by M. J. Rose
“Can I smell?” Melinoe asked.
Carefully, Jac handed over the skull.
She watched Melinoe dip her head and sniff. A look of frustration crossed her face.
“It’s very faint,” Jac said.
Melinoe tried again, then looked at Bruge. “Is there any way to stir it up—or add water to it? I want to smell it.”
“Yes, it can be softened with honey,” he said. “I found a recipe for that. Honey was the most popular way ancients preserved food and meats since it has very powerful bactericidal and fungicidal properties. It was said that when Alexander the Great died his body was encased in honey for the transfer to Alexandria, where he was to be buried. Some scientists believe honey is a greater food preservative than most spices.”
“Have you done that? Have you added honey to this? Diluted it?” Melinoe asked in an agitated voice. There were spots of color in her pale cheeks, and her cool silvery eyes flashed like lightening.
Jac could smell Melinoe’s intensity, and it frightened her. And it seemed to disturb Bruge, who backed up a little.
“No, madam. I haven’t.” He sounded miffed. “As I said, to date I’ve never found a formula that called for that ingredient so I haven’t had to manipulate it.”
“How do we even know this is what it’s purported to be? It might just be tar,” Melinoe said.
Now Bruge responded with outrage. “Why would I want to fool anyone like that? These items are in my personal collection, which I neither sell nor show for profit.”
Serge stepped in to repair the damage Melinoe had done. “I think you misunderstood. My stepsister wasn’t suggesting you were trying to fool anyone. She was asking how anyone would know, after so many centuries, what this originally was.”
“Because I had every one of these items tested in my laboratory in Geneva, where our cosmetics are made. If these weren’t the original alchemical substances, they wouldn’t be here.”
“I do apologize,” Melinoe said. “I’ve just been looking for the right ingredients for so long without any success. And now to find them. It’s overwhelming . . .”
Bruge nodded. “I understand passion, my lady. I do. I’ve had my share of frustrations over amassing these elements and items.” He looked from Melinoe to Serge to Jac. “Is there anything else I can show you?”
“Yes, do you have any aloewood?” Jac asked.
“I do. Let me get it . . . but first . . .”
Bruge walked over to a shelf and pulled off a book. Then he turned to Melinoe, who was standing by Serge. “I think you might find this of particular interest.” He put the volume on a table and pulled the lit candelabra closer. “Come look.” He opened the book, and Jac saw a flash of color. “Since you collect incunabula as well and are interested in this time period, you might enjoy these alchemical maps from the late fifteenth century,” Bruge said.
“How can you keep all this here?” Melinoe asked, looking around the drafty hut.
“There’s no value to any of these things if I can’t use them in my quest. I work here, my dear lady; it is my own laboratory. One day it will all be donated to a museum, and if one or two of these pieces are a bit worse for wear—so be it. They were made to be used. Don’t you use what you collect?”
“I do, yes, but”—she touched the book—“I have a temperature-controlled library for the books and papers.”
“I’m sure it’s state-of-the-art. But so cold and inhuman. The monks who toiled away at these pages worked by candlelight in drafty rooms. I am only keeping them in their natural environment.”
Jac could see that Melinoe wanted to argue with him but was holding back. Melinoe and Bruge had such opposite methods when it came to their practices. She seemed to collect in order to live, and he seemed to live in order to collect. Jac was sure that he got more pleasure from his way than she did. For all her extravagance and exotica, Jac had never seen any pure enjoyment on Melinoe’s face except when she was showing her collections.
“Now, dear”—Bruge took Jac by the elbow—“the aloewood is over here.” She sensed that he was proud of himself for having given Serge and Melinoe something to do so he and Jac could pay attention to the scents and elements without any more interruptions.
Taking an amethyst bottle off the shelf, he handed it to Jac. She uncorked it and sniffed. This resin was rich and scented of timber. The aloewood was the most potent of the three items she’d smelled so far.
An up-to-date version of this would suffice if it had to. But how was she going to re-create the tutty or momie? She’d memorized their aromas, but she wasn’t the scientist her brother had been. He always said she had “the nose” to identify and isolate notes like no one else he’d ever met. And that she had an innate artistry to create a higher level of masterpiece than he could. But when it came to understanding the chemical agents and how to re-create versions of scents from nature, Robbie was superior to her.
Now, in order to try to give his soul new wings, she needed his expertise, and she didn’t have it. She felt the sting of tears.
Bruge was looking at her empathetically. “What is it, dear?”
His kindness, her stress—the combination was lethal. She didn’t want to break down here in front of him—or the others. She shook her head—“I’m fine”—but her voice wavered.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Jac nodded. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “All these smells, certain combinations cause a slight allergic reaction. I’m overly sensitive.”
Bruge was watching her. She was certain he didn’t believe her lie.
And then, behind her, she felt that odd little push she’d felt twice before. It gently shoved her closer to the table and the old mercury mirror hanging above it. In its smoky surface, Jac saw her own reflection, and behind her a sudden flurry of—what was it? How could she explain it? Atmosphere? Cloud? Fog? A quick blur—a whirlwind of mist. It had substance and temperature, and she felt it as a warm vapor that settled on her shoulders as it surrounded her. A quick embrace. This miasma was a message from Robbie to remind her he was still with her. To stay strong and focused.
And then it was gone.
Jac looked at Bruge.
He had seen it too. Jac could tell from the way he was smiling at her. Neither Melinoe nor Serge had noticed anything. But the elderly man was aware of it all.
He took her hand. “You are very lucky, my dear. To have such a guardian angel. Don’t doubt him.”
Jac nodded. Didn’t trust herself to speak—not for fear that she’d break down but rather because anything she said would give Melinoe or Serge information she didn’t want them to have. She glanced around. The two of them were talking to each other, not paying attention.
“You don’t seem surprised by what you saw?” Jac said to Bruge in a low voice.
“I have been seeing visions—like the one of your brother—for decades.”
“You even knew who it was?”
Bruge smiled enigmatically. “There are more questions in the world than there are answers. A wise man once said you have to live the questions and then one day you might live your way into the answers. It’s how I’ve conducted my life. Magic is real, my dear. Just watch a tree grow. Or a bird fly. Science and the occult are twins. Every dark has its light. Every right its wrong. Every time its season. Now, have you gotten enough of those smells to do what you need to?”
She nodded. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, if it would help, please, just come back. I’d love to host you and show you more.”
“I should be all right. I have a kind of photographic sense of smell. My problem won’t be knowing if I’ve re-created them; it will be knowing what synthetics exist that might enable me to re-create these scents.”
Melinoe closed the book she and Serge had been examining. “Mr. Bruge, what would I have to offer you to sell us
just a small portion of your supply of tutty and momie?”
“I don’t believe that there’s anything that exists you could offer me. There are no known fifteenth-century examples anywhere. They are irreplaceable and essential to my experiments.”
“I have unlimited funds,” Melinoe said.
“That you would spend on a perfume?” Bruge was now looking at her suspiciously.
“Yes,” she said defiantly.
That was the wrong tack to take with him, Jac thought.
“I’m sorry, madame. The thing is I have unlimited funds too.”
“Surely there is something you want that you don’t have.”
“Of course. But nothing you can give me.”
“Don’t be so certain. What is it you want?”
Bruge looked at Jac, smiled, then looked back at Melinoe. “Youth. Immortality. Freedom from this tired body.”
“Ah, but perhaps I could offer you that.”
For a moment no one said anything. And then Bruge spoke. “It’s getting dark out, and the rain has picked up again. I think we should go back to the house now. Where the brandy is waiting. And you can tell me how you are going to trade my store of elements for a miracle.”
Chapter 31
Jac was not sure exactly what happened on the walk back to the castle. The terrain was rocky and slippery. The path steep. It had begun to rain again, and each of them was manipulating an umbrella. There was no amiable talk since the silk shades enclosed each of them in their own cocoon-like space.
Bruge led the way. Serge followed. Then Melinoe. Jac at the rear. The sound of the rain beat a steady, loud pattern on the umbrellas, so at first she wasn’t even sure she heard anything out of the ordinary. Trees limbs were bending in the wind; leaves and bits of debris were blowing.
Then a sudden movement alerted her. Jac glanced over in time to see a gust pull Bruge’s umbrella away from him just as a tree branch fell, hitting him.
He let out a shout—a mixture of pain and surprise—as he dropped to the muddy ground.
Serge was beside him in seconds. As Jac approached, Melinoe pulled her back. Her hand trembled where she touched Jac’s arm. “Let Serge see to him. He has first aid experience,” she said. “We should call for an ambulance. Hold the umbrella over me,” Melinoe said as she fumbled to get her cell phone out of her bag. She punched in the emergency number. Listened. “Damn,” she said. “There’s no signal. I’ll stay here in case Serge needs help. You can get back to the house faster than I can in these shoes. Call from there—the landlines must be working. Call for help and then ask our driver to bring the car down as close as he can get and then to come with you back here.”
In the downpour, Jac ran as fast as she could, slipping and falling several times on the narrow, rocky path. Finally she reached the gardens and then the house. The phone was working, and she called for help.
Then she did as Melinoe asked and got the limousine driver to get them as close as he could to the woods. After that they took off by foot. Finally they reached the spot where Jac had left everyone.
Melinoe was holding an umbrella over herself and Serge, who was holding his over the collector’s inert body.
“How is he?” Jac asked.
Serge looked up, his expression saying everything.
“No!” Jac looked down at Bruge. It was inconceivable to Jac that he was gone. This man had just asked Melinoe for more time, for immortality, for youth. How could he have died in the minutes it took her to get back to the house and call for help?
The next four hours stretched on interminably. The ambulance and medics came and took Bruge’s body. Police arrived and questioned all three of them, taking long statements about what had happened. Finally, at nine that night, the police said they were free to go.
The chauffeur drove them back to the airport, but the storm prevented the plane for taking off for another two hours.
Finally, at eleven o’clock, they were airborne. Exhausted and saddened, Jac sat looking out of the window, watching the night sky. She couldn’t stop thinking of how Chester Bruge had been talking about wanting more time just moments before all the time he was ever going to have was extinguished.
The irony of it disturbed Jac. The coincidence of it seemed impossible.
Once again she heard the familiar refrain of Malachai’s voice telling her there were no coincidences. It was what he always said to convince her that past-life memories were real. But this coincidence had nothing to do with regressions and ancient karma. Something else had happened in the rain. Jac just wasn’t sure what.
She slept fitfully that night and was glad when morning came and she could finally get out of bed. The sun was shining brightly as she made her way down to the dining room at seven thirty. Serge was already there.
He had eggs on his plate but was just pushing them around. She was surprised she was hungry enough to eat.
“It’s odd, isn’t it?” she asked him. “To be so moved by his death. We didn’t even know him and yet we’re mourning him.”
“It was a terrible thing.” Serge’s face was pale. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. His hand shook as he poured himself a second cup of coffee.
“For you most of all,” Jac said.
His head jerked up. “Why me most of all?”
“You were the one who tried to save him,” she said and watched him visibly relax. “Serge, you can’t blame yourself for his death.”
His eyes, Jac thought, looked haunted.
“I can. It was my fault,” he whispered in a tortured voice.
“You did absolutely everything you could,” Melinoe said as she walked into the room.
This morning she was wearing a deep-ruby velvet tunic with black leggings, and her fingers and wrists were covered with sparkling stones of the same color. Her lipstick matched too. The teardrops that hung from her ears were also blood red. Despite the perfect clothes and jewels, she looked exhausted and somewhat distraught. She put her hands on Serge’s shoulder.
“Nothing was your fault,” Melinoe said, her fingers digging into his skin.
She must be hurting him, Jac thought.
Serge twisted around in his seat to look at his stepsister, and Jac saw the most painful expression of need on his face. He was waiting for Melinoe to absolve him. For her to take away his grief. But could anyone ever do that for someone else? Would anyone ever be able to do that for her?
Chapter 32
MARCH 24, 1573
BARBIZON, FRANCE
The note was delivered by a page, and there was nothing unusual about its appearance or delivery to alert me that it was portentous. The seal was dark red and appeared, with a cursory glance, to belong to the queen, so at first I was confused by the unsigned message.
I am going to evening matins at Sainte-Chapelle. If it is possible for you to meet me there, we might have some time afterward.
As I was noting that it was not the queen’s hand, a particular scent wafted up toward me. No signature had been required after all. I recognized the perfume and knew without a doubt and with a quickened heart who had sent the letter.
Of all the churches in Paris, I preferred Sainte-Chapelle. Smaller than Notre Dame, it is one of the most beautiful and intimate, and if you want to talk to God, it’s best to do it where you don’t have to shout to have yourself heard. Yes, I am a cynic when it comes to religion. Having been raised by monks, I am all too aware of how the rules of the church benefit the church and not the common man. But we fragile humans need to believe in something. Need to have someone give us answers and rationales for the terrible things that happen at random and without recourse. Saying the almighty has his reasons, even if they are not visible to us at the time, enables many poor souls to accept the suffering of their lives here on earth. And that is, in the end, if not a good thing, at least a reassuring on
e.
If you had asked me what I believed in as I prepared to leave for Sainte-Chapelle, I am not sure what I would have said. The marvelous events assigned to the saints were just as fantastical and absurd to me as Ruggieri’s magic. But that night in the small church, a miracle did occur. I am sure of it. And if there is a God, I thank him for it.
When I arrived, the church was awash in glowing colors as the setting sun illuminated the west wall of stained glass windows. A marvel of architecture and design, the apse is almost all windows on three sides so that at every time of day you feel as if you are enclosed inside a jewel box. No queen or king ever had such riches. Rubies and sapphires and citrines and emeralds at your feet, on your hands, your face, painted across the lighter-colored garments of the parishioners.
I took a seat and tried to find Isabeau in the congregation without being obvious. She would be with other ladies-in-waiting, and I didn’t want to arouse suspicion among them. When I didn’t see her, I planned to tarry afterward, assuming her plan was to break away and find me.
Soon after I was seated, the chants began. The monk’s songs, the heady incense, the intensity of the colors, all began to work on me. I felt as if I were slipping deeper inside my mind, leaving my surroundings and entering a profound state of peace. So preoccupied with Ruggieri and the jobs Catherine had been giving me of late, I had been unable to settle my mind for quite a while. But that evening I was lulled into a state of calm by my surroundings. I didn’t fall asleep, I’m sure of it. But I was in a half dream state, floating on the scents and the sounds.
