“Good.” The staff tapped on the cobbles again as they passed over the Seine. He released her hand. “That is all I require of you. Have the wits to follow that direction.”
She nodded. She found the pendant with her now-free hand and she stroked it, letting the touch of it soothe her.
*
The dinner took place in the great hall of the Royal Palace, the very location an indication of how Provost Marcel now regarded his status within the city. The hall was lit with great sconces with the Valois sigils significantly missing below, and all the chandeliers were ablaze with candles. Liveried servants were on hand to usher them in, and Provost Marcel and his wife, Marguerite des Essars, greeted them at the hall’s entrance. “Ah, Madame Flamel,” the Provost said as he took her hand. “You look wonderful as always, and that necklace is gorgeous. You and Monsieur Flamel are a shining example of marriage for all of us. How is Verdette?”
“She’s very well, Provost. Thank you for asking.”
“She’s a beautiful child. Beautiful,” he said, still holding her hand and smiling, though his gaze slid across her face to Nicolas, speaking with Madame Marcel. “I smile every time I have the opportunity to see her. And she deserves to live in a world that values what you and your husband best represent. Let us look forward to that day, Madame Flamel.”
“That is my one great wish, Provost,” she answered. He inclined his head and she curtsied to him, passing into the hall as Nicolas made his own greetings to the man. Most of the diners were already there and seated: the bourgeoisie mostly—the wealthy merchants of the city. There was a heavy buzz of conversation in the hall, but few of the faces seemed to be smiling, and those few smiles were fleeting. She noticed that the minor nobles among the bourgeoisie were conspicuously absent, and none of those loyal to the Dauphin were in attendance at all. The air held a decided tension despite the brilliance of the hall and the festive draperies around the room—no doubt furnished by the Provost’s own workshops. The hall might glitter and gleam, but those within were inhabited by a darker mood.
She felt Nicolas alongside her; she took his arm and they descended the few steps into the hall as servants pulled out the assigned chairs.
They were seated next to Benoît Picot and his wife Yvette, well down the table from the head where the Provost would be seated. Yvette was dressed in the latest fashion, her surcoat fully open at the sides to expose the lavishly embroidered underdress. She wore a pearl-laden choker and her shoulders were nearly bare, the low décolletage of the underdress and surcoat both frothing with lace.
It seemed to Perenelle that the others at the table kept glancing toward them—toward Nicolas. For his part, Nicolas seemed at ease, sitting back in his chair with the knob of his oak staff under his hand. The long table was laden with fine china and silver; Perenelle wondered where the Provost had come by such rich settings. Yvette noticed her looking at the silver, and she leaned over to Perenelle, her sweeping headdress touching Perenelle’s own. “Navarre silver,” she whispered. “Or worse, English.”
Perenelle nodded. She stroked the silver handle of the knife; it was cold under her fingertip.
The Provost had finished greeting the guests, and now he and his wife moved to their seats at the head of the table, two of the wait staff pulling back their chairs. One of the deacons from Notre Dame stood and intoned the blessing. As the diners crossed themselves and the priest sat again, there was a flurry of activity around the hall as the food was brought in. The fare was as lavish as the setting, which given the uncertain state of the city, was in itself another display of the Provost Marcel’s influence. Steaming plates of grilled vegetables came out first, arranged so that the vegetables formed images of well-known Parisian buildings. Roasted swans and peacocks were set on the table, reconstructed with their feathers and beaks, and stuffed with an assortment of meats, which the wait staff proceeded to serve. Platters of breads and pastries were set close to hand. Wine was poured into crystalline goblets. For a time, the diners concerned themselves only with eating.
Some time later, a bell was rung, and Provost Marcel stood as a silence moved slowly down the table. “My friends, my compatriots, my allies,” the Provost began, “the last few years have seen a great diminishment of our country and our city. The shameful performance of our army at Poitiers and the capture of King Jean were only the first signs. Since then, the dauphin has ignored the initiatives given him by the Estates General; he has tried to force upon us his Edict of Reform; he has devalued the very coins with which we buy bread and supplies. We here tonight—those whose sweat and energy are our city’s greatest wealth, and who know best how to govern ourselves—are paying the price for the dauphin’s incompetence.”
With that, a murmur arose, with several of the men rising to their feet in protest. “Treason!” Perenelle heard one of them shout. “The dauphin—” but the Provost raised his hands and shouted louder.
“Hear me out!” he called. “It is time for us to choose a better ruler while we can.” He clapped his hands, and four servants came in carefully handling a massive gingerbread-and-marzipan replica of the gates and towers of the Porte St. Michel. They set it down before the Provost. “King Charles of Navarre will be outside these gates tomorrow,” he said. “I propose that we, the true leaders of the city, unlock the porte and welcome him in. I say, give me the keys and I will be the first to greet them.”
The murmuring became an uproar, the uproar chaos. Everyone was shouting at once, gesticulating with fists and waving arms. A fight broke out mid-table, with a portly merchant pushed into the remains of a swan. Women shouted in alarm and moved back from the table. Perenelle rose with them, wondering which way she could flee. She looked at Nicolas.
And stopped. He was still seated, his head bowed over the oak staff, which he now clutched in both hands. His graying beard was moving, as if he was speaking, but she couldn’t hear his words against the noise of the room. As she watched, curiously, she saw the knob of the staff seem to writhe under his hand, and a dark glow emerged from it, as if night oozed from the grain of the oak. No one else seemed to have noticed, but she heard a cry from the head of the table where Marcel had been standing, trying to shout down the crowd. The wail, high and shrill, turned everyone’s head to the Provost. He was still standing, but now he clutched at his throat, his mouth working but no words emerging from his throat, only that unearthly, horrible keening. A terrible agony was written on the Provost’s face: in the corded muscles of his neck; in the bulging, wide eyes; in the tongue that lolled from that open mouth, black as a lump of coal, black as the head of Nicolas’ staff; in the heaving, desperate breaths he was trying to take; in the bloodless color of his face. Marguerite was shrieking alongside him, calling for someone, anyone to help as she grasped his arm.
The Provost’s wail stopped suddenly, as if severed with a knife, and the silence was more horrifying than the sound. He seemed unable to take in a breath. He swayed in his wife’s embrace. Perenelle glanced from the Provost to Nicolas; he was staring at the Provost’s agony, no longer muttering, and there was an eager intensity to his gaze and a curve to his lips under the rampart of his beard. He was evidently taking great pleasure in the Provost’s suffering, and that frightened Perenelle—she’d seen the ghost of this same expression in his face when he punished Verdette or one of the house staff.
In his hands, the knob of the oaken staff swelled and burst, a split running suddenly down the length of the wood, the staff shattering to splinters above his hand. At the same moment, the Provost collapsed, falling onto the marzipan replica of the gates and crushing it underneath him.
Nicolas’ face had split into a grin. He released the broken staff, letting the pieces of it clatter to the floor. Perenelle saw Picot nod to Nicolas and clap him on the back. At the head of the table, Marguerite broke into sobs. “… Dead,” someone proclaimed loudly. “The Provost is dead.”
There were scattered cheers around the table at the news, mingled with shout
s of alarm and anger.
Perenelle, frozen in shock, started when she felt Nicolas take her arm. “Come, Perenelle,” he said. “We should leave.”
She stared at him, at the placid satisfaction in his face. “You did this.”
“I did,” he answered calmly. “And so did you. After all, it’s you who translated the scrolls from which I took the spell. I’m sure that in the eyes of the law, you’d be as guilty of this murder as I.” His finger reached out toward her; it stroked the face on the cameo at her breast. “So you’ll be silent about this, won’t you, my dear wife? Be silent,” he repeated, and his finger came up to lift her chin. His dark eyes held hers, unblinking, and his smile was chilling. “Or you’ll pay far worse than the Provost. I promise you that.”
Perenelle took in a shuddering breath. The pounding of her heart was louder in her ears than the shouting in the hall. The servants had fled the hall; the Provost’s men had fled with them, leaving the bourgeoisie who had opposed the Provost triumphant. Only Marguerite was left, clutching at her husband’s body.
“Come!” Nicolas commanded, and he pulled at her arm. Numb, she followed him from the hall.
Perenelle Flamel: 1370
“May your daughter’s marriage be as perfect as your own.”
“You’re such a blessed couple; you must be so proud of all you’ve done.”
“The Lord has rewarded you for all that you’ve done with this wonderful day. You and Nicolas are indeed high in His favor.”
Perenelle smiled and nodded to all the remarks as she moved through the crowd at the chapel of the Saint-Germain-des-Auxerrois church. Nicolas, his beard now completely gray, his body beginning to stoop, was shaking hands with the invited guests on the other side of the central aisle, along with the Dubois family. Alaine Dubois, Verdette’s soon-to-be-husband, was there with Nicolas, looking handsome and far too young to Perenelle’s eyes. The Dubois family were bankers, with holdings in Auvergne and purse strings that led directly to the court of Charles V. It was Nicolas’ rising influence in Parisian circles, and the amounts of money that he had donated to charitable works around the city, that had brought the Flamels and thus Verdette to the attention of the Dubois family. Alaine was the youngest of the four male children Madame Dubois had produced. The oldest son was married to the daughter of a courtier within the king’s inner circle; the other two had been married into wealthy guild families. The Dubois were willing to gamble the least of their male offspring on the hope that a relationship with the Flamels might be a profitable match.
“He’s a handsome one; Verdette must be pleased.”
“You must be praying that Alaine is as good and gentle and kind a man as your Nicolas.”
Verdette and her attendants were in a small room off the chapel; Perenelle, still nodding and smiling like a marionette responding to the strings of its handler, knocked on the door. “Verdette,” she said softly. “It’s your Maman.”
The door opened to a cascade of giggles and whispers, and Perenelle was ushered inside. Verdette was standing in the center of the room as her attendants made last-minute adjustments to her dress. Perenelle smiled at the scene, her eyes filling unbidden with tears. “You look beautiful,” she told Verdette, sniffing and wiping at her eyes. “A perfect angel.”
“Maman …” Verdette opened her arms, and Perenelle went to her, hugging her hard, as if to keep the memory of her forever. Verdette’s arms wrapped her, and she felt Verdette waving at the attendants.
“Would you leave us for a bit?” Verdette asked, and the attendants, chattering and laughing, left the room, closing the door behind them. Verdette held Perenelle at arm’s length. “Maman, I can still smell that laboratory about you even when you scrub and wear perfume. You stay too much in there—who’s going to stop you from working yourself to death once I’m gone?”
That brought the tears to Perenelle’s eyes again, and she saw moisture gathering in Verdette’s eyes as well. “You’re happy, Verdette? I know how frightening it is, to marry a man you don’t really know well …”
“It’s what Father wants,” Verdette answered. “I couldn’t do better with anyone else here in Paris. He’s told me that many times.”
“Yes. He’s said that to me, as well.” And he’d made it clear that Verdette would marry the Dubois boy, whether Perenelle or Verdette objected or not. “But it should be what you want as well.”
“Alaine is a good man, and the Dubois family is a good one. I like him, Maman. He’s gentle with me, and kind.”
Perenelle nodded. “Then I’ll be happy with you,” she said.
“And you, Maman? Will you be happy afterward, with Father?”
“I will be fine,” she told Verdette, but her daughter shook her head.
“That’s not what I asked, Maman. I asked if you’ll be happy.”
“I’m happy with my work. It keeps me interested.” She touched the pendant around her neck. “And Nicolas can be a good man.”
Verdette nodded. “I always wondered if it was the work you liked so much, or the fact that when you were in the laboratory with your chemicals and those dusty manuscripts, he left you alone.”
Perenelle shook her head. “No, that’s not the only reason. I do enjoy the work—I have since I was younger than you and I was working with my own father. You and your father … well, whether he admits it or not, I help him with his work, and that also gives me pleasure. When I’m in the laboratory, I feel as if the entire universe is there before me, with all its secrets waiting to be discovered …” She laughed. “Listen to me, going on about this, when you’re about to discover your own life. This is your day, Verdette. Let’s not talk about me.”
She kissed her daughter’s forehead, her hands clasping her head under the lace of her ceremonial headdress. Perenelle’s hands … sometimes it surprised her, seeing the wrinkles and the dry skin that were beginning to show her age. And Verdette—she was taller than Perenelle now. When had that happened?
Verdette’s fingers had gone to Perenelle’s breast, running down the gold chain she wore around her neck. Verdette fondled the sardonyx cameo there, her fingers caressing it lovingly. “I know that I’m one reason you stayed with him, Mamam, but I’ll be gone now. Your reason to stay is gone after today. You can leave him now. You’ll always have a place you can stay—in my new household.”
“I know,” Perenelle said. She smiled against the tears that threatened once more. “I know that, and I thank you for it. I’ll never stop loving you, Verdette; you will always have my heart. Now—let’s stop talking and get you married.”
You can leave him now … The words touched emotions inside Perenelle, feelings she thought she’d forgotten over the years. She felt a yearning for that freedom, and she felt sudden disgust that she’d remained with Nicolas all these years. But her hand sought the pendant, and as she stroked the sculpted miniature of her own face, the thoughts receded like distant storm clouds, and she felt only the ancient pull toward Nicolas.
She smiled at Verdette and took her daughter’s hand. “Come,” she said. “It’s time …”
2:
POLYHYMNIA
Camille Kenny
Today
THE BENT CALLIOPE BUSTLED on Friday nights. The Lower East Side was the current “hot” neighborhood for the arts in general, and live music beckoned from several venues every night: C-Squat, the Bowery Ballroom, or the Mercury Lounge. The music scene dragged in outsiders and hangers-on who filled the streets most nights; the bars on Rivington, Delancey, and the nearby streets took in the overflow and the regulars: those who lived here and who wanted a quieter refuge.
Not that the Bent Calliope was ever quiet. On Friday nights, the Bent Calliope brought in a DJ, who set up in the front corner of the bar. Dance music pounded through his PA system. Camille’s crowd generally avoided that area, taking over the opposite rear corner of the bar, where the bass throbbed mostly through the floorboards and where people might still talk without straining their throats.
The group commandeered the large table there; usually a half dozen or more people would have shown up by 8:00, with the group fluctuating in size as the evening progressed. Camille arrived, as she usually did, around 8:30—wanting to be certain she was there before David arrived, if he did arrive. He hadn’t called her to say otherwise, but she wasn’t certain he would show, and she wasn’t certain whether or not it would be better that way.
“Hey, Camille!” Morris spotted her as she made her way through the dance floor crowd after stopping at the bar to snag a Guinness. He waved to her over the intervening heads. “What happened the other day? I swear I saw you in the crowd, then all of a sudden you vanished and never showed up at all.” He opened his arms, and she slid into his fierce hug. As he bent down, she kissed him.
“Sorry, I wasn’t feeling well,” she said when they broke apart.
“Feeling better now?” That was Mercedes, pulling out the empty chair next to her and gesturing to it. Camille nodded and sat; Mercedes’ arm remained around the back of the chair, her fingers caressing Camille’s shoulder. Kevin sat across from them, drumming on the table to the beat from the DJ’s mix—he and Morris were laughing about something. Emily was talking energetically with Rashawn, her hands sweeping wide as if she were painting the air with invisible brushes. Joe and James were missing, but would probably turn up later, together. A few other members of the group might or might not stop in. All in all, a fairly typical Friday for the Bent Calliope Group, as they were already calling themselves. “After you were over the other night, I wrote the most incredible scene,” Mercedes said, leaning close to Camille’s ear. Her voice was tinged with a Puerto Rican accent, and her long, black hair frothed around her face. “I swear, it was just flowing out, but I’m so close to it that I can’t really tell how good it is. Would you be willing to read it and give me your opinion? I know you’ll give me an honest critique …”
The group of various creative artists had coalesced around Camille over the past few years, since she’d begun frequenting the Bent Calliope. It was the hope of her presence that brought them together, though none of them would have acknowledged the fact. Camille was their catalyst, the gravitational force around which each of them revolved. They pretended that each of them was the true center, but it was Camille who held them together, the dark sun to their glowing planets, each of them tethered by the green strands of their creativity.
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