He always spent Shabbat with them; for as long as Galya could remember. He and so many others: his grandmother, Lois and mother Eunice had joined them, though Lois had died before Galya really got to know her; she was a fuzzy image on the edges of her mind, though stories had brought her to life. Eunice lived until Galya was almost five, and had lived with her family the last several moon cycles before she went on to eternity.
Timothy, his son Matthew, daughter Rebecca ,and their families joined them. Rebecca’s oldest daughter Inbal, the mother of Eustace, Adina, Rachael, Aharon, Isaac, and Adir. Her husband Hevel, and his mother, Hannah, a widow. Matthew’s sons Gid’on, Menashe, and Lavi, along with each of their wives, Dorit, Elke, and Kinneret, respectively. Matthew’s seventeen grandchildren, four married, three with children. Galya’s grandparents, Amit and Cidra; Divri and Ioanna.
There were also Mordecai and Nitza, Raanan and Ora, Akoni’ia and Hila; Timothy’s widower friends Omri, Reuven, Uri, and Tomer. The widows Yakira and Shulamith; Shulamith’s son, Amichai and daughters Livna and Mica.
All of these people Galya missed so much.
What had happened to them? Would she ever know? Would anyone ever know?
Isaac, Amichai, and one of Matthew’s grandsons were among those who’d come to mind when Gaspar mentioned puppets… for they really didn’t know which thing to do when; they needed attention more than most.
But these boys, along with the rest of their group, were together week in and week out; oftentimes, for days or weeks at a time. And it was always a wonderful time of celebration; solemn, but not without hope, for they knew the Savior had come.
They kept Shabbat, but also met together with this small group of saints; sometimes another group, led by Timothy’s friends Caleb and Adriel, would join them.
They crept into crypts to keep Jesus’ commandments when meeting in a house or synagogue would not do. They broke bread together, and broke with many traditions of their forefathers’ faith in order to find the One God Who had shown to be the Way, Truth, and Light. And as they did so, these three boys, and one among Caleb and Adriel’s congregants, needed more attention than ever in order for silence to reign when danger drew near.
“Galya, are you alright,” her husband asked, snapping his fingers in front of her as they stood in the doorway. She shook her head, confused for a moment by the reverie that had overcome her.
“Oui,” she told him. “And I believe I have an idea what you meant when you said going to their family might be for the best.”
Gaspar opened the door, and the children, wild with excitement, greeted them in order to show Galya their new toys, and the pastries and chocolates that must have been quite costly, she was sure.
Adele offered her one of the chocolates in her hand, and smiled shyly, her fingers smudged already from holding it out. Smears along her lip line, and on the other children’s’ faces told the tale of dessert before dinner.
Galya looked to Gaspar, who gave her a nod.
“I noticed you like them when the King and Marquise offered it to you after Noel. Go ahead,” he winked. “I brought you more, and if it is as the king says, we shall-”
He halted, looking at the children.
“By all means, try it.” He said then as Galya’s cheeks began to flame.
Thankfully, he had halted his sentence in time; the love life of the King and his wife were neither the children’s business, nor their own. And just because the King claimed something to be true didn’t mean that it was, no matter how things looked or sounded.
She had learned that with other rulers; her parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles had, too. God alone was fully trustworthy, and even then, He did not always make sense, or make clear why He decided as He did.
Who was she to judge or question Him, the Almighty?
Reaching toward the chocolate the young girl held out to her, Galya smiled.
“Merci, Adele, I will enjoy,” she told her.
The children were watching Galya, one of the housemaids was coming toward them, and Gaspar’s eyes were upon her. For a moment, she wished they would all turn away.
It took getting used to, eating when men were around. She had grown up where the women often ate after the men had finished. Though she and her family followed Jesus of Nazareth and called Him Savior, this was one custom of her people that remained; one of many.
She took a tentative bite, closing her eyes, trying to ignore all the eyes she sensed were upon her, waiting for her verdict. She had only eaten chocolate twice before… how was she to know if others would like what she was learning to enjoy?
There was a sweetness to it, and yet, not as much as that given her by the King and Marquise. It had a bitter aftertaste; bitter and just a little bit like vanilla, at the same time.
“Vous aimez? J'ai eu un, et je pense que c'est mon préféré de tous,” Adele said, clapping her thin little hands. “So much my favorite.”
Galya took another bite, a little larger, letting the flavor mingle in her mouth before giving the girl, and those with her, a verdict.
“Il est délicieux, Adele, merci. Il beaucoup me plaît. Je vous remercie de votre générosité,” she finally replied, smiling as she opened her eyes.
French still tasted funny in her mouth; the words not always working out as she hoped, but this time, it was as successful as the chocolate was delicious.
With one final bite left, larger than the first two, she caught a glimmer in her husband’s eye as she closed her eyes once more. It served him right to tease her; should she not tease back, just a little?
The children would not know the difference. Would they?
But the maid would, she thought for a fleeting moment as the last of the chocolate melted on her tongue. Not that it should matter what she thinks; we are married; we are one, Gaspar and I.
A smile came to her lips as she finished off that final bite, and then, as she opened her eyes, the maid gently cleared her throat, quickly but politely informing them that their meal was waiting for them.
“Puis-je vous offrir un chocolat, Alexandrie? Je pense que vous l'apprécierez,” she heard André say as the children walked with the maid toward the dining hall. A smile came to her lips as her husband offered his arm.
“Well played, Mon Amour,” he said as he took her arm and they began to meander down the hall. “Well played.”
Fourteen
Paris, France
Louis stroked his beard as he sat on his throne, thinking.
His organiste François Couperin was playing an unrecognizable gigue-style fugue in starts and fits at the other end of the hall, where Louis had ordered an extra organ set up in the event that guests would prefer music in the throne room, and not merely at church and in chambers.
The weight of Louis crown, he realized as the music restarted again, was nothing compared to the weight of his guilt, though he would not readily admit it to anyone save Françoise; not even to his closest male confidantes and associates.
He had begun plying himself, and his wife, with chocolate drinks ever since he had confronted her about her knowledge of a plot against James Francis, and it had worked well.
Twice a day, at the afternoon and evening meal, he had declared it was to become their own personal tradition. And so that guests did not feel left out, he made sure there were samples at the ready; samples of chocolate in solid candy form to tantalize their taste buds and bring them, he hoped, as much joy as he now experienced.
But this alone did not cause him such guilt; this was, he believed, a necessity for happiness. His guilt was over revealing James’ secret, though he was now dead. Revealing that Edward – though he remained unnamed – had fallen, stepped, or otherwise somehow moved through that mirror James sold to young Sir Gaspar Delacroix Aiton.
That two women, that he knew of, who had also made their way through the mirror, was another matter altogether. After Miss Roisin, and the shock of her story, Miss Galya’s was an even bigger mystery, though
he had not spoken directly with her about it. He hadn’t spoken with either of them on the topic.
It would be unseemly.
It would cause rumors to spread; rumors that would be unprovable, but nevertheless, damaging to his relationship with Françoise. Damaging of his relationship with France herself.
To have been caught speaking alone with either of them, even in public, would have spelled disaster. And so, he had relied on James for Miss Roisin’s story, and then later, her husband, Maurice. Then when he had allowed Sir Gaspar and Miss Galya to marry, he’d had his suspicions that something was amiss.
When Noel came and he had the opportunity to learn if his suspicions were true, then he took it. But he had exchanged the information about Edward – not all of it, but more than enough, precious as it was, and as buried as it should have stayed – simply to assuage his curious mind.
“Vous avez voulu me voir, oh, Majesté, le Roi Soleil?”
King Louis jolted as far as his aching limbs would allow, his head popping up as he held out his staff a moment to the man before him. He quickly readjusted his wig, then nodded.
Maurice Beausoleil had been good to Françoise and himself. When Roisin had worked for them, she, too, had done well, being loyal to the court, and to their Jacobean friends. They had done their best to help Mary through her grieving when James died, but could, of course, only do so much.
“Oui,” Louis finally replied. “You may approach.”
Slowly, the large-bellied man moved forward, stopping five feet in front of Louis to bow low.
“Rise,” he said. “But what of the other two heroes? Where are they this day?”
“If you will, Sire, they are working for you. “Monet is off to Nice, and Bonhomme, he is in the stables, so far as I understand. He has been instructed to do something about your… your new carriage, I believe.”
Louis stood, a motion a bit too abrupt for his knees’ comfort, and moved toward Maurice. “Walk with me,” he said, heading toward the door so that he could go outside. The younger man – Louis would guess perhaps in his late fifties, at the most – followed him, a step behind and to the side, as was appropriate, until they made their way down the stairs and over to the stables.
“Where is Bonhomme,” Louis asked a curly-haired blonde man with an overly large nose who had begun bowing over and over, his coattails flapping in the wind. “Stop bowing already, and bring him outside at once,” he continued, getting irritated.
The man scurried inside, and Louis glanced at Maurice Beausoleil to try to assess his thoughts; his large face was unreadable, but for the storm behind his eyes.
Five minutes of silence later, the curly-haired man came running back, William Bonhomme at his side. Bowing low as they caught their breath, the pair stayed low longer than necessary while Louis stood there, trying to be patient.
Why couldn’t they catch their breath standing upright?
“Rise,” he finally told them. “You may rest a moment before we speak, Bonhomme; and you – what’s your name?”
“Ghislain Proulx Poirier, Your Highness,” the man said, bowing again. “Forgive me; I am new. I do not know how you expect me to respond. J'ai seulement été embauché il y a quatre semaines, et c'est la première fois que j'ai vu de vous; seule la Marquise et sa nouvelle amie, et le plus souvent, la nièce, sont venus.”
Four weeks? Have I really not been ahorse that long, Louis wondered to himself as he ordered young Ghislain Poirier to rise again, studying him a bit more.
The man was short; not much taller than some of the dwarves Louis had seen when he was in England, though certainly a respectable height for a small person. Could he be over four and a half feet?
It was entirely possible.
And aside from having a desperately generous, angular nose, Poirier’s eyes were an odd shade of honey-yellowed brown. Large, and widely spaced apart. There was intelligence behind them, and compassion.
“Very well,” the King said. “You are dismissed, Poirier. I will make sure the courtesies of the kingdom life are explained to you within the week. For now, though,” he said, glancing from Bonhomme to Beausoleil, “I must speak with these two men. “Suivez-moi, et rapidement. Il n'y a personne d'autres; de Monet, c'est trop mauvais. Je vais lui parler plus tard, si besoin est.”
At his bidding, Poirier went back to cleaning brushes, as he’d been doing when they’d arrived, and the others followed him, walking away from the construction workers, the gardeners, the groomers and the man painting a picture of the fountains sitting in front of the palace. They followed him past the last of the outbuildings, to where there was open space around them; no way for eavesdropping to occur.
And then, doing his best to mask the bitter smile on his face, he told them his problem, and he requested the formulation of a plan.
It was all he could do to keep from growing depressed.
He was the King.
Since when did the King ask for help with his personal life, from anyone?
Fifteen
Portland, Oregon… February 1, 2025
Edward made his way to the Orange Room, searching for Justice as he moved through the maze of books and customers that surrounded him.
While he enjoyed a good book in the off chance he had time to read one, he did not enjoy coming to Powell’s. Too many people; too many distractions. Too many possibilities for things to go wrong during a meeting, because, who knows what listening ears will hear?
Yet, Justice had insisted.
So, here he was, his palms sweating, his eyes darting around, more nervous than he’d felt since visiting Quentin.
Talk about steeling yourself for the inevitable, he thought, recalling the conversation he and Paloma had with the man twice more before coming back home.
It was as if they weren’t even speaking to the same man who left, sometimes. And in some ways that was great, but was the change; was the shift the truth of who Quentin was and had become, or was it merely a show?
He walked the mezzanine and took the steps two at a time, entering the Orange Room, his heart racing.
What was all this about? This room made even less sense to him than this store did… at least for the purpose Justice had suggested over the phone. Interior design, home improvements, and collectibles only went so far in regard to the topic of the angel mirror, and even still, Justice wouldn’t bring it up while they were still inside, would he? With all these people?
Why Powell’s, anyway? What was the draw?
And what was the point of meeting somewhere so public to discuss something so… private?
Weren’t they here to discuss Arthur, and the mirror, and Timothy? To discuss Mary Beatrice’s letter and the diary Malik and Jason had acquired photocopies of in order to study?
“There you are,” Justice said quietly as Edward rounded the corner into jewelry crafts. “I thought we’d check a few things out, then take a drive to talk. I had some books to pick up, and a few things to find for Midge,” he explained, smiling.
With a forest green jacket, black button-down, and jeans, Justice looked relaxed and in his zone. The whole huge bookstore browsing experience seemed to do something for him that Edward could only hope to one day fathom.
He’d prefer the smaller stores; less people to deal with; still some variety, and if they didn’t have it, they would order it for him, more often than not.
“So, she’s making jewelry now,” Edward finally said, trying to make a joke.
His words landed flat.
“Actually, yes, and painting ceramics, and a few other things I have no clue about… but she sent me with a list, and here I am, to see what’s available,” Justice told him, smiling again.
“So, want to meet at my car, then? Or are you wanting company,” Edward said, wishing he could be anywhere else.
Well, almost anywhere else, he thought. Glad I’m done talking with Quentin. And I’m glad I’m not stuck in 1700 and something, married to that horribly obnoxious Jurriana Rufet
. I’m not dead, either, and that’s a good thing. So… I guess the bookstore isn’t a bad place to be, after all, he amended to himself.
“Company’s good; I kind of feel… out of place in the Orange Room,” his friend said. “At least in the crafting and collectibles sections.”
Justice unlocked the trunk of his blue, five year old Buick and deposited the three heavily weighted book bags he and Edward had carried out. Slamming it shut and, making sure no cars were coming, he moved quickly to unlock the doors and let himself in the driver’s side as Edward got in the other front seat.
“So, where should we head to,” he asked. “Maybe the Gorge? Or… well, no, not Salem,” he said, thinking aloud. “Anywhere but Salem,” he continued, laughing a little. “As long as we have time for a good long talk, I don’t particularly care where we go. Just… something with a bit of scenery; somewhere we can enjoy before heading on back into town.”
“Well, the Gorge is fine by me,” Edward told him as he buckled himself in. “Maybe stop at a few falls, check out the shop at Multnomah, and grab dinner at Char Burger before heading back?”
“Perfect,” Justice agreed. “Kinda what I was hoping for. Haven’t been there in years, and it’s practically in our back yard.”
“Too true,” Edward said as Justice double-checked his own seatbelt and turned the key in the ignition. “Too true. I just figured, may as well grab food, scenery, and something for the wife and kids, to boot, if we’re going to be having such a long discussion. Only seems fair to add a little pleasure to the business of figuring this out, right?”
Justice nodded, watching his rear view mirror for a space in the oncoming traffic so he could back out and begin their journey.
“So, what’s this about the State Law Library,” Edward asked him, causing Justice’s mind to skitter a moment.
“Give me a minute,” he said. “Too much traffic and I need to concentrate.” An opening came up, and he swiftly shifted the car into the flow of traffic. Soon, they were heading out of downtown, grabbing the nearest exit East toward the Gorge.
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