by David Mellon
“Come, Bouton. Time to go.” She left without another glance at the girl.
Adi leaned against the doorway and rubbed her face with her hands. How much trouble was she in now?
Two more days would pass before she was to find out.
The Duchess’s Tale
After the funeral was done, after all the heads of state had departed, when she thought she would scream if she had to listen to one more heartfelt condolence, the Duchess Johanna wandered off to find her son.
Passing through the rooms of the obscenely large house—her house now, she thought—she threw aside pieces of her costume, littering the hallway with gloves, cape, hairpins.
She found her son curled up, fast asleep (or pretending to be) in the back of one of his closets where he often built himself a nest.
For a moment she considered joining him; it seemed like a sensible idea to curl up into a ball and hide in a pile of blankets. But she knew he would be distressed by her presence. She couldn’t remember the last time he had allowed her to touch him.
She was hardly in a position to complain. When her husband had his rendezvous with a bullet the week before, dying on a pile of leaves in the forest, he did so without any recent memory of her touch.
• • •
Johanna was acting as translator for the Danish ambassador when she first met the duke of Alorainn.
It was not lost on him how deftly she navigated the rocky shoals of the man’s use of language, nor how fetching was her figure.
When she was approached by the duke’s people to work as translator for a private luncheon, she thought little of it other than that she was pleased to be hired—her finances were, as usual, tenuous.
It didn’t take long to notice that no one at the party spoke anything other than French, German, or Italian, all languages in which the duke was perfectly fluent. He took every opportunity to interact with her. It was no time at all before he began to court her more conventionally.
But what was the point—other than the obvious one. She could hardly be seriously considered, being in only the most glancing way of any royal lineage. There are rules, after all.
But the duke was—like this queer little province of Alorainn—an unusual mixture of the traditional and unorthodox. The people of Alorainn did things the way they’d done them for generations, but what they did was as likely as not to be unconventional. The royal family, and the inhabitants as well, thought all this quaint. Johanna considered it undisciplined.
But she was tired of polishing the worn spots on her shoes. She longed for once, not to have money be the last thing on her mind as she fell asleep at night.
And, of course, there was Halick, her strange child, with his dark blue eyes and too-full lips. His father’s features, but combining to entirely different effect. A face impossible to read, and hard to trust.
She knew the boy would not be keen on a large family; she herself thought most of them fools. But a father and a brother might pull him out of himself, if it was not already too late.
• • •
But here she was instead, wearing widow’s black. Johanna leaned against the window frame and looked out to the twilit garden, fiddling with the glass stopper on a bottle of paregoric that sat atop the cabinet. She pulled it open, gave it a sniff and carelessly took a drink of the opium tincture. The bitter taste of it took her back to her childhood when it was often given to her for an upset stomach.
Johanna finished off the bottle and watched as the light faded to black.
Chapter 17
Thomas charged in through the library doors and found Adi in her usual spot.
“Ypres!” he said.
Adi shut her book and looked up at Thomas. He held up a hand while he caught his breath. Just as he was about to open his mouth, servants began to pile through the doors with big trays, laden with silver serving dishes.
She had been reading about Moses in a big old dusty Bible, trying to figure out the first riddle with the bit about the “wanderers’ Father” and the “forty years of thirst.” They agreed that it must be something about Moses, but couldn’t make heads or tails of the “Jeremiah” reference.
Thomas directed the servants to put the covered dishes on the table before the girl. Adi was thoroughly confused.
“Hold that thought about Ypres for a second,” he said.
This was not difficult, as Adi hadn’t the slightest clue as to what an “e-pray” might be.
Thomas took a piece of paper from his vest pocket.
“Cook,” he said, “sends his apologies for not having any fresh cardamom. And”—Thomas reviewed his notes—“that the . . . paneer is basically ricotta cheese. Am I saying that right? Paneer?”
Adi nodded, and lifted a lid. The scent was ambrosial and took her home in an instant. She picked up a fork and took out a little cube of cheese from the creamy red sauce with the peas and potatoes.
Matar paneer! Not bad. She certainly wasn’t going to be fussy about it. Bless Cook for trying. It was the first Indian food she’d had since she got on the boat. She looked under several other silver lids. Rice, raita, and a bread sort of like naan. It’s a feast! She gave Thomas a big smile.
“But, hold on,” he said. “Before you get started, I’ve had a brainstorm—about the second riddle.”
Adi was all ears. She put the lid down.
“Okay, here,” he said, folding his hands together, like a schoolboy reciting.
“Men with no fingers have no time to linger,
when the devil with four knees,
to be free of its own fleas,
must like a witch with no broom,
fall to its doom.”
He looked quite pleased with himself.
“All right, now,” he said excitedly. “There’s a city in Belgium called Ypres.”
Adi nodded. All right.
“I remembered,” he said. “They have this strange tradition, I don’t recall why, they’ve been doing it forever. Every few years they throw cats off of this great tower in the middle of town.”
Adi gasped.
“No, no,” said Thomas. “They don’t throw real cats anymore—just stuffed cats or something.”
Adi spread her hands, questioningly.
“Right. What’s this got to do with the riddle? Well, here’s the thing.” Thomas held up a finger.
“The reason they started to throw the cats off the tower—some time in the Middle Ages, I’d imagine—is, it represented casting out the Devil. And witches and such. So it hit me—‘the devil with four knees.’ ”
Adi clapped her hands to her mouth, then gestured for Thomas to go on.
“ ‘To be free of its own fleas,’—Right?
“ ‘Must, like a witch with no broom’—”
Adi held on to the edge of the table.
“—‘fall,’ ” Thomas said, “ ‘to its doom.’ ”
Her mouth wide in wonder, Adi sat back in her chair.
“There is one more piece, though,” said Thomas snatching up a pen and paper off the desk. “This part is a little odd.”
Adi gave him a look as if to say, What about this isn’t odd?
Thomas laughed. “Okay, the first line, ‘Men with no fingers have no time to linger.’
“The name of the town is Ypres. Or in English . . .” He wrote in big letters on the paper—Ieper! “A capital ‘I’ looks like a lower case ‘l,’ which makes the name look like ‘leper.’ As in ‘men with no fingers.’ ”
Adi sat thinking it through, looking for flaws in the logic. The bit with the capital and lower case was devious, but that seemed perfectly appropriate given its source.
Clapping her hands, she gestured for Thomas to join her. There was enough food on the table for ten.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to have it all to yourself, mademoiselle,” said Thomas, looking dubiously at the foreign dishes. “I’m—I’ve got to—”
She heard something in his tone other than re
luctance to try strange food.
“I didn’t want to worry you,” he said. “But I’ve got a meeting in town with the chief of police.”
Adi snapped to attention.
“Not about the boys,” Thomas said. “Well, not exactly. It’s Detective Lendt. No one has seen or heard from him since he left here.”
Adi sat back, a chill, sick feeling wrapping around her stomach, replacing her momentary sense of victory.
She looked to Thomas, questioningly.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But it is troubling.”
Adi got to her feet and gestured that she was coming with him.
Thomas looked down at the table. “You will break Cook’s heart if you don’t eat this while it’s hot. The instant I get back, I’ll let you know!”
With reluctance, she let herself be convinced.
After Thomas left, she pondered this new turn of events. Too excited to eat, she found her thoughts turning to the detective.
He hadn’t struck her as the irresponsible sort. It was hard to picture him running off with a mistress, or holed up in an opium den. He could have crashed his motorcar, but wouldn’t someone have seen it by now?
But what’s the alternative? Adi had a horrible feeling that she knew.
She looked at the silver dishes on the table. Not so hungry anymore. But she must eat some of it, so she might praise the meal to Cook later on.
A knock on the door. A maid came in carrying a tray with a single dish.
“Begging your pardon, mademoiselle,” said the maid as she placed the small silver-topped bowl before Adi. “Dessert.”
Adi nodded in thanks as the maid gave a little curtsy and departed with a glance back over her shoulder.
Adi lifted the lid. Oh! Gulab jamun! She took a bite.
She might as well start with dessert.
Carrying the dish and a spoon, she wandered about the room.
She took another bite. The consistency of the little fried spheres was quite good, but there was an odd aftertaste to the syrup.
Not too surprising. Where did Cook even get a recipe for gulab jamun in this part of the world?
She came to the great framed map of Europe hung between the shelves. It was twice her height. In eastern France was the town of Belfort; there was even a little illustration of a lion carved into the mountain next to the name. Looking upward to the north, in Belgium, nearly to the English Channel—there was the city of Ypres. She drew a line in her mind between the two cities. Two more to go.
She reached out her hand to the map and touched the glass, tracing the shape of Alorainn tucked so neatly into northeastern France. She wondered, as she had many times in the last few days, how she’d come to be in such a place.
She imagined herself floating high up in the sky looking down upon the earth, passing over the rivers and mountains.
She tilted her head a little and watched, as first the silver spoon and then her dish slipped from her hand and fell so slowly to the carpet.
Adi followed, but was out before she hit the floor.
Chapter 18
Paris
“Where the hell have you been?” George asked.
George’s cousin Augustin stood for a moment in the doorway, grinning. Though wearing clothes from the night before, he was still, as always, impeccably attired. He turned immediately to George’s breakfast table.
“Talking with a one-armed man, in front of the hotel,” said Augustin, as he looked under lids. He piled a few sausages and sliced tomatoes on a plate and proceeded to open the bottle of champagne languishing in the bucket.
“What happened to what’s-his-name’s daughter?” George asked, as he tried to figure out how to get one of the hangers out of his traveling wardrobe. “I thought you were bringing her to the—?”
“These little sausages are good, aren’t they?” said Augustin.
“But weren’t you going to—?”
Augustin looked around at George’s accommodations. “Your rooms are nicer than mine. Why is that?”
“All right,” said George, taking the hint. He gave up and shoved the suit and hanger into the overfull trunk. “I didn’t like her anyway.” He attempted to wrestle the suitcase closed.
“Aren’t we late for the meeting?” said Augustin. He plopped himself onto George’s unmade bed without tipping his plate and champagne flute. Augustin was not a handsome man in any ordinary sense; he had a flat face with close-set eyes, atop a great long nose. And yet somehow with the element of his grin thrown in, the face managed to be more than the sum of it parts. He sat up against the pillows and watched his friend fight with his suitcase.
“Why are you doing that? Where’s Thomas?” Augustin looked around, noticing for the first time that Thomas wasn’t there.
“I told you, I left him with . . . he’s still at home.”
“You never go anywhere without Thomas,” said Augustin, suddenly suspicious. “You left him with . . . you left him with that girl. The girl who can’t talk!”
George said nothing.
“I remember!” said Augustin. “No, actually I don’t. Tell me again. I wasn’t paying the slightest attention last night. Something about a watch—and a pastry.”
“Gus. You’re like a sieve. Help me with this damned suitcase. Do you have your car?”
“Of course,” he said. “Where are we going?”
• • •
The luggage was dumped into the back of the brand-new red Minerva. George talked as Augustin drove them east across the open French countryside.
“You see, it doesn’t make sense,” said George over the sound of the engine. “She’s reading Charles Dickens? Doesn’t it follow that she would be able to write?”
“Maybe,” said Augustin.
“I know people who can’t talk,” said George. “Roman’s boys, for instance. They sign. They write notes. They seem . . . more used to not being able. Adi acts as if this condition just happened last week.”
“You really need to stop drinking so much,” said Augustin, passing underneath a great arching stone aqueduct.
“What? I drink as well as you do.”
“I don’t think so,” said Augustin. “You don’t remember, do you?”
“Remember what?”
“You’ve heard this girl talk.”
“What?”
“Not a lot. ‘Monsieur’ might have been the size of it.”
“The only thing I remember was her walking away.”
“We asked her to join us in South America.”
George looked pained.
“You don’t know,” said Augustin, “if anything she’s told you is true. Probably after your money; some sort of weird confidence game. It is pretty far-fetched, the not talking, the twin brothers, this watch thing.” He looked over. “I do recall her being attractive.”
George raised his eyebrows. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Well, there’s that. But, God’s sakes. What are you, twelve? You’re with this girl for a couple days and you already sound like you did with—what was her name? When you were twelve.”
“The worst part is, I hardly said goodbye to her before I left. I don’t know what happened to me. I kissed her, the night before, then I sort of . . . panicked.”
“Just a kiss?”
“Yeah.”
They drove in silence until rain started to come down on their heads. Augustin pulled over as the road widened near a train depot.
They got out of the car and started pulling up the top.
“The generals aren’t wasting any time, are they?” Augustin said, looking over at the depot. It was not lost on them that most of the men waiting on the platform for the train were in soldier’s garb, carrying their kits.
“That’s what we should be doing,” said George.
Wiping rain from the end of his great aquiline nose, Augustin looked over at the men on the platform.
“What? That? Ha. You couldn’t if you wanted to. The family�
�s not going to let their precious heir go off and get himself shot. Anyhow. A war? Not going to happen.”
George looked as if he weren’t so sure.
“You heard Petain, the other generals too. They all think we can win a war. ‘Done before Christmas,’ he said.”
“Aren’t we supposed to be in that boat going up the Amazon by Christmas?” said Augustin. “You can bring your girlfriend.”
They climbed back in, just ahead of the downpour. Augustin pulled out onto the road, skidding as he sped away.
George lifted his glasses up on his forehead and rubbed his eyes, moaning.
“I’ve run out on my uncles. Again! What is wrong with me?”
“Yeah. Henri’s never going to let you forget it.”
“I know, I know! You’re right. I know you’re right. About everything. About being played. About behaving like a schoolboy. The whole thing’s preposterous. The riddles, the kidnapper, the not talking—all of it.”
He leaned over and slugged Augustin hard on the shoulder.
“Ow! What d’you do that for?”
“ ’Cause you’re supposed to be talking me out of this!” said George. He put his feet up on the dash and slumped down in the seat. “You know, I’ve never brought a girl home.”
“Oh, no kidding,” said Augustin. “Anyway, why would I talk you out of it?”
“Because we have a deal.”
“Yes, well. I don’t know if that’s such a good idea for you anymore. Of course, it’s bound to end badly. But maybe there’s no sense in both of us being cynical and bitter about women, all the time.”
George looked over at his friend. “What’s happened to you?”
Augustin shrugged and grinned. He downshifted and stepped hard on the accelerator. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
Chapter 19
It took the glacier a million years to come and go. In its wake it left behind a valley with sheer cliffs, a half-mile deep, and at the bottom a small lake with water so dark and cold that it often had ice until the dog days of summer. Not that one could often see through the constant fog.
Not much had changed here since, other than that someone had been brave and foolish enough to build a road on the cliff-edge high above the water.
