along with a wave of dizziness. I had a memory flash of fighting churning water. The current spinning me in its vortex, trying to pull me down.

  I stood up. “I … I need to get my sweater,” I said, and left the table.

  I could feel Sebastian’s eyes boring into my back, but I didn’t turn around. I had to get away from whatever I’d sensed in that room. It wasn’t unusual for me to feel a temperature change during a psychic episode. But it was extremely rare for me to have a flashback to my childhood drowning incident. What had triggered it now?

  In the studio, sitting among all the discarded sketches, I hugged myself and intoned the chant my mother had taught me when I was a child, to center myself whenever I was overwhelmed by my fears. I hadn’t had to use it in a long time, but I had never forgotten it:

  Make of the blood, a sight.

  Make of the sight, a symbol.

  Make of the symbol, life everlasting.

  I repeated it again and felt the warmth return.

  Each of the daughters of La Lune had a mantra that was hers alone and that encapsulated her powers. Some were more enigmatic than others. It had taken my mother months to understand hers, just in time to save my father:

  Make of the blood, a stone.

  Make of a stone, a powder.

  Make of a powder, life everlastin
g.

  My sister Opaline had also learned hers only weeks before she found herself in need of it:

  Make of the blood, heat.

  Make of the heat, fire.

  Make of the fire, life everlasting.

  I had known mine since I was ten years old and had understood its meaning as soon as I’d heard it. My mother said that was because out of all of our powers, mine was the most accessible to me, and I recognized the mantra as having to do with my second sight right away. She and my sisters had had to struggle to find theirs.

  Make of the blood, a sight.

  Make of the sight, a symbol.

  Make of the symbol, life everlasting.

  I repeated it to myself three more times until I was completely calm.

  There was a knock on the door, followed by my brother’s voice. “Delphine? Can I come in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you all right?”

  I nodded. “I am now.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not quite sure. Suddenly, I didn’t feel very well.”

  He sat down beside me. “Do you have a fever?”

  “No, quite the opposite. I was freezing cold.” I shook my head, trying to get rid of the residual feeling, the way a dog shakes off water.

  “Can you come back downstairs?”

  “Sebastian, I think we should leave the château,” I said.

  “There’s too much at stake.”

  “What’s at stake?”

  “Well, there’s the money she’s promised if you find the treasure. We need it.”

  “Why do we need it? You keep saying that. But the gallery is doing so well. You have a stable of such good artists.”

  Sebastian was holding something back.

  When he didn’t answer, I said, “If I could put on my blindfold and draw you, I would.”

  Usually, the threat made him smile. But now Sebastian remained as silent as one of the Buddha statues on display downstairs in Madame’s living room.

  “Sebastian? If you don’t tell me, I won’t stay.”

  When he didn’t say anything, I went to the closet, pulled out my suitcase, and started packing.

  He came over to me and took my hands. “Don’t do this.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “You are being overly dramatic. La Diva must be wearing off on you.” He grinned. “Your reputation can use the infusion of attention. People have stopped talking about you. We can’t let that happen. You need to think about your career.”

  My brother’s endless charm, the ease with which he navigated his way out of any unpleasantness, was impressive. But I wasn’t convinced. I wrested my hands away and continued packing.

  “Delphine, please.”

  “Tell me the truth.”

  Sebastian exhaled a deep sigh. Sitting down in the armchair, he turned his head toward the window and looked out at the mountain vista.

  “You won’t like this.” His voice was so low I could barely hear him.

  “What?”

  “Bad debt.”

  That was all? I was surprised. “A lot of people have bad debt. Tell Papa, and he’ll get you out of it.”

  “He did last time and vowed he won’t again.”

  “Last time?”

  “I’ve developed a nasty habit of frequenting the casino.” He tried to smile again. This time, the expression failed and turned into a grimace.

  The gallery was making enough of a profit for him to cover any normal debts. From the extent of his discomfort and his admission that our father had bailed him out in the past, I surmised that the situation must be dire. I’d known several artists who had suffered addictions. With some, it was opium. With others alcohol. And still others, gambling. I remembered one of our parents’ friends who had been so ruined by the lure of the beautiful Belle Époque casino in Monte Carlo that he shot himself.

  “It’s quite bad. It could ruin me, Delphine. Or worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “I borrowed money from some unsavory types who are threatening me.”

  “Threatening to kill you?”

  I suddenly knew what I’d seen in the puddle outside my little house in Mougins. Why I had to come here to save my brother. I had to find the book and get Madame’s bonus so he could pay off his debt.

  “All right. If I stay, if I do this for you, will you get help when we get back to Cannes?”

  “What do you mean by help?”

  “From Maman. She will know what to do.”

  “No, I can’t tell her.”

  “But you told Papa.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “Not quite. I told him that I’d invested in a group of paintings that didn’t sell.”

  “You lied to him?”

  My father and Sebastian were the two outliers in our family, the only two without supernatural powers. They had a special father-son bond. The idea of Sebastian breaking that bond and lying to my father disturbed me almost as much as his gambling problem did.

  My brother was entangled in a complicated web of duplicity. And I was caught by surprise. I was his twin. I thought I knew him. And yet in just days, I’d discovered the truth about his sexuality and an addiction I couldn’t have even guessed at. He’d grown up while I’d been in New York. And I suppose I had, too. We’d both struggled with love and gotten ourselves into trouble. At least Sebastian had only lost money. Someone had lost his life because of me.

  “So what will it be, Delphine?”

  “I’ll stay and help if you promise that when we get home, you’ll confess to Maman and ask her to help. Will you?” I asked.

  I was holding a folded sweater above the suitcase. About to lay it down.

  Sebastian couldn’t meet my gaze. Instead, he took the green sweater out of my hands. I took the garment back and returned it to the closet. Then, leaving the suitcase half-packed, I went to the door.

  “Come on, Sebastian, let’s find the book and then get out of here.”

  Chapter 32

  Book of Hours

  August 14, 1920

  There are secrets waiting on the Paris streets but none as compelling as those Mathieu and I are discovering about each other’s bodies. For the last week, I’ve stolen as much time as possible from family obligations to spend it with him, making love in his little one-room flat in Montmartre.

  Leaving the maison, from under my dress collar I fish out my ring, which is hanging off a gold chain. Not quite ready to share Mathieu yet, I am, of course, keeping our engagement a secret.

  Opaline knows something. Once I got over the surprise of his gift, I realized Mathieu had gone to the jewelry shop in the Palais Royal where my sister works and that she’d designed the ring for me.

  I would have preferred he’d visited any other jeweler, but then the ring wouldn’t be as perfect. So far, Opaline hasn’t questioned me about it. Probably since she hasn’t seen me wear it, she doesn’t know he’s given it to me yet and hasn’t wanted to ruin his surprise. A few times when we’ve been alone, she’s asked me about him, but I’ve held my enthusiasm in check and told her that while I do like him, I don’t want anything or anyone interfering with my studies just now. I’m not sure she believes me, but she’s not one to pressure or pry, and for that I’m so thankful.

  During the carriage ride from our house to Mathieu’s lair—which takes the better part of a half hour—I am in a heightened state of anticipation. The journey has become a ritual for me. I sit straight up in the cab, my gloved hands in my lap, thinking of him waiting for me. Trying to keep the fluttering deep inside me from overwhelming me. I don’t speak to the driver. I try not to breathe in any smells. I try not to touch the seat any more than I have to. I don’t want anything to sully my sensations. I don’t want to feel anything until I can feel Mathieu’s skin under my fingers. I don’t think about school or my paintings. Instead, I imagine what we will do to each other. How it will feel and taste, and just thinking of it makes me breathless.

  I, who have ne
ver taken a lover before, who have never read romantic novels or had crushes on stage stars, have become as lovesick as any heroine in any melodrama.

  Today there was construction going on in the avenue de l’Opéra in the first arrondissement, and the ride took twice as long. When the cab finally pulled up in front of Mathieu’s building, I practically threw my money at the driver and raced up the steps.

  I knocked on the door. Mathieu opened it and, before I could utter a word, pulled me toward him.

  I’ve never swooned. Never felt unbalanced. But the kiss he gave me took away my breath and made me unsteady. I grabbed hold of his arms.

  “I think I might faint,” I whispered.

  “Then I need to put you right to bed.” He laughed.

  As Mathieu led me away, I realized that he was wearing only trousers. His chest was bare, and his golden skin glinted in the afternoon sunlight.

  The apartment was just two rooms. The front parlor was small but decorated with the most modern furnishings, all simple geometric-shaped pieces in blacks and rusts. More evidence of his highly evolved sense of style. And beyond it his bedroom, with one tiny circular window that framed the snow-white basilica of Sacre Coeur almost perfectly.

  Mathieu sat me down on his bed and kneeled at my feet.

  “If you feel faint, we should take off your hat,” he said playfully. With nimble fingers, he pulled the cloche off my head and then continued his game. “And this dress. Mon Dieu! It’s positively constricting.”

  I sat obedient and still, reveling in his delight, as he undid the pearl buttons at my neck and wrists. “You’ll have to stand for a minute. Do you think you can?” he asked, as if I really were infirm.

  Nodding, I rose and was surprised to find I actually was still unsteady on my feet. His every touch and glance took me to the next level of arousal. Mathieu pulled my peach-colored pleated chiffon dress over my head. I stood before him in my matching pale peach silk charmeuse brassiere and slip. His eyes roamed over the lingerie, and his gaze pierced my very insides. As if he were making love to me with just that look.

  He pulled down my slip, and I stepped out of the pool of silk.

  I began to shiver.

  “Now you are cold?” he teased. “We need to take off your brassiere and stockings and shoes and get you under the covers.”