by Rebecca Ross
“This is the chamberlain, Agnes Cote, and this is the chef, Pierre Faure,” Jourdain introduced.
Agnes gave me a well-rehearsed bob of a curtsy in her simple black dress and starched apron, and Pierre smiled behind the flour smudged on his face, and bowed.
“This is my daughter, Amadine Jourdain, adopted through passion,” Jourdain continued.
Agnes, who had the aura of a mother hen, came forward to hold both my hands in her warm ones, an intimate greeting. She smelled of citrus and crushed pine needles, betraying her obsession with keeping all things clean and orderly. Indeed, from what I could see of the mahogany paneled walls and white tiled floors, this was a rigorously tidied house. And I could not help but feel as if I was beginning a fresh life—a blank slate with endless possibilities—and returned her smile.
“If you need anything at all, you simply call for me.”
“That is very kind of you,” I answered.
“Where is my son?” Jourdain inquired.
“With the consort, monsieur,” Agnes was swift to respond, dropping my hands. “He apologizes in advance.”
“Another late night?”
“Yes.”
Jourdain appeared dissatisfied, until he noticed I was carefully watching him and his face lightened. “Pierre? What is on the menu tonight?”
“We have trout for tonight, so I hope you like fish, Mistress Amadine,” the chef responded. His tenor voice was raspy, as if he had spent far too many hours singing while he cooked.
“Yes, I do.”
“Excellent!” Pierre bustled back down the hallway.
“Dinner is at six,” Jourdain informed me. “Agnes, why don’t you give Amadine a tour of the house? And show her to her room?”
Just as Jean David entered carrying my trunk, Agnes led me around the first floor, showing me the dining hall, the small parlor, Jourdain’s austere office, and the library, which was crammed with books and instruments. I knew Jourdain was a lawyer, yet his house was eclectically grand and polished, bespeaking one who was educated and seemed to favor the passions. It felt like home, and relief washed over me; it was the last thing I expected, to feel at ease in a new place.
“Is Jourdain’s son a musician?” I asked, taking in the scattered sheets of music over the covered spinetta, the piles of books on the floor that my skirts threatened to upset, and a very old lute, which sat upright in a chair as a faithful pet waiting for its master to return.
“He is indeed, Mistress,” Agnes answered, her voice thick with pride. “He is a passion of music.”
Fancy that. Why hadn’t Jourdain mentioned such to me?
“And he is part of a consort of musicians?” I looked to the hasty scrawl of his handwriting, the broken quills, and the vials of inks with half-plugged corks.
“Yes. He is very accomplished,” Agnes continued, beaming. “Now let me show you to the second floor. That is where your room will be, as well as Master Luc’s and Monsieur Jourdain’s.”
I followed her from the library, up a set of horribly creaky stairs to the second floor. There was a linen room, Jourdain’s and Luc’s rooms, which she did not open but pointed to their closed doors so I would know where they were, and at last she took me down the hall to a chamber that sat at the back of the house.
“This is your room, Mistress,” Agnes said and swung open the door.
It was beautiful. There was a pair of windows overlooking the river, with thick rugs over the wooden floors and a canopy bed that could comfortably sleep two people. It was simple, yet perfect for me, I thought as I approached a small desk before one of the windows.
“Monsieur says you are a passion of knowledge,” Agnes commented from behind me. “I can bring you any book from the library, or I can fetch paper and ink if you wish to write.”
I had no one to write to, I thought somberly, but smiled anyway. “Thank you, Agnes.”
“I will go and draw you water so you can freshen up before dinner.” She bobbed another curtsy and then was gone.
Jean David had already set my cedar chest at the foot of the bed, and while I knew that I should begin to unpack, I felt far too tired. I lay down on my bed, staring up at the gauzy canopy. Did Agnes and Pierre know about my situation? Did Jourdain trust them enough to tell them about my memories? And what of his son, this Luc? Did he know?
I wondered how long I was to live here, how long before we pursued the stone. A month? Half a year?
Time, my old nemesis, seemed to laugh at me as I closed my eyes. The hours began to move unbearably slowly, mocking me. A day would feel like a month. A month, like a year.
I wanted to rush; I wanted to hasten and reach the end of this journey.
I fell asleep with such desires tumbling through my heart as stones down a well.
I woke just before dawn, in the belly of night’s coldest hour.
I sat forward with a jolt, unsure of where I was. On the desk, a candle was burning, its wax almost completely eaten. Blearily, I soaked in the surroundings by the fragile light, and I remembered. This was my new chamber at Jourdain’s. And I must have slept through dinner.
A quilt had been laid over me. By Agnes, most likely.
I slipped from the bed and took the candle, my hunger complaining in my empty stomach. Barefoot, I descended the stairs, learned which ones creaked so I could avoid them in the future. I was about to make my way to the kitchens when the velvet darkness of the library—the rich scent of books and paper—caught me in the hall.
I entered it, taking care to look where I stepped. The bizarre piles of books stroked my interest. I had always been the same, aggregating strange clusters of books ever since I had chosen knowledge. Kneeling down to examine which titles lived in one stack, I set my candle aside and began to go through them. Astronomy. Botany. Musical theory. The History of the Renauds . . .
I had read most of these already, I thought. I was just reaching for the next pile when a strange voice spoke through the darkness. . . .
“Oh, hello.”
I whirled about, unsettling the stack of books and nearly catching the house on fire. I caught the candle just before it plummeted and stood up, my heart pounding.
In the dim light of my candle, I saw a young man sprawled in a chair, the lute cradled in his arms. I had not even noticed him sitting there.
“Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you,” he apologized, voice dusty from sleep.
“You must be Luc.”
“Yes.” He sleepily smiled and then rubbed his nose. “You must be my sister.”
“Were you sleeping in here?” I whispered. “I am so sorry. I should not have come down so early.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he reassured me, and set the lute down to stretch. “Sometimes I sleep in here when I get home late. Because the stairs creak.”
“So I discovered.”
Luc yawned, leaning back into the chair to regard me by the light of the sputtering candle.
“You are lovely.”
I stood frozen, unsure of how to respond. And then he baffled me even further when he lumbered to his feet and folded me into a tight embrace, as if he had known me his entire life and we had been separated for years.
My arms were stiff as I slowly returned the affection.
He was tall and skinny, and he smelled of smoke and something spicy that he must have eaten for dinner and spilled on his shirt. He pulled away from me but his hands remained on my arms.
“Amadine. Amadine Jourdain.”
“Yes?”
He smiled down at me. “I am happy you are here.”
His tone told me that he knew. He knew of my memories and my purpose.
“As am I,” I returned with a faint smile.
He was not handsome. His face was plain, his jaw a bit crooked, his nose a touch too long. And his mop of dark brown hair stood up in all the wrong angles. But there was something very gentle about his gray eyes, and I found the more he smiled, the more endearing he became.
“A
t long last, I get a passion sister. My father says you are knowledge?”
“Y-yes.” Well, almost a passion of knowledge. But I think he knew that as well, because he didn’t press me further about it. “And you are a master of music, are you not?”
“What gave it away?” he teased. “My clutter or the instruments?”
I smiled, thinking of Merei. She and Luc would get along quite nicely. “Do all of these books belong to you?” I indicated the piles.
“Three-quarters of them do. The rest are my father’s. Which, speaking of him, how was the journey here? I heard there was . . . an altercation of sorts.”
The last thing I wanted was to appear nervous and cowardly among these people. So I brushed the hair away from my eyes and said, “Yes. Your father handled it rather . . . what is the word?”
“Violently?” he provided.
I didn’t want to confirm or oppose, so I let silence fill my mouth.
“I am sorry that was your first impression of him,” Luc said with a little huff, “but he has never had a daughter before. I hear it is far more worrisome than having a son.”
“Worrisome?” I repeated, my voice rising with indignation. Saints, was I really about to fight with Luc Jourdain not ten minutes into knowing him?
“Don’t you know that daughters are far more precious and revered than sons?” he returned, his brows cocked but his eyes still gentle. “That fathers are, yes, content with a son or two, but it is daughters they truly want? And as such, a father would slay any who even dare to think of threatening her?”
I held his stare, questions stirring in my mind. I still wasn’t comfortable, or brave enough, to speak my thoughts. But I dwelled on what he said, knowing this was no Valenian concept. Daughters were loved in the southern kingdom, but it was the sons who inherited everything. Titles, money, estates. So what Luc was expressing happened to be a very old Maevan way of thinking, the desire to have and raise up daughters, to love and esteem them. All because of Liadan Kavanagh’s influence.
“That is, of course,” he rambled on, “until fathers can teach their daughters to defend themselves. Then they do not have to worry so much over them.”
Yet another Maevan sensibility—a woman with a sword.
“Hmm,” I finally hummed, borrowing the sound from Jourdain.
Luc recognized it and his smile broadened. “We are already rubbing off on you, I see.”
“Well, I am your sister now.”
“And again, I am very happy you are here. Now, make yourself at home, Amadine. Any book you want, feel free to enjoy. I’ll see you at breakfast in an hour.” He winked at me before he departed. I heard the stairs creak as he took them, two at a time, up to his room.
I finally selected a book and sat in a chair hidden behind the spinetta, watching dawn’s first light steal into the room. I tried to read, but the house was beginning to come to life. I listened to Agnes’s gait as she opened shutters and swept the floor and set the china on the dining table. I heard Pierre whistle and the clink of pots hitting one another, the aromas of frying eggs and sizzling mutton spreading through the house. I listened as Jean David walked down the hall in his creaking leather boots, sniffing his way into the kitchen as a hound to a bone. And then I heard Jourdain’s tread as he descended the stairs, clearing his throat as he passed the library and entered the dining chamber.
“Is Amadine awake yet?” I heard him ask Agnes.
“I have not checked on her. Should I? The poor girl looked so exhausted last night. . . .” She must be pouring him a cup of coffee. I could smell it—dark, rich sustenance—and it made my stomach rumble so fiercely I don’t know how the entire house didn’t hear it.
“No, leave her be. Thank you, Agnes.”
Next, I heard Luc descend the creaky stairs, light-footed and energetic. I heard him step into the dining chamber, greet his father, and then ask, “Well, where is this new sister of mine?”
“She’ll be along. Have a seat, Luc.”
A chair scraped the floor. I could hear the clink of china, and I watched as my candle ate the last of its wick, finally dying with a trail of smoke. Then I rose, realizing my hair was tangled and my dress hopelessly wrinkled from sleep and travel. I did my best to braid my tresses, hoping I didn’t look like a wraith as I entered the dining room.
Luc stood at the sight of me—one of those noble Valenian customs—but he rattled everything on the table in his haste.
“Ah, there you are,” Jourdain said, placing his hand on the shivering china before something spilled. “Amadine, this is my son, Luc.”
“Pleased to meet you Amadine,” Luc said with an amused smile and a half bow. “I hope you slept well your first night here?”
“Yes, thank you for asking,” I responded, settling in the chair across from his.
Agnes arrived to pour me a cup of coffee. I all but groaned in delight, thanking her as she set a pot of cream and a bowl of sugar cubes by my plate.
“So, Amadine,” Luc said, spreading jam on his toast. “Tell us more about you. Where did you grow up? How long were you at Magnalia?” He had washed and combed his hair back, and it struck me odd how different he appeared in the fullness of light. But I suppose shadows have a way of changing how one remembers a stranger’s face.
I hesitated, glancing to Jourdain.
My patron father’s eyes were already resting on me. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “You can trust everyone in this house.”
So everyone in this house was involved, or would soon be, with whatever plans we made to find the stone.
I took a sip of coffee, to slick away the cobwebs of my exhaustion, and then began to tell them as much as I felt comfortable sharing. Most of this, Jourdain already knew. But he still listened intently as I rummaged through my past. My time in the orphanage, my grandfather’s plea to the Dowager, seven years at Magnalia, each passion attempted but only one nearly mastered . . .
“And who is your master?” Luc asked. “Maybe I know him.”
Most likely not, I thought as I remembered how quiet and reserved Cartier was, how he had spent seven years of his life wholeheartedly serving Magnalia, pouring his knowledge into Ciri and me. “His name is Cartier Évariste.”
“Hmm. Never heard of him,” my passion brother said, scraping the last of the eggs from his plate. “But he must be very accomplished, to be an arial at a House as revered as Magnalia.”
“He is very passionate,” I agreed, taking another sip of coffee. “He is a historian as well as a teacher.”
“Does he know you are here?” Luc licked his fingers. Definitely not Valenian table manners, but I let it pass as if I had not noticed.
“No. No one knows where I am, who I am with.” I felt Jourdain’s gaze on me again, as if he was beginning to understand how painful this arrangement was for me.
“It is difficult for us to predict when we will be able to recover the stone,” Jourdain said. “Part of it will rely on you, Amadine, and this is not to pressure you, but we really do need another one of your ancestors’ memories to manifest, one that will hopefully give us solid evidence as to what forest the stone is buried in. Because there are four major forests in Maevana, not to mention all the other little thickets and woods not worthy to note on a map.”
I swallowed, feeling a piece of toast scrape all the way down my throat. “How would you like me to do this? I . . . I have little control over them.”
“As I know,” Jourdain replied. “But when the Dowager first sent her letter, stating she had an arden of knowledge who had inherited ancestral memories . . . I began to do my own research on the matter. Luc found some documents at the archive at Delaroche, which proved to be useless, but one of my clients—a fellow passion of knowledge who is a renowned physician—has done some fascinating research on the topic.” I watched as Jourdain reached within the inner pocket of his doublet. But instead of fetching a dagger, this time he brought forth a bouquet of papers, extending them to me. “This is his dossi
er, which he generously loaned to me. Here, have a look.”
I accepted them carefully, feeling the wear of them. The penmanship was sharp and slanted, and crowded page after page. As Agnes began to clear away the china, I let my eyes move over the words.
The experience with the ancestral memories of my five patients differ greatly, from age of onset to how deep and extensive the memories flow, but one thing I have found constant: the memories are difficult to control, or subdue, without prior knowledge of the ancestor.
The memories cannot be commanded to start without a bond (sight, smell, taste, sound, or any other sensory pathway), and there is difficulty in halting them once the stream begins.
I paused, my gaze still hovering on the words as I tried to absorb this. I looked to the next page and read:
A boy of ten, fallen from his horse, concussion, odd memories surfacing and compelling him to climb the highest bell tower. His ancestor had been a notorious thief, living in the crooks and shadows of the steeple. A young woman, an inept passion of wit, whose ancestral memories were conjured after she jumped from a bridge in Delaroche to drown herself . . .
“You want me to try and force a bond?” I said, glancing up to Jourdain.
“Not necessarily force,” he amended. “But encourage one. Luc is going to help you with this.”
My passion brother smiled and raised his cup of coffee to me. “I have no doubt we can accomplish this, Amadine. Father has already mentioned the other bonds you have made, one through the book, one through music, and one through your wound. I think we can easily manifest another memory.”
I nodded, but I didn’t feel as confident as him. Because my ancestor had lived a good one hundred and fifty years before me. He was not only a man, he was a full-blooded Maevan. He had not grown up among polite society, but in a world of swords and blood and gloomy castles. There truly was not much we could have in common.
But this was why I was here. This was why I was sitting at this table with Aldéric Jourdain, who was really someone else I was not supposed to know, and with his sanguine son, Luc. Because the three of us were going to recover the Stone of Eventide, uproot King Lannon, and set Isolde Kavanagh on the throne.
