by M. J. Rose
His eyes were closed. He wasn’t moving.
All the guests had come running. I saw Picasso and Anna and some of the household staff crowding in the doorway.
As I watched Madame doing what she had learned how to do in the orphanage, all I could think about was the image I had drawn years before of me standing above a felled Mathieu. Knife in my hand. The exact same scenario, down to the blood spatter pattern on the floor.
“I was wrong,” I whispered to Mathieu’s inert body. “I didn’t hurt you. I didn’t hurt you. It wasn’t me.”
Chapter 47
Madame and I sat beside Mathieu’s bed all that night. Watching over him and waiting for him to regain consciousness. Hoping he would. Praying to some God I’d never engaged with before. Desperate to see a sign that the worst was over. That infection wouldn’t set in. That Madame had done all the right things. That Mathieu would recover.
I didn’t know where my brother was. For the time being, I didn’t care. Madame told me he hadn’t been hurt badly at all. Not even suffering a headache. Meanwhile, Picasso and Cocteau and the others had locked Eugène in one of the bedrooms, and the butler was standing guard. The atmosphere in the house had taken on a metallic gray sheen and a sour smell.
“This, too, shall pass,” Madame said, trying to reassure me. “All will be well again, you’ll see. Order will be restored.”
Tears came to my eyes. I tried to speak but failed. I wanted to believe her, but could I? She put her hand on mine.
“All will be well again, you will see. I promise.”
After a moment, I found my voice. “I’m sorry. I’ve failed in finding your treasure. And I’m sorry my brother and I brought this tragedy to your house.”
Madame shrugged. “Where there is tragedy, joy will follow. And where there is joy, tragedy will follow. There’s always passion and pain and death and birth. That’s what opera has taught me more than anything. One can’t control the fates or change destiny, nor can one escape tragedy or court comedy. All you can do, Delphine, is sing.”
She took my hand. Between us, Mathieu slept on.
“And your painting is my singing. Do you understand? The book …” She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s an old woman’s folly. My diversion. I think I should take up love again instead. Jules has suggested we take a voyage to Egypt. He knows of a sage there who might have a copy of the same book.”
“And there you are, back to the book,” I said.
She laughed. It was infectious. I joined her. The sound was so strange after the long, sad hours we’d just endured.
“Delphine,” she said, and nodded toward Mathieu.
I looked at him. His eyes were open, and he was staring right at me.
“Mathieu?” I whispered.
He gave me one of his half smiles, mouthed something I couldn’t understand, and then closed his eyes again. In seconds, he was asleep once more. Madame touched his forehead with her hand.
“No fever. All will be well again, you see? As I promised.”
My relief was almost overwhelming. I felt tears fill my eyes.
Madame got up, stretched, and went to the window. “And the rain has stopped,” she said, and twisted open the handle, letting in the fresh, damp air. “At last.”
Even though the wound appeared stanched, there was no fever, and Mathieu had regained consciousness, Madame and I took turns sleeping for a couple of hours and then sitting by Mathieu’s side. The rest of the night was uneventful. Dawn broke, and we kept up our vigil until Mathieu awoke at seven in the morning. Madame called down for strong coffee and helped Mathieu sit up so she could check his wound.
“A very clean cut. And not showing any signs of infection. I put a salve on it,” she told him. “But when you get back to Paris, you might want a physician to make sure it’s all right.”
Mathieu nodded, thanked her, and then looked at me. “Last night is a bit foggy. I remember Eugène attacking Sebastian. Then the rest of it is a blur. Except for you. You got in his way, didn’t you? You took a chance and tried to stop him.”
“She certainly did,” Madame said. “And thank God she did. That knife was aimed right at your spine. I can’t even imagine what—” She shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment.
Mathieu was staring at me. “And there’s a particular thing that keeps going around in my head. It doesn’t make any sense. ‘I didn’t hurt you. I didn’t hurt you. It wasn’t me.’ Did you say that?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
There was so much to explain. And he was still groggy from the draft Madame had given him to help with his pain.
“Years ago, I saw us in a drawing I did before I left Paris. I thought from what I saw that I was going to kill you. It was this very scene … but I misunderstood what I’d drawn.”
He reached out and took my hand, wincing as he did. “You saved me, mon chat. You’ve been trying to save me all along, haven’t you?”
Tears filled my eyes.
I’d fallen victim to my own ability. Maman had warned me so often over the years to treat my ability with respect but never to worship at its altar. I was only human, with a soupçon of extra ability, she’d said. A human capable of making serious mistakes.
“And you’ll go on doing it, won’t you?” he asked, as his fingers worried the ring on my right hand, feeling its crescent.
My tears spilled over. I couldn’t say anything, but I could nod. And I did. Vigorously.
*
By later that afternoon, the roads were passable. The police had been called to deal with Eugène. Jules was staying on. Picasso, Cocteau, and Anna were leaving.
After we all said our good-byes, Madame told us she was going to see to dinner and insisted that I go for a walk. She said I needed to stretch after the night spent sitting vigil. She was right. It would also give me a chance to try to find my way back to Gaspard’s cottage and say good-bye to him.
I left the château and had just set off when I heard my brother call out.
“Delphine, wait!”
I turned around to see him running toward me.
“We need to talk,” Sebastian said, reaching out, taking my hand, trying to hold me there.
I pulled free. Looking into his eyes, I realized how fully my unconditional love for him had kept me from seeing his true colors. Had my brother done what Eugène accused him of? Was Sebastian really that cold? That manipulative?
Sebastian was my beloved twin. He had been my savior. But if what Eugène had said was true, Sebastian had betrayed me in the most egregious way. And I had let him.
“Why did you lie to me, Sebastian? To me? I showed you the letter from Thérèse Bruis, and I told you I was so devastated that I was leaving Paris, and you promised to take care of it. I believed you would do the right thing—”
The air around him was colored the pale, icy blue of panic. Sebastian began to protest, but I didn’t want to hear any of his sly excuses. I had to finish, or I’d never say it all, and it had to be said. My twin had to be confronted with his transgressions. And acknowledge them. To me and then our parents. It was the only possible path to his real salvation.
“I never dreamed you were scheming behind my back. The irony is that the letter wasn’t even the real reason I left. I used that as my excuse because I couldn’t tell you the truth. It was Mathieu. I was in love with him. Wonderfully, desperately in love. But then I drew his portrait. What I saw made me think I would be responsible for his death if I stayed with him. That’s why I left Paris. To protect Mathieu.”
“But Delphine, I can explain why—”
I walked away from him, not willing to hear his rationalization in that moment. There were things to say and straighten out. He’d abused my talent. Bled at least one poor woman dry trying to extort money from her and in effect been responsible for her death. What else had he done?
I kept going. The ground was soggy beneath my boots. I was glad I’d put them on. It would take days for the eart
h to dry out.
I made it through the gate and into the forest. The rain had swollen the stream and turned it into a rushing river. The sound of the waterfall, which had been lovely and lilting the first time I’d passed by almost a week ago, was now a rampage.
What else had Sebastian done? Why had I been so blind to his faults?
I stopped for a moment. Water rushing from above churned into the rocky pool. A second waterfall flooded a lower pool. Peering over its side, I looked down into the ravine. All I could see was more water surging toward the lower ridge. Mist filled my view. I smelled the crisp, wet air and the forest’s muddy soil. The landscape was overripe compared with how it had looked only days before.
Staying to the path, I moved on. I’d only gone a few feet when I thought I heard my name being called. I paused. The cascading water was so loud I couldn’t be sure. But then I heard it again. It was definitely my name being called, in a panicked voice. My brother’s voice. Not sure, not certain, not apologetic or worried—but desperate. The voice of someone in terrible trouble.
I doubled back to the waterfall and saw a figure bobbing in the water. I ran closer. Sebastian was fighting the pull of the current, trying to keep from being dragged over the side.
I raced toward the rocky pool. My brother was only feet away from the edge of the rapids, the rushing water ready to carry him away. Gripping what looked like a tree root, his knuckles were white with the effort of holding on. Even as I watched, he weakened.
“It’s pulling me …”
I hadn’t gone into the water since I was eight years old, when the rope tethering me to Sebastian had ripped. I couldn’t go in now. I was petrified by the surging water. The only thing that terrified me more was what was going to happen to Sebastian if I didn’t do something quickly.
I crawled out onto the rocks, traveling the length of escarpment as quickly as I could, always aware of the churning water on either side of me. The cruel current waiting to claim another victim. I got as close to Sebastian as possible. I stretched out my fingers, trying to grab the root he was clinging to. I got it! Now, if my brother could just hold on … and if I could just pull the root toward me … I tugged at it, yanking as hard as I could. But my strength was no match for my brother’s weight and the pull of the falls.
Inching out onto the rocky promontory, I moved closer to the water, closer to my twin.
“You’re going to have to let go of the root with one hand, Sebastian, and reach for me.”
I held out my arms.
Sebastian let go with his left hand and pushed against the vortex. But without both hands, he was no match for the water’s force. Our fingertips touched for a moment before the rapids grabbed him away from me and carried him toward the second falls.
I was completely helpless, watching in horror—and then, before he reached the very edge, some object or another root or rocks stopped his progress. A reprieve. But for how long? I scurried over more rocks, slipping on the moss, trying to stay balanced. I had to get to him. And then his head went down. I lost sight of him. Held my breath. Sebastian couldn’t drown. I couldn’t let him drown!
His head popped up again. He was coughing. Sputtering. He was no match for the water. He needed my help. I had no time to weigh my options. I searched the foliage behind me and found a ropy vine. Tested it. I had no idea if it was strong enough, but what choice did I have? Holding on to it with one hand, I lowered myself into the water. Immediately, the current swirled around me, but the vine held. I was close enough to grab my brother. My fingers found his shoulder. I struggled but managed to twist him around, get his head out of the water. With a giant effort, I pulled him toward me. I had him. Held him. He sputtered, spit out water. His eyes, staring into mine, were terrified.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” The same words he’d said over and over to me, many years before.
Hand in hand, we pushed against the water. Working to get back to the rocks. And we were getting there. We were going to be all right. Then the vine broke. Both of us were at the mercy of the churning current.
My head went under. In the shadowy water, I saw my brother’s hand in mine. Just like so long ago. And then I saw a ghostly image from that day, the end of the piece of rope. Not frayed. The rope tethering me to Sebastian hadn’t torn apart. It had been sliced. Cut clean through.
I broke water. Sputtering. Spitting. Gasping for breath. Moments later, Sebastian did, too.
“You cut the rope!” I said, gasping, despite the danger around us. “When we were children. When you took me swimming.”
Sebastian looked at me without understanding, as he continued fighting the current. We were holding our own, but neither of us was making any progress against the falls.
“What?”
“Tell me, or I’ll let go. Did you cut the rope?”
His expression was incredulous. We were fighting to stay connected. To reach safety.
“Tell me!”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To make sure you knew how much … how much you needed me.”
My feet found bottom. With a giant surge, I pushed ahead. Sebastian followed and then, gaining on me, reached the rock, and now he pulled me toward him. I was almost there. We were both going to be safe. Then I slipped backward. My hand jerked out of his. And I lost hold. Lost hold of all that was keeping me safe.
The water took me then, quickly, pushing me toward the edge of the falls, and I stopped thinking as I fell into the unknown abyss below.
Chapter 48
Water everywhere. Trying to get my head above the water. Taking in gulps of water. Then gulps of air.
Panic, a voice intoned, will doom you.
Gaspard’s voice? I listened. Yes, under the sound of the rushing falls, I was hearing his voice.
Let the water take you. Give yourself over to the current. Stop fighting. It’s all right. It’s all right.
I forced myself to relax, felt the water around me, rocking me. The pull had abated. I opened my eyes. I was tucked under and behind the falls in a calm pool. In front of me, the rushing water came down in a steady sheet and crashed into a green-blue pool. I could hear the roar of the cascade, but I was safe.
I was treading water, catching my breath, stunned that I had survived when my foot touched what felt like a rock flat enough for me to stand on. The water wasn’t as deep as I’d thought. I stood up, and my shoulders were out of the water.
I turned around and took a step and then another. There was a narrow tunnel in front of me. Rough stone walls on either side. And at the far end, I saw a light. The rocky floor was rough, and I’d lost my shoes in the tumult, so I swam into the grotto.
The scent of minerals and pine reached my nostrils. And something sweet. The closer I swam to the light, the stronger the fragrance became.
Then the tunnel opened up into a cavern. The light was a fire on the shore. There were even rocky steps leading up and out of the water. I climbed them, sniffing, recognizing the smell as frankincense.
Gaspard stepped out of the shadows and held out a large towel, which he wrapped around me.
“You saved me again,” I said. “But how did you know?”
He smiled. “That’s my ability,” he said, acknowledging for the first time that he was, in fact, one of us.
“What’s happened to my brother?”
“I don’t know. Once we’ve dried you off, we’ll find out.” He offered me a silver flask. “In the meantime, drink some of this. It will warm you up.”
I took it and put it up to my lips. The brandy burned my throat but did begin to warm me almost immediately. As I tipped my head back to take a second sip, I noticed the cavern’s ceiling. Then looked at its walls. I recognized this place. I knew the carvings that covered every surface. The cavern was far bigger than I’d understood when I’d drawn it. I turned around. Beyond the fire were shelves of alembics, jars, and strange-looking utensils.
I handed him back the flask. “This
is the library where the book is located, isn’t it?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No.” He raised his arms like a winged bird about to take flight. “No. All of this is the book.”
I walked over to one of the walls and ran my fingers over the carved notations and symbols. Section after section of them. Each numbered with roman numerals. I counted sixteen.
“And we aren’t in the castle,” I said, as another piece of the puzzle fit into place. “We’re not even on the castle grounds, are we?”
“No. We’re sitting right under my cottage. I’m the caretaker of the Book of Abraham, as my father was before me and his father before him, going all the way back to Nicolas Flamel.”
I sat down on a stone bench and felt its smooth surface beneath my fingertips. “You mean Nicolas Flamel was here?”
“After he staged his death, yes. This is where he and his wife came. He wanted to find a safe place to live out his days, work on his formulas, and complete his studies.”
“How long did he live?”
Gaspard laughed. “Not as long as they say but to a hundred and twenty-eight.”
“His wife, too?”
“A few years longer. And his son and his son after him. We all have long lives. Not immortal, but the Great Work adds years to our life span.”
“Your last name, Le’Malf … his name backward. How could I not have realized? And Nicky?”
“Yes, named after my ancestor. Like yours, my heritage is full of secrets and surprises.”
He sat down next to me and offered me the flask again. I swallowed a long draft, then gave it back to him. He took my hand. It felt natural for him to hold it.
“All around us, this is the secret,” I said. “It’s astonishing. He did all this work?”
“Yes. He engraved every one of these alchemical secrets. The formula for the Great Work surrounds you. You’re looking at the key to opening portals to other realms and claiming wisdom.”
“Hidden so the power could never be abused,” I said.
