Béatrice had been with Veronique for twenty-seven years. She had joined the strange band of supernaturally gifted women when she was a child of six, after her family had abandoned her in a forest to die from hunger or wolves. To Béatrice, Veronique was mother, queen, and goddess, and Veronique had come to trust her absolutely.
“I have been asking questions of people we’ve passed in our travels,” she said. “Paris is nearby.”
“Yes?”
“We should live there,” Béatrice said baldly. “We need a permanent home, and Paris is a big enough city that we will not be scrutinized overmuch.”
Veronique was nonplussed. “Live in Paris?” she asked, alarmed. “But the Church has a great stronghold there. If they find that we are not really nuns, the officials will seek to harm us.”
“Not if they believe we are aligned with them,” Béatrice said. “New abbeys and monasteries are springing up all the time. If we do not ask the archbishop for money, I do not believe we will be prevented from establishing ourselves as a new order. There is an old building just outside the city.”
“But an abbey—”
“I shall cast a glamour around it so that we remain virtually unnoticed,” Béatrice said with a wink. “We’ll call it the Abbey of Lost Souls. We’ll help the lost souls of the city, the poor and sick, and therefore will be of no interest to those in power. We’ll be safe there, trust me.”
Veronique thought about it. “I understand something of the ways of the nobility,” she said. “A glamour may be a good defense, but I think a bribe might also be in order.”
Bit by bit, she’d been selling off the treasure Charlemagne had given her, until not much was left. I can spare the gold torque, she thought, but not the necklace. That she would keep until there was nothing else.
That day came some thirty years later, when the “abbey” Veronique had bought was in such disrepair that it would soon be uninhabitable.
Through underground channels, it had become known among witches throughout Gaul—now called France—that there was one place where women of extraordinary abilities could live without fear of persecution for their differences. The Abbey of Lost Souls in Paris and its wise abbess had welcomed these odd women, most of whom were afraid to show their faces outside the building where they lived. As their number grew and the cost of food and other goods increased, money became a problem. First Veronique sold the abbey’s land as the city sprang up around them, merging the building into the crowded mélange of shops and homes that made up the “new” Paris of the twelfth century.
The women did what they could to raise funds—wove shawls and blankets for sale at local fairs, provided nursing services for rich merchants—but their efforts were never enough. The “nuns” cared for the poor, and the poor could not pay. The women fed the hungry, sheltered the homeless, and, of course, continued to send “gifts” to the archbishop and any other high-ranking Church officials who might otherwise become overly curious about the unusual nature of the women in the abbey on the alleyway that had come to be called the Street of Lost Souls.
And so, on that day in March of 1184, Mother Veronique of the Abbaye des mes Perdues paid a visit to Jean-Loup de Villeneuve, master goldsmith and alchemist, and began a love affair that would last more than eight hundred years.
• • •
After they married, Jean-Loup built a house in the countryside west of the city. It was a beautiful place with lakes and orchards, livestock, and acres of rolling farmland. Jean-Loup named the estate “Toujours.” Always.
On their first night in their new home, as he held Veronique in his arms, he knew he was a happy man. “I have a gift for you,” he said.
“Oh, Jean!” She laughed as she curled herself more closely against him. “You have already given me so many treasures that I hardly know where to put them all.”
“Just one more,” he teased, producing a magnificent box of carved rosewood that he pressed into her hand. “Please accept it.”
Inside was a pendant of a gold heart, so round it was nearly spherical, on which the words “Mon amour toujours”—my love forever—were carved in Jean-Loup’s own elegant hand.
“My darling,” Veronique sighed, her eyes bright with happy tears. “I would rather have your love than ‘forever.’ ”
As it turned out, although she did not know it then, she would eventually get her wish.
• • •
In gratitude for restoring Veronique to health, Jean-Loup sent the abbey a chest full of gold every month. The money was sorely needed and the women were so thankful that they reciprocated the favor by instituting a ritual similar to the one Béatrice had invented when she cast the spell to bring back Veronique’s lost youth. The ritual took place at every full moon, and Jean-Loup was invited to participate.
This new spell was less difficult than the complex magic Béatrice had woven to give Veronique back the years she had sacrificed in order to heal Jean-Loup. In the full-moon ritual, the process of aging was slowed down for everyone involved. But it was not without sacrifice. For ten days prior to the full moon, all the women of the abbey had to cease using whatever magic they possessed in order to strengthen the spell.
“What it amounts to is that each of our individual talents is transformed,” Béatrice explained to Jean-Loup. “The participants still grow older, but at a much slower rate than normal. You would not be asked to sacrifice any part of your own gift, of course, but you would benefit from the magic the rest of us contribute to the spell. In other words, if you continue to participate in our ritual, you may live almost as long as Veronique.”
“I am grateful for the extra time I will have with her,” Jean-Loup said. “More than I can say.”
“But be vigilant,” Béatrice said. “You must attend the ritual every month, or you will begin to age normally.”
“I understand,” he said.
“You see, we always have a choice to use our gifts to this end or not. The more magic we can put into the spell, the more effective it is. But not all of us can afford to give up our magic in order to lengthen our lives.”
She was talking about herself. Her talents are a djinn who could discern and influence the thoughts of others, Béatrice found that her talents were constantly required to keep the abbey safe, not only from thieves and murderers, but also from greedy public officials and churchmen. It was through Béatrice’s efforts that the abbey had remained virtually ignored in the midst of what was becoming a major world capital.
“So I cannot participate in the spell,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Jean-Loup sympathized, but Béatrice only shrugged with Gallic indifference.
“One lifetime is enough for me,” she said.
He did not understand her then. Nor would he have understood that in time, he would envy Sister Béatrice her short, purposeful life.
CHAPTER
•
TWENTY-THREE
La Rue des mes Perdues, I thought. Veronique and her ersatz nuns had settled in the same street where I lived. Was that just a coincidence? How would Azrael—or whoever had written the book—know about it?
Calm down, I told myself. Paris was a very old city. The street, with its peculiar name, had probably been around since the Middle Ages. For the first time in maybe a year, I wished I could communicate with my father the medievalist. He might know something about the street, or the “abbey” that the phony nuns—who’d really been witches—had established. I supposed I could call him—the post office had public phones that people could make long-distance calls from—but that would entail explaining more than I wanted to talk about. Or I could e-mail him from an Internet café, I supposed . . .
No, I decided I’d feel less uncomfortable being in the dark than I would talking with Dad.
I checked my watch. 8:45. Quickly, I unfolded Peter’s note saying he’d be back at nine and I wrote on the back of it: Meet me in the kitchen! Then I stuck the note in my door next to the knob, since he would p
robably come to my room looking for me.
I figured I’d make him something to eat. It might make up for my being so late after visiting Azrael. Plus, he’d missed the dinner I’d cooked for Sophie’s dinner party.
In the kitchen I found some sausage, kale, onions, tomatoes, and garlic, plus some marinated artichoke hearts and black olives—all the ingredients I’d need for a terrific pasta dish. I cooked the sausage, made the sauce, added some kale, salt, and crushed red pepper, and put some cavatelli on to boil. Then I put together a green salad with the vinaigrette dressing I used to make at Hattie’s and waited.
9:15. The pasta was ready.
9:20. I set the kitchen table.
9:30. The cavatelli was congealed and inedible. I threw it away and put a new pot of water on the stove.
9:40. The water boiled. I looked out the kitchen door into the courtyard to see if Peter had come back. He hadn’t.
9:50. I put the rest of the cavatelli into the pot.
9:57. I drained the pasta and waited. The simmering sauce was turning brown. The salad greens were wilting.
10:01. The front door opened.
“Down here!” I shouted, nearly jumping with joy.
I was arranging everything on plates when I heard footsteps rushing down the stairs toward the kitchen.
“Hurry up!” I sang. “I made you some . . .”
Belmondo leaned his head into the doorway.
“. . . dinner,” I finished.
“What a nice surprise,” he said, holding out a nosegay of violets and rosebuds. “These are for you. And these.” He produced a box of perfect, small, bloodred strawberries that must have cost more than the flowers. In cooking school, strawberries like those were used only as garnishes on the most elaborate desserts.
I could only stand there blinking stupidly at him for a moment while all the things I could say shot through my head: Actually, dude, this isn’t for you. I started cooking this meal an hour ago for Peter, who was supposed to be back by now, although he’s almost never here, so I guess I’ll just throw it all away and hurt your feelings in the process.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the bouquet and sticking it into a glass of water. “Please sit down.”
• • •
It was a wonderful dinner. Belmondo found some stubby candles to put on the white enamel kitchen table, then tuned the radio to a station that played scratchy recordings of Edith Piaf and Charles Aznavour. He opened a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape, and explained the things that made it taste peppery. While we ate, the scent of flowers mingled with the aromas of the food and wine, and Belmondo must have told me a dozen times how much he loved my cooking.
“They teach you well at the Clef d’Or,” he said.
I could picture Chef Durant wanting to hang himself at a comment like that. “This isn’t one of the school’s recipes,” I said, almost laughing. “It’s just something I threw together. We used to do a lot of that at Hattie’s, where I used to work, so that we wouldn’t waste food.”
“It seems that this woman—Hattie?—is your real teacher.”
I nodded. “I think you’re right. I must have insulted her by coming here to study,” I said. “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t.”
“No, no,” he whispered, touching my face with the tips of his fingers. “Please don’t say that. Because I am so happy that you are in Paris.”
“I am too,” I whispered, feeling myself blushing.
“You are nothing like the others,” he said, tracing a heart on my hand with his finger.
“Really?”
He laughed. “And you know it perfectly well.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “These silly women, they use all their magic for only one thing.”
“What’s that?”
He blew a puff of air out from between his lips. “Foolishness,” he said. “A waste. But you . . .” His eyes narrowed into lazy slits. “You keep your power within you. You glow with magic.”
We looked into each other’s eyes for a long time. I could hear my breath going in and out and my heart thumping in my chest and my blood pounding in my ears, and all the while Belmondo was touching my cheek across the rustic wooden table while his beautiful face shimmered in the candlelight.
“But we’ve forgotten the strawberries,” Belmondo said as he selected one from the box and held it next to my lips until I bit it off the stem. The flavor was so intense that I was afraid I might drool. “You eat beautifully,” he said, his eyes locked into mine.
I picked up another strawberry and held it out, tentatively.
“Take off the stem,” he said in a way that made my breath quicken. I did as he asked, although my hand was shaking slightly as I held it out across the table. He took my hand and brought it to his lips. Then, as the ripe berry disappeared, he covered the tips of two of my fingers with his mouth. I gave an involuntary gasp.
“Katarine,” he said slowly, languorously, as the fingers of his free hand traced the outline of my lips. I felt something like a moan rise out of my throat.
“Now let me taste your magic,” he said.
“What?”
“Just a bit. On your tongue.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I felt my tongue moving between my teeth. Belmondo’s lips pouted, as if he were going to kiss me from afar. I closed my eyes.
“Katy?” A jarring sound. I looked up.
“Oh, God,” I said. It was Peter.
“What are you doing with him?”
“We were having dinner,” Belmondo said, withdrawing his hand from my face. He picked up his wine glass and sipped from it.
Peter looked at my own glass. “Were you drinking?”
“Not really,” I stammered. “I was just—”
“You do not have to answer to him,” Belmondo said, smiling. “This is not your father.”
“No, but you could be,” Peter said, staring pointedly at Belmondo.
Belmondo cleared his throat. “Perhaps I ought to go,” he said, sliding off his chair.
“Right,” Peter said. “Before you get arrested.”
“Peter!” I began, but Belmondo held up a hand and raised his chin. “Your friend is right, chèrie,” he said. “It is not seemly that we should be together so late at night.”
“But we didn’t do anything!” I shrilled, although I knew that was only technically true. I hadn’t physically done very much with Belmondo, but in my heart, I’d done everything.
Belmondo held his finger to his lips. Then he smiled and bowed slightly before leaving through the courtyard exit.
I was left with a lot of weird feelings, none of them good. When I was finally able to speak, what came out was a raspy explosion of anger, shame, and outrage. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” I repeated.
“You don’t have to,” Peter said. “That’s up to him.” He jutted his chin in the direction of the door.
“Well, if you’d come back in time, none of this would have happened.”
“Getting the shipment through customs was more complicated than we’d thought,” Peter said. “That doesn’t change what was going on here.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“You can call me anything you want,” Peter said. “But I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”
“He wasn’t hurting me.”
“He’d better not.”
“Oh, stop it,” I said. “Who’s acting like Mom now?” I took the dirty dishes to the sink and ran hot water into the basin. I was too angry to use magic this time. Besides, I liked the feel of soap and water whenever I felt confused or guilty or ashamed or furious or, as was the case at this moment, all of the above.
“Anyway, you had Fabienne to keep you company,” I said.
“What?”
His reaction was one of such pure surprise that I instantly doubted what I’d thought had been fact. “Didn’t you?”
“Fabienne? Why would I be with her while I’m working?”
“Oh. I m
ean . . . ,” I blathered. “It’s just that her mother . . . that is, Sophie . . .” Finally I shut up and devoted myself to dishwashing. Note to self: Never, NEVER believe Sophie de la Soubise. About anything.
Without another word between us, Peter collected the glasses and utensils off the table and scraped the garbage into the bin. We’d done this routine at Hattie’s so many times that it was as automatic as breathing.
Then, while I was washing the dishes, he stuck his hands into the water and held mine. “I can’t compete against someone like Belmondo,” he said.
That made me feel terrible, but I knew I’d feel even worse if I just kissed him and acted like everything was fine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said finally.
“I wasn’t with Fabienne.”
“I know.”
He let go of my hand. Then, avoiding eye contact with each other, we went back to washing the dishes while the candles guttered and accordion music played in the background.
CHAPTER
•
TWENTY-FOUR
When I finally got back to my room, it was nearly two a.m., but after all the drama in the kitchen, I couldn’t sleep. Fortunately, Azrael’s manuscript was still on my bed, waiting for me.
A.D. 1207
The Doctor
Within the year, Veronique gave birth to a son, Drago, and the couple’s happiness was complete.
The boy did not inherit his father’s gift for alchemy, but he did excel as a scholar, enrolling at the University of Paris when he was only twelve years old and graduating at twenty-two as a doctor of medicine.
When one of the women from the abbey, a healer who went by the name of Sister Clément, sent them a message that Béatrice was dying, Drago asked if he could accompany his parents to see their old friend.
“Perhaps I’ll be able to help,” he offered.
Veronique and Jean-Loup doubted very much if anyone could do more for Sister Béatrice than Veronique, but as magical people themselves, they understood that anything was possible. It was for this reason that they never worried that their son had so far evinced no magical ability. It would come, they were sure. It was just a question of when this talent, whatever it was, would manifest.
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