The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds

by Iris Johansen

  “Certainly, Raoul.” His mother stood up. “Of course you may have it back. You wish to give it to someone else? Someone you value more than you do me?” She smiled brilliantly. “Perhaps you’d better leave now, Raoul. I believe I shall be exceedingly busy this week.”

  “No, it was only a thought.” He jumped to his feet, panic racing through him. He could feel the darkness closing around him, the horrid crawling, the black bile coating his tongue. “Forgive me. You know how I was looking forward to spending this time with you. I’ll not be able to see you again until I return from Spain. Don’t send me away.”

  She stared at him coldly. “You will beg my pardon for your insolence.”

  “I do, I do.” He thrust the locket back into her hand and closed her fingers around it. He would wait until he had returned from his mission to try to persuade her to temporarily relinquish the locket. Maybe she would have grown tired of it by then.

  “It’s not enough.”

  He immediately dropped to his knees and buried his face in the skirt of her brocade gown. The material was smooth against his flesh and smelled of frangipani and the cedar lining of her armoire. “I do beg your pardon. It was very wicked of me. I’m not worthy to be your son.” He waited. Sometimes the humiliation must be deeper before she rewarded him with her forgiveness. He kissed her hand. “Please, ma mère. I’m truly repentant.”

  She must not have been too upset with him. She was stroking his hair with a loving hand. “Then you must strive harder to be worthy.”

  “I will, Mother. May I stand?”

  “Yes.” She turned away. “I’ve been thinking about it and we must discuss the matter of this Wind Dancer more thoroughly. Possessing such a treasure could be very beneficial to me. It’s far too fine a tool to give to Marat.” She straightened her skirts. “But we can talk of that later. I believe we’ll have goose for supper and then I’ll play the viola for you. Would you like that?”

  “Yes, Mother.” He hated goose and she knew it. She was still angry with him. She would watch him eat a large portion of the goose, making sure he gave no sign of distaste. But the punishment might have been worse.

  She could have sent him away.

  FOURTEEN

  The front door was opening.

  “Christ, not again!” Jean Marc muttered as he pushed back his chair and swiftly covered the distance between his desk and the door of the study he had deliberately left ajar. After three nights he had begun to think Juliette’s sleepwalking had been only a singular occurrence not to be repeated.

  The front door was standing wide open again. The blasted woman was probably halfway to the goddamned abbey. At least she’d picked a night that wasn’t rainy this time.

  But when Jean Marc reached the doorway, Juliette had only just reached the bottom of the stone steps. In another moment he was standing beside her.

  “Juliette.”

  She didn’t answer and, with a muttered curse, he picked her up in his arms and carried her back to the foyer.

  She stiffened in his arms. “The abbey …”

  “No.” He kicked the door shut with his foot and carried her across the foyer toward the staircase. “It’s over.”

  She shook her head, her eyes glazed, unseeing.

  He started up the stairs. “You’ve got to stop this, you idiotic woman. I have no desire to spend my nights chasing you through the streets of Paris.”

  Why was he even talking to her? She obviously wasn’t comprehending anything he said.

  She had left the door of her chamber open and he carried her across the room, laid her on the bed, and pulled the covers over her. A crisp autumn breeze and pale moonlight poured through the open window beside the bed, illuminating Juliette’s strained expression.

  He stood looking down at her, his hands closing into fists at his sides, trying to crush the aching pity and tenderness raging through him. He didn’t want to feel like this. It wasn’t at all what he had planned for her. He could permit himself lust, amusement, even respect for a worthy opponent, but not this. Mother of God, he had wanted her for five long years, and he would not let this softness rob him of her.

  “Let me do it again,” she whispered.

  He could see the shimmer of her eyes in the moonlit darkness, and he knew he couldn’t leave her until those eyes closed and she fell into a normal sleep. He sat down beside her on the bed, every muscle and tendon of his body stiff and unyielding.

  Merde, he didn’t want this.

  “I can do it right this time. I have to go to the abbey and do it again.”

  Her eyes were moistly brilliant now, and the agony in them woke a pain that echoed with unbearable intensity through Jean Marc.

  He couldn’t let it go on.

  “I’m afraid you’re right.” He gently stroked an unruly curl back from Juliette’s temple and whispered, “Very well, ma petite, we’ll go back to the abbey and do it again.”

  “But I have to get to my work, Mademoiselle Juliette,” Robert protested. “I’ve been sitting on this bench so long my bones are melting into it.”

  “Hush, Robert, I’m almost finished.” Juliette added a little more shadow to the seamed lines fanning his eyes. “What’s more important? A painting that will give you immortality or doing your chores?”

  “Marie would say my chores,” Robert said dryly. “Keeping the house clean and putting meals on the table with no other servants in the house are not easy tasks.”

  “But you’ve both done splendidly. I’ll help you with your chores as soon as we’re finished here.” Juliette grinned as she looked at him over the easel. “I suppose you’ll be glad to see us all gone and the house closed again.”

  “Of course he will,” Jean Marc answered for Robert as he strolled down the path toward them. “You can escape now, Robert.”

  “Merci.” Robert scrambled to his feet and hurried away from them toward the house.

  “You shouldn’t have done that.” Juliette stiffened with wariness, her gaze avoiding Jean Marc’s. “I would have let him go soon. What are you doing here anyway? Have you nothing better to do than take strolls in the garden and interrupt my work?”

  “And a pleasant good morning to you also.” Jean Marc stopped before the easel and tilted his head in consideration. “You’ve caught his likeness. It’s quite adequate.”

  “Adequate?” she asked, stung. “I don’t do ‘adequate’ work. It’s excellent.”

  “But boring.”

  “Boring.”

  “There’s no sweep, no daring. As I remember, you didn’t used to be afraid to paint the truth.”

  “This is truth. This is Robert.”

  “And you obviously chose him because he’s a safe subject and would cause you no difficulty.” Jean Marc shrugged. “You shouldn’t feel bad. Many artists prefer to paint the ordinary rather than challenge themselves.”

  “I’m not ‘many artists’.” Juliette glared at him as she set her brush down. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I do challenge myself.”

  “Do you?” Jean Marc sat down on the marble bench across from her. “I’ve seen no sign of it of late. You’ve avoided the greatest challenge to your skill.”

  “You?” A sudden eagerness tempered the anger in her expression. “Will you let me paint you? If you posed for me, I might be able to—”

  “Not me.” He met her gaze. “The abbey. You haven’t painted what happened at the abbey.”

  “No!” She recoiled as if he had struck her. “I don’t want to paint what happened at the abbey. It was ugly.”

  “And you’re afraid of ugliness.” He nodded. “It’s entirely understandable.”

  “No, I’m not afraid. I’ve never been afraid. I just don’t want to paint it.”

  “Is it that you don’t want to paint it or you don’t know if you can? Such a subject could be done only by a master.”

  “I could do it!”

  “But you’re afraid to try.”

  “No, I’m not af
raid. Why should I be afraid?” She drew a deep, shaky breath. “I wish you’d go away. You’re making me very angry.”

  “Am I? You showed a great deal of promise as a youngster. It’s a shame you’ve chosen to become only mediocre.”

  “I’m not afraid and I’m not mediocre. Why should I paint something no one wants to see?”

  “Is that your excuse?” He leaned forward, his intent gaze holding her own. “I want to see what happened at the abbey, Juliette. I want to see what you saw.”

  Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittering with tears as she thrust aside the easel and snatched up the sketchbook sitting on the bench beside her. “You like to see blood? I’ll show you.” She picked up the pen with a shaking hand and began to sketch with feverish, reckless strokes. “You want to see rape? I’ll show you. You want to see death? I’ll show you. I’ll show you. I’ll show you …”

  In a few minutes she finished the sketch, threw it aside, and began another. She finished that sketch and began another. The sketches flew from her pen like dead leaves drifting from a tortured, twisted branch.

  Jean Marc sat quietly watching as the pile of sketches grew around her. Her face was set in terrible lines of stress and her eyes glittered wildly. Every now and then she muttered something unintelligible, but he knew she wasn’t speaking to him. He doubted if she knew he was there any longer.

  Late morning marched into afternoon and then faded into the first blue hours of twilight, and still the pile of sketches grew on the bench beside her.

  Finally, Juliette stopped, staring numbly down at the sketch in her hands.

  “Are you finished?” Jean Marc rose to his feet and walked over to the bench where she was sitting. “May I see them?”

  Juliette nodded.

  Jean Marc began to leaf through the sketches on the bench. She had shown him, he thought grimly. She had shown him rape and murder and unsurpassed brutality. Dieu, how had she survived it?

  He put the pile of sketches back on the bench. “May I see that last one in your hand?”

  She thrust the sketch at him and closed her eyes.

  “Who’s the kneeling woman?”

  “Sister Mary Magdalene, the Reverend Mother.”

  “And the man with the revolutionary bonnet and the scythe?”

  “I don’t know his name.” She shuddered. “Butcher. He was the butcher.”

  “And this is you?”

  She opened her eyes. “Yes. Me. The butcher.”

  “You said the man with the scythe was the butcher.”

  “He was.” She wrapped her arms around herself to still her trembling. “And I was.”

  He went still. “They made you kill the nuns?”

  “Yes.”

  Jean Marc was silent a moment. “How?”

  “The blood.”

  “What blood?”

  “The blood in the chalice. I thought no one would do anything so bestial. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

  “Wouldn’t do what, Juliette?”

  “Sister Mathilde. They brought her before the tribunal table and made her kneel before me. She was so frightened. I could see how frightened she was. Dupree said I had to toast his fine Marseilles and their work at the abbey. Someone brought the chalice of the Holy Sacrament from the chapel.” She stopped and moistened her dry lips. “I said no.”

  “And then?”

  “They cut Sister Mathilde’s throat.” Her eyes shut again. “And they filled the chalice with her blood. Dupree said I had to drink it and I said no again.

  “They brought Sister Mary Magdalene before the tribunal and told me if I didn’t drink it they would kill her.” Her eyes opened and she stared blindly ahead. “I drank the blood but it made me sick and I threw it up. They killed the Reverend Mother and filled the cup again. They brought another nun to kneel before the tribunal. She was crying for me to help her. I tried to help her. I tried and tried but I kept getting sick. I should have been able to do it. I should have been stronger. All I had to do was what they asked and I still couldn’t do it.” The tears began to run down her cheeks. “They killed them. Six. I couldn’t do it and they killed them.”

  “No.” Jean Marc scooped her up and cradled her in his arms. “Shh, it wasn’t your fault. They would have killed them anyway. You know that, Juliette.”

  Her tears fell silently. “I know. I do know.” She leaned her cheek wearily against his chest and whispered, “Sometimes.”

  Jean Marc rocked her back and forth, his palm pressing her face into his shirt. Mother of God, the pain she must have suppressed in these last weeks. She had cared for Catherine, managed the household, tried to manage all of them, and all the while carrying this hideous burden of horror and guilt within her.

  She stayed in his arms a long time, clinging to him like a small child.

  Dusk had become evening when she finally lifted her head and looked at him. “This was a very cruel thing you did to me, Jean Marc.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I don’t think you did it for a cruel reason.” She slipped from his lap to the bench and wiped her damp cheeks with the back of her hand. “So I shall forgive you.”

  A smile tugged at his lips. It was evident she was rapidly putting this period of vulnerability behind her. “I’m very grateful.”

  “You lie.” She straightened the lace fichu of her gown. “You don’t care if I forgive you or not.” She gazed up at him. “But since you made me give you all these sketches, I think you owe me something in return.”

  “You wish to charge me for the sketches?”

  “Would you give free passage on one of your ships or a loan without interest?”

  This time he made no attempt to smother his smile. “I wouldn’t even consider it.”

  “Then you must pay me.” She nodded triumphantly. “You must pose for me. I’ll paint you and find out all your secrets.”

  He frowned. “I’m too busy for that nonsense now.”

  “I’ll wait for a time that’s more convenient for you. You promise?”

  He started to chuckle. Only Juliette would try to wrest a victory from her moment of weakness. “Very well.” He hurriedly qualified his statement. “When I have time.”

  “Good.”

  He tapped the stack of sketches. “Since I’ve agreed to pay for them, I assume all these sketches are now my possessions?”

  She avoided looking at the sketches. “Of course.”

  “Then I may do what I wish with them?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Tear them up.”

  Her gaze flew to his face. “What?”

  “I want you to tear them up.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them.”

  “Why?”

  He smiled faintly. “A whim. Humor me.” He handed her the first sketch. “Tear it up.”

  She took the sketch gingerly and tore it lengthwise.

  “Again.”

  She tore the sketch horizontally and dropped the shredded pieces on the path.

  He handed her another sketch. “Tear it up.”

  She ripped the sketch in half and then again.

  She reached for the next sketch and ripped it in smaller pieces.

  When all the sketches had been shredded she sat looking down at the bits of paper on the ground for a long moment. “You confuse me, Jean Marc.”

  “Because I indulge my whims?”

  “No, because I think perhaps you’ve been very kind to me and I wonder why. Sometimes it’s as if you’re two different men …” Juliette didn’t wait for a reply but jumped to her feet. “I’ve done as you wished me to do, and now we must go see if Marie has some supper for us. You’ve already made me miss dinner.” She turned away and started down the path to the house.

  Jean Marc rose to his feet and caught up with her in four strides. “May I remind you that I’ve had no meal either? I’d think you’d be a little—”

  “A package, Monsieur Andreas.” Robert met them a
s they reached the door and handed Jean Marc a small cloth-wrapped object. “A young boy brought it to the front door a few minutes ago.”

  “Thank you, Robert. Will you tell Marie we’re ready for supper?” He slipped the cloth from around the package.

  Juliette took a step closer and peered down at the object he removed from the wrapping. “What is it?”

  “It appears to be a fan.”

  It was a cheap paper fan like the ones Nana Sarpelier had been selling at the café. Juliette took the fan and unfurled it. Painted on the coarse brownish-white surface was the exterior of a café on which a sign portraying a slyly smiling cat waved jauntily in the breeze.

  “She wants us to come to the café.” Juliette’s eyes were shining with excitement as she turned away. “You’d better ring for Robert and tell him we won’t be home for supper. I’ll go change my gown and put on my wig.”

  “We don’t have to go tonight.”

  “But why shouldn’t we?” She looked back at him in surprise. “Why wait?”

  He gazed at her in rueful astonishment. A few moments earlier she had been more fragile and vulnerable than he ever seen her, and now she was again ready to grapple with Titans. “No reason. You said you were hungry.”

  “Don’t be foolish.” The words trailed behind her as she hurried away from him. “We can do both. That Raymond person at the café said he made an excellent lamb stew.”

  “You mentioned two million livres.” Nana Sarpelier spread several fans on the table. “We went to a great deal of trouble to accommodate you. We want the money before I give you the information.”

  “That’s absurd. I can’t give you the money until I sell the—” Juliette stopped and then continued. “The object you spoke to the queen about. That’s the purpose of all this. You’ll have to trust me to give you the money later.”