by M. J. Rose
“Aren’t you going to taste it?” Melinoe asked Jac.
She took a sip.
“Is something wrong?” Serge asked Jac.
It was crazy. How could he ask? Didn’t he know? Everything was wrong. How could she sit here and drink this drink and pretend that things were normal? That her lover wasn’t being held hostage two stories below them? She wanted to scream. To take a chair and try to break one of the windows. She stood up. The glass fell on the antique Aubusson rug.
“Oh dear,” Melinoe said, looking down.
The glass hadn’t shattered. The rug had prevented that. But the stem had broken off.
Jac reached for it, but Melinoe got to it before her. She gave her an odd look—as if trying to gauge whether Jac had been planning to use it as a weapon.
“What a shame,” Melinoe said as she carefully picked up the other half of the glass. “These are Baccarat from the 1920s and very hard to find. I only have a dozen . . . only had a dozen . . . now I only have eleven. There’s really no reason to be nervous, dear. After dinner you’ll put the final touches on the formula and all will be well.”
But how could it? Would Melinoe let them go when Jac suspected Melinoe of stealing, of murdering Bruge? Or did Melinoe have alibis and explanations? What would she say? That locking Griffin in the stocks was a misunderstanding? That Bruge’s death was an accident and she’d only taken the ingredients to protect them? No, Melinoe wasn’t going to just let Jac and Griffin walk out of here. It was up to Jac to figure out a way to save them.
Serge coughed, and Jac glanced over.
“Jac?” Melinoe said her name softly, kindly. “Let’s not wait any longer for dinner. I know you’re impatient to retire to the laboratory.”
Jac tried to stall. “There is no reason to finish mixing the formula. Now that we know about the pathologist’s report from Paris—”
The stubbornness shone in Melinoe’s eyes as she interrupted Jac. “You are drawing conclusions without proof. The formula will work,” she said with unwavering determination in her voice. Melinoe was surveying the room. There was lust in her eyes, and her painted lips had parted slightly. She looked at her collection as if she were gazing on a lover.
Her glance caressed each Renaissance painting and sculpture, the rare jade and cinnabar carvings from Japan, and each piece of fine French Louis XIV furniture. Melinoe picked up a Fabergé frame that held a photograph of her with her father and stroked the smooth turquoise enamel, running her finger up and down one side.
“We can return. I know we can. And with René’s method we can arrange to return when and where we want. I need to come back so I can stay with my beautiful things.”
Serge coughed again. “Jac, what pathologist’s report from Paris? Is this about your brother?”
Melinoe stood up quickly, still holding the frame. For the first time since Jac had arrived at the château, Melinoe seemed flustered.
“Enough conversation about nothing,” she said. “Jac, perhaps it would be better if I had your dinner brought to your room. And then afterward you can go to the laboratory.”
“So I’m a prisoner too? What will you do to me if I don’t agree?”
“Prisoner?” Serge asked. “What the hell is going on here?”
“You don’t know?” Jac turned to Serge. There was no question he was ill. A fine film of perspiration slicked his face. His eyes were glazed.
He shook his head.
“Melinoe has Griffin locked up in the dungeon. It’s my incentive to finish mixing the formula.”
Serge coughed. “And why do you need incentive?”
“Because Griffin got some results back in Paris. It seems Robbie was poisoned. He died from a rare and ancient toxin—a kind that has not been known—”
“No!” Melinoe shouted. “The report is wrong. I can prove it.”
Serge looked at Melinoe. “I want to hear what Jac has to say.”
“No! It’s all a story she’s made up so that she can keep the elixir for herself and not share it with us.”
“That’s ludicrous—why would she do that?” Serge asked.
“For money of course!” Melinoe said.
“The elixir has no value. It turns the breaths to poison.” Jac turned to Melinoe. “Please, release Griffin and let us go.”
“Once you finish what you started.”
“But the breaths in the bottles are lethal,” Jac said. “When René added the elixir to them they became—”
“Enough talk.” Melinoe stood up. “Jac, I need you to come with me now. We’ll go to your room. Lisette will bring up a plate of food. I insist. And Serge, please don’t interfere.” Melinoe’s face was white with rage.
“Jac, don’t go anywhere,” Serge said and turned to Melinoe. “We’ve made terrible mistakes chasing your dreams, and we can’t make any more. I’ve helped you. Been part of it. But this has to stop.”
He coughed again. And again. “Let’s go to the library,” he said and took Jac’s arm. “I want to hear what you have to say.”
“No.” Melinoe ran at them, pushing between Serge and Jac, using her body like a missile. Serge grabbed her and held her at bay. It was the first time Jac realized just how small and fragile Melinoe really was. Her energy and charisma had made her seem so much bigger. But now, even sick as Serge was, she was powerless against him as he pushed her back into a chair.
“What is it that you think happened to your brother?” Serge asked Jac.
“Griffin said the forensic team believes the breath and elixir mixture is somehow active. Trying to use it to reanimate a soul will only result in someone else dying. It’s not a solution—it’s a weapon.”
Serge turned to Melinoe. “You knew this?”
She didn’t respond. He looked back at Jac.
“My stepsister knows about this?”
“She overheard me and Griffin talking about it.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“Are the doctors sure that—”
Before Serge could finish his question, Melinoe was on her feet, shouting no and then again no.
Jac and Serge turned in time to see Melinoe, the candelabra in her hand, her arm lifting into the air.
Chapter 47
Serge pushed Jac out of the way just as the silver objet d’art came hurtling at her. She stumbled and fell. The candelabra crashed into the wall. Lit candles rolled everywhere. Serge rushed to stamp them out. First one and then the next. But he couldn’t get them all at once.
Suddenly it seemed small fires were bursting out everywhere . . . the curtains . . . the rug.
It was happening too fast. The air was too dry. The fabrics too old.
Jac rushed to help Serge, who was batting out the fire along the bottom of the curtains.
“I’ve got this. You get the one on the rug,” he told her between coughs.
Melinoe began a frantic run around the room, gathering up treasures in her arms.
“I think we got them both. It’s all right now,” Serge said. His coughing was worse. From both the effort and the smoke.
Melinoe was still rushing around the room, grabbing objects. Taking pictures off the wall.
“We got the fire out,” Serge said to her.
She turned to look at him but appeared confused. As if she didn’t understand what he was saying. She struggled with an armful of treasures she could barely hold. Her pockets were stuffed with a jade figure and the Fabergé frame holding the photo of Melinoe and her father. She’d ripped her tunic getting it inside, and a flap of fabric hung down her leg, ruining the perfect outfit.
Serge went to the door. “We need to get some air in here.” He tried the knob, but it wouldn’t budge. “This damn power outage,” he said and reached into his pocket for a key. Using it, he opened the front door, and a bu
rst of chilly but welcome air blew into the room.
“Do you have the keys to the dungeon too? Can you get Griffin out?” Jac asked Serge.
“Yes, of course. Let’s go.”
Before they’d taken a dozen steps, Jac stopped. Sniffed the air. Fresh smoke. She spun around.
“Oh no!”
Serge turned too.
One of the candles must have rolled too far away for either of them to notice it. Now the curtains by the bay windows were burning. The rug beneath them had caught fire too. And as she watched, the wooden frame around the window burst into flames.
“Get out of the house,” Serge shouted at Jac. He threw her his phone. “Call the fire department.”
“What about Griffin?” Jac insisted.
Serge coughed again. “I’ll get him—you go outside and call.”
Jac hesitated. “We need to get Griffin—”
“I’ll get him,” Serge shouted. “You call.”
There was the sound of something cracking. Jac looked up. A fiery piece of molding was plummeting toward her. And then someone—no, it wasn’t someone—it wasn’t hands—it was a force—shoved her out the open door.
She lost her balance. Breaking her fall with her right hand, she felt a stab of pain, but that didn’t matter. The molding had fallen right where she’d been standing. It had to have been Robbie who’d pushed her out of harm’s way, but there was no time to focus on that now.
Jac dialed the emergency number. While she waited for someone to answer, she looked through the doorway. The fire was traveling through the house, and the dining room was alight with flames.
“Where are you?” asked the voice on the other end.
As she recited the information to the operator, she heard Serge’s shouts.
“Melinoe, leave everything, just get out of the house.”
Jac watched Melinoe push him away and return to collecting artwork. And then Jac lost sight of both of them as gray-black smoke enveloped them.
The operator said they’d send fire trucks immediately and instructed Jac to stay outside and wait for the fire department. Not to go back inside under any circumstances.
But Griffin was inside, in the dungeon. Jac ran around to the other side of the house and tried the kitchen door. It was still locked. What was she going to do?
Looking down, she spotted a rock. The kitchen window shattered but remained intact. Jac pushed against it, but it resisted the force. Damn. Melinoe had really made the house impenetrable. Peering in through the cracks, Jac could see the kitchen was relatively free of smoke. The fire hadn’t reached back here yet. She pictured the stairway. Even if the fire reached the kitchen, could it travel down that stone passageway? Was there anything to catch on fire there? But what about the smoke?
Jac ran back around to the front door. Maybe she could get through if she—
As she passed the library windows, she peered in. The glow was intense, flames licking at the window. All the books were burning. All those wonderful books.
She could feel the heat coming off the house now.
Where was Serge? Had he reached Griffin?
Even if he hadn’t, the dungeon had to be safer than anywhere else in the house. The smoke would rise, wouldn’t it?
Where were the fire engines? What was taking so long?
Someone was coming from around the side of the house. In the fire’s glow, Jac could see the cook, Lisette, covered in soot and coughing. She ran to the woman.
“How did you get out?”
Lisette pointed and told her Serge had opened the kitchen door and helped her.
“Where is he now?”
“He went down to the cellars,” she said and then began to cry.
“How bad is it in the kitchen?”
“There’s smoke everywhere, but I don’t know.”
Jac ran to the back entrance. Smoke was pouring out of the open door, but she didn’t see any flames. The cook had followed her, and together the two women watched and waited.
“With all the artwork and valuables in the house, why isn’t there some kind of fire protection system?” Jac asked.
“There is,” the cook said. “But when Madame Cypros shut off the power to the house, it must have shut down too.”
“She shut off the power?” Jac asked.
Suddenly a loud cracking came from inside. The château’s stone walls wouldn’t burn, but the many ancient wooden beams crisscrossing the ceilings were a banquet for the fire. Jac pictured the tapestries leading up the landing to the second floor—all so old, ripe for a first spark.
The cook said something, but Jac couldn’t hear her over the roaring. It was so loud now. Like an orchestra from Hades, she thought.
Suddenly, through billowing smoke, Jac saw a figure emerge. She held her breath. It was two figures, Serge helping Griffin. No, it was the other way around. Griffin was helping Serge.
Jac felt relief wash over her. Griffin was alive.
She ran to them.
“He’s really sick, we need to get him help,” Griffin said.
“No, I’m all right,” Serge said in between coughs. “I have to go back and get Melinoe. She’s crazy. She won’t leave her collections. Doesn’t she realize they are just things . . .” He was trying to catch his breath.
Serge started to head toward the door, but Griffin held him back.
Just then Jac heard the sound she’d been listening for: in the distance, fire engine alarms.
“I have to get to Melinoe . . .” Serge was trying to break away from Griffin. “They are just things . . .” A sob broke from his throat. “Just things . . .”
“Let the firemen get her,” Griffin said. “You’re not in any shape to go back in there.”
“I have to. She’s my . . . She’s my . . .” Serge coughed again. “She’s my life.”
“But she made you inhale one of the dying breaths.” Jac had guessed it when she’d seen Serge’s glassy eyes, first heard him cough. “She overheard what Griffin told me, and she asked you to inhale one of the breaths, didn’t she?”
Serge didn’t respond. He was still struggling to break Griffin’s grasp.
“How can you willingly risk your life for the woman who put yours in danger?” she asked.
Serge stopped fighting Griffin for a moment to look at Jac. In his eyes was an expression she knew and understood. It didn’t matter what Melinoe had done. It wasn’t what she felt or didn’t feel for Serge. It was about what he felt for her.
Then, with a burst of strength that Griffin wasn’t prepared for and couldn’t stop, Serge broke away and ran, stumbling toward the house to find Melinoe. She was all he knew. All he’d ever known.
And just as the fire engines arrived, Serge disappeared into the firestorm.
Jac, Griffin and the cook stood in the chill night air and watched as the firemen made every attempt to gain entry to the house, but the entire downstairs was engulfed in flames. The most they could do was shoot powerful arcs of water into the Château La Belle Fleur, into the rooms filled with priceless paintings, sculpture and objets d’art.
Minutes passed without any sign of Serge or Melinoe.
Serge had told Jac once that he was to blame for Melinoe’s father’s death and despite that she’d saved Serge’s life. That she had loved him despite what his life had cost her. That was what he owed her.
“She loved me that much,” he had said.
And hated him that much too, Jac thought as she watched the fire’s glow and smelled its terrible and powerful aroma.
Griffin, Jac and the cook continued to wait.
Finally the firefighters got the conflagration under control and were able to enter the house, but Jac knew that when they came out, neither Serge nor Melinoe would be with them.
Chapter 48
MAY 16,
1573
BARBIZON, FRANCE
As was befitting a lady-in-waiting, the funeral Mass for Isabeau was held in Sainte-Chapelle. The very place where we had trysted. Where we were to be married. I thought she would have enjoyed that. Her sense of irony was as keen as mine. It had been five days since her death, and I had barely slept for working on my formula. More than ever, I had to solve the puzzle of Serapino’s notations. I had to bring Isabeau back to me.
I was not grieving as I thought I would. Not in mourning, for I was not really alive. I too had died that night. Now, I was a ghost who needed to accomplish one thing and one thing only: to figure out the elixir.
Catherine herself came and got me when it was time to go to the Mass. And then sat beside me, her arm linked through mine—abandoning protocol to be with me and shore me up.
I knew that she was doing this for me, but she was also conniving and clever, and she knew that now I had an ever greater incentive to work out the formula, which she wanted as much as I did.
I had given the priest the incense for the Mass. I’d taken myrrh and frankincense and added rose oil. A last bouquet for my Isabeau so that she would leave the world on the wings of a perfume that she loved. Now, as the priest swung the censer, the church filled with the holy scent, and the chanting sounded like tears falling, steady and constant.
The Mass was long and the church was hot. The fragrance I’d made mingled with the odor of the men and women in the court who were not as careful to bathe as Catherine and her ladies-in-waiting. The stench was vile and grew more disgusting as the Mass continued until it seemed some kind of monster, there to haunt me. I brought my scented handkerchief up to my face and buried my nose in it, and as I did, I caught sight of Princess Margaret sitting across the aisle.
Her skin was pale, and she looked ill herself. Weeping, she appeared bereft. I was not so foolish as to think it was about Isabeau. The court was rife with the rumor that the princess had lost her prince. Henry de Guise had been betrothed that morning. He was soon to wed another.
