Holy Fools

42

So far, so good. But the task that remains is a delicate one. I have only five days until his arrival, and the skeins of my delicate weaving become ever more twisted and tortuous. Clémente remains in her bed in the infirmary, quiet now but not, I suspect, for long. I have spent many hours at her side with Virginie in attendance, incense and holy water in hand. A sharp needle concealed in one sleeve ensured her cooperation throughout the final stage of her drug’s effects; with it I pricked her with scientific precision when a scream or a curse was required, and in her dazed condition she was unable to distinguish the pains of her visions from those of the hidden instrument.

With becoming gravity I pronounced Clémente possessed by 250 demons. I spent much of the remainder of the morning in my library, engrossed in several texts on the subject, then emerged some little time before midday with a list of their names. This I proceeded to read to Clémente in slow, measured tones whilst Virginie watched in slack-mouthed awe and the doomed girl on the bed writhed and pleaded.

I knew that Juliette would refuse to administer another dose of her morning glories, but I had enough for my immediate needs, and as the day wore on and I saw Clémente begin to regain her senses I began to foresee the need for a repetition of the procedure. I knew already that my l’Ailée would disapprove. But what could she do?

Mass was, of course, canceled. I “studied” in my rooms, with a book of Aristotle’s maxims hidden within the covers of the Malleus Maleficarum. Services without me were a dull affair, I gather, but I made a show of fearing another repetition of the frenzies and the Dancing Mass.

Meanwhile, Marguerite watched over Clémente and-in spite of strict instructions from me not to breathe a word of the day’s events-diffused the terrible news of her possession throughout the abbey. Of course this had been my intention all along, and the rumors, all the more appealing for being forbidden, were soon repeated, expanded, embellished, and otherwise disseminated as widely as dandelion seed.

My principal source of unease lies in Juliette. Her discovery of the identity of my Unholy Nun was perhaps inevitable but nevertheless troubles me a little. The wild girl is her friend, so I’m told, and she feels loyalty to her. Not so the wild girl, who can be bought for a trinket and whose silence is beyond rubies, but if Juliette were to learn the full extent of my plans…

Foolishness, of course. Perette is a primitive creature, an unformed mind with no more intelligence than a trained monkey. It took me a little time to break her-indeed, I spent two sleepless nights in the crypt curing her of her unreasonable fear of the dark-but now she fawns on me as trusting as a spaniel, her small hands cupped, begging for the next treat. I’m sorely tempted, when I leave this place, to take Perette with me. There are so many uses to which I could put her. And Juliette-But I must not think of Juliette. By Sunday she will have learned the full extent of my treachery, and I cannot hope to be forgiven this time. But Perette is another matter. Even untrained, she is nimble beyond expectation. Sleight of hand is child’s play to her. She can move unseen and unheard in a room of sleepers without disturbing a single one. She can run like the wind, climb like a squirrel, curl up and hide in the tiniest of spaces. I could even teach her to dance on a rope. No one could hope to equal my Ailée, but perhaps with practice…I could paint her face with walnut juice and pass her off as a savage from Canada. They’d pay to see that.

Yes, among all the rest I might yet save Perette.

43

Of course, after what I had seen in the infirmary I went to Perette as soon as I could. That was in the morning, after Prime. We all went to our duties a little late, for the abbess was with her confessor and we guessed that discipline might be a little relaxed. I found Perette, as I expected, in the stables where we kept our beasts. She had taken some stale bread with her, and the place was awash with the hens and ducks and speckled pullets that had followed her in. She looked at me inquiringly.

“Perette.” She smiled then, a wide-open smile of delight, and indicated the birds. She looked so happy-and so innocent-that I felt oddly reluctant to speak of the morning’s incident. I steeled myself nevertheless. “Never mind the hens, Perette. I saw you in the infirmary this morning.” She looked at me pertly, head to one side. “I saw you pretending to be the Unholy Nun.”

Perette gave the hooting cry that in her passes for laughter.

“It isn’t funny.” I took her arms and turned her to face me. “It could have been very dangerous.”

Perette shrugged. She is clever enough at some things, but when we broach the subject of might-have, or could-have-been, or would-be, she tends to lose interest.

I spoke slowly, patiently, using simple words she knew. “Perette. Listen to me. Tell me the truth.” She smiled at me, giving no sign of whether or not she understood. “Tell me, Perette. How many times have you-” No, that was wrong. “Perette. Have you played this game before?”

Perette nodded and hooted happily.

“And did-did Père Colombin ask you to play this game?”

Again, the nod.

“Did-Did Père Colombin say why he wanted you to play this game?”

That was more difficult. Perette thought for a moment, shrugged, then held out a grimy palm. In it rested a small brown object. A piece of sugar. She looked at it, licked it, then replaced it carefully in her pocket.

“Sugar? He gives you sugar when you play the game?”

Perette shrugged again. Then, fumbling around her neck, she drew out the small medallion I had seen LeMerle take from her only a few weeks ago, now secured by a piece of twine. Christina Mirabilis smiled out from the bright enameled disc.

Again I made my voice slow and coaxing. “So, Perette. You played the game for Père Colombin.” Perette smiled and ticked her head from one side to the other. The medallion winked in the sunlight. “But why did he want you to play the game?”

The wild girl shrugged and turned the medallion over in her fingers, catching the light. I tried to curb my impatience. “Yes, Perette, but why did he ask you? Did he tell you why?”

Again she shrugged. What did it matter why he wanted it, said the shrug, as long as there was sugar and trinkets?

I gave her a gentle shake. “Perette. What you did was a bad thing.”

She looked puzzled at that, beginning to shake her head in denial. “A bad thing!” I insisted, raising my voice a little. “It wasn’t your fault, but it was bad all the same. Père Colombin was bad to make you do it.”

Perette turned her mouth down sulkily and made as if to pull away. I held her back. “Do you remember Fleur?” I said suddenly. “Do you remember when they took Fleur away?”

Perhaps she did not, I told myself. It had been almost a month since Fleur’s disappearance, and Perette might already have forgotten her young playmate. For a moment she looked puzzled, then raised her hand in the gesture she had always used to indicate the child.

“It was Père Colombin who took Fleur away,” I told her. “He may seem very nice, he may give you presents, but, Perette, he’s a bad man, and I need to know what he’s planning!” My voice had risen again, and I was gripping her arm painfully. Her blank expression told me that I had gone too fast, that I had lost her. “Perette, look at me!”

But it was too late. The moment of contact was gone, and Perette had returned her attention to the birds. As I turned away, furious at my own impatience, I saw her sitting in a clucking mound of them, arms outstretched, her lap a mass of white, brown, speckled, golden, green, and red feathers.

And yet I cannot give up. If there is a key to this enigma, it is she. My sweet Perette, my innocent. Whatever he is planning, she knows it. It may be beyond her understanding, but his secret is there, hidden within her as securely as in a Chinese puzzle box. If only I knew what it was. If only I could break your locks, my dear.

44

I tried to talk to LeMerle all yesterday, but he avoids me, and I cannot afford to draw attention to myself. Last night his door was locked, the light extinguished. I wondered whether he was in the infirmary but dared not go to see. Clémente is still incapable of rational speech, so Antoine tells me, alternating long periods of lethargy with intervals of wild, wakeful delirium. During those times she has to be secured to the mattress for fear she might injure herself. Often she tears at her clothing, exposing herself, thrusting violently at the air as if ridden by a demon lover. At these times she may scream or moan in terrible pleasure, or claw at her face in an agony of self-loathing. Better to tie her down, though she pleads to be released, thrashing her head from side to side and spitting with uncanny accuracy at anyone who dares approach her.

I am not allowed to visit. Antoine too has been removed from the infirmary, though Virginie remains to care for the possessed woman. Antoine tells me this with sly satisfaction; Clémente seems crazed and may never regain her sanity. So Virginie tells her. Antoine’s eyes are small and mean as she speaks of it. She has volunteered to help in the infirmary, washing blankets and preparing broths for the afflicted woman, into which, no doubt, she slips a regular dose of morning glories.

Lovely Clémente is no longer quite so lovely, she reports in that new, sly voice; her face will be scarred by the repeated assault of her fingernails; her hair is coming out in patches. I would have liked to go to her, to comfort her perhaps or to explain to her ravaged face that it wasn’t my fault…

What good would it do? Antoine’s hand may have given her the dose, but it was I who gave her the means. I would do it again in the same circumstances. LeMerle, wisely keeping his distance, knows it. Again he has opened a gulf inside me, has opened the dark budget of possibility within my entrails.

Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

Giordano used to say that in the original Hebrew the word witch meant poisoner.

I wonder if Giordano would recognize his pupil now.

45

As expected, my affairs proceed according to plan. Mère Isabelle remains docile-for the present. She spends much of her time in prayer, heedless of her increasingly unruly flock.

Access to Clémente is limited, for even I can hardly dose the girl continuously, and her ravings have become increasingly violent.

Instead, I build upon my pupil’s fears with various lore and nonsense culled from a hundred books both sacred and profane. Whilst seeming to lull her terrors I artfully nourish them with anecdotes and fancies. The world is filled with horrors; you name it-burnings, poisonings, bewitchings, and evil enchantments; Père Colombin knows it, and he knows exactly how to bring the horrors to life. A checkered career may provide useful fuel for such deceits; after all, I even met the famous juris-consult Jean Bodin at one of Mme. de Sévigné‘s soirées-and was thoroughly bored by the lengthiness of his discourse-the rest I borrowed from the great fictions of history. Aeschylus, Plutarch, the Bible…Clémente herself is quite unaware that the demoniac names she utters in her frenzies are for the most part merely the secret, forgotten names of God, reborn as blasphemies in her tortured brain.

My pupil has hardly slept for days. Her eyes are sunken and red. Her mouth is pale as a scar. Sometimes I see her watching me, she thinks in secret. I wonder if she suspects. In any case, it is too late for her. A dose of Clémente’s morning glories would be enough to kill her revolt, though I would only administer it in dire emergency. I want it to come to Arnault from a blue sky. The end of his hopes. Irrevocable.

Ironically, my pupil now takes what comfort she can at the prospect of Sunday’s treat, the long-awaited Festival of the Virgin. Now that our abbey has been reclaimed from the apostate saint, Marie-de-la-mer, we should be able to count on a personal intervention from the Holy Mother in our regrettable affairs. So she thinks, anyway, and redoubles her prayers. Meanwhile, I work on our spiritual defenses with many Latin incantations and a great quantity of incense. No demonic force must be allowed to penetrate our abbey on its holiest day.

Juliette came to find me in my rooms early this morning. I knew she might, and I was ready for her, raising my head from a stack of books to face her. She was fiercely prim in her clean, starched linen, not a stray curl softening the line of her pale, set face. This was about Perette, I told myself warily, and I must tread lightly.

“Juliette. Is the sun up already? The room seems brighter than it was a moment ago.”

Her expression told me that now was not the time for flattery. “Please.” Her voice was sharp, but with anxiety, I noticed, rather than anger. “You have to keep Perette out of this. She doesn’t understand the danger. Think of the risk, if she were to be found out!” Then, as I said nothing: “Really, LeMerle, you must see that she’s only a child!”

Ay, that was it. That was the mother in her. I tried misdirection. “Isabelle is feeling unwell,” I said gently. “While she rests in her rooms, I might arrange for you-and Antoine-to slip out for a time. To take a basket of food to-for example-a poor fisherman and his family?”

She looked at me for a second, and I could see the hunger in her eyes. Then she shook her head. “That’s very like you, LeMerle,” she said without heat. “And what would happen with me out of the way? Another Apparition? Another Dancing Mass?” She shook her head again. “I know you,” she said softly. “Nothing is free. You’d want something in return, then something more, then-”

I interrupted her. “My dear, you mistake my intentions. I made the suggestion out of concern for you, nothing more. You’re no danger to me, Juliette; you’re already as guilty as I am.”

She lifted her chin at that. “I?” But there was fear in her eyes.

“Your silence alone is proof of guilt. You recognized the Unholy Nun. And have you forgotten the business with the well? Or the poisoning of Soeur Clémente? And as for your vow of chastity…” I let the phrase hang maliciously.

She was silent, her cheeks flaring.

“Believe me,” I said, “a charge of witchcraft might be leveled upon you for any one of these things. And we have long since passed the point where you could have damaged me. No one alive could turn them against me now.”

She knew it was true.

“I am the rock,” I told her. “The anchor in the storm. To suspect me is unthinkable.”

There was a long pause. “I should have spoken when I had the chance,” said Juliette. I was not mistaken by her angry tone; her eyes were almost admiring.

“You wouldn’t have done it, my dear.”

Her eyes told me she knew that too.

“Perette has been very useful to me during the past weeks,” I said. “She’s quick-almost as quick as you were, Juliette-and she’s clever. She hid in the crypt, you know, the first time you saw the Unholy Nun. All the time you were searching she was there, curled up behind one of the coffins.”

Juliette shivered.

“But if you’re so concerned about her, then maybe-” I pretended to hesitate. “No. I need her still, Juliette. I cannot give her up. Not even to please you.”

She took the bait. “You said there was a way.”

“Impossible.”

“Guy!”

“No, really. I should never have spoken.”

“Please!”

I never could resist her pleading. An exhilarating delicacy, seldom tasted. I pretended reluctance in order to savor the moment. “Well, I suppose you might…”

“What?”

“If you agreed to take her place.”

There. The trap swings shut with an almost audible click. She ponders it for a moment. No fool she. She knows how she has been maneuvered. But there is the child…

“Fleur was never on the mainland,” I told her gently. “I placed her with a family not three miles from here. You could see her within the hour if only-”

“I won’t poison anyone,” said Juliette.

“That won’t be necessary.”

She was beginning to weaken. “If I agree,” she said, “you swear Perette’s involvement will cease?”

“Of course.” I pride myself on my look of honesty. This is the true, open look of a man who never cocked a card or loaded a die in all his life. Amazing that after all these years it still works.

“Three days,” I said, sensing her resistance. “Three days till Sunday. Then it ends. I promise.”

“Three days,” she echoed.

“After that, Fleur can come home for good,” I said. “You can have everything back as it was. Or-if you like-you can come with me.”

Her eyes shone-with scorn or passion, I could not tell-but she said nothing.

“Would it really be so bad?” I said gently. “To take to the road again? To be l’Ailée-to be back where you belong”-I lowered my voice to a whisper-“back where I need you?”

There was silence, but I felt her relax, just a little, just enough. I touched her cheek fleetingly. “Three days,” I repeated. “What can happen in three days?”

Rather a lot, I hope.

46

Fleur was waiting for me, as LeMerle had promised, not three miles from the abbey. A salter’s croft, built low to the ground, with a turf roof and walls of whitened daub, screened from view by a row of tamarisk bushes; I could have passed by it a hundred times and not seen it. Behind the croft, a shaggy pony cropped grass; beside it, a wooden hutch housed half a dozen brown rabbits. All around, the ditches of the salt marsh formed a kind of shallow moat, in which a couple of flat-bottomed platts were moored for access to the fields. Herons stood in the reeds at the water’s edge; in the long yellow grass I heard the scree of cicadas.

LeMerle, knowing that I would not abandon Perette, had seen no need to accompany me this time. Instead he sent Antoine as my guard, eyes narrowed in sly complicity beneath the sweat-stained wimple. I wondered if I was hers. The poisoner and the murderer, arm in arm, like inseparable friends. Fleur’s eyes lit up as she saw me, and I clasped her to my heart as if so doing I could merge our flesh into one and so never be parted. Her skin is soft and brown, startlingly dark against her flaxen hair. Her beauty almost alarms me. She was wearing her red dress, now grown a little short for her, and she had a fresh scrape on one knee.

“Sunday,” I whispered in her ear. “If all goes well, I’ll be here on Sunday. At noon, wait for me here by the tamarisk bushes. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t let anyone know I’m coming.”

Of course, LeMerle had tricked me. As soon as I returned from my visit to Fleur I knew from the reek of incense and burning that he had been at work on them once again. There had been another Dancing Mass, said Soeur Piété excitedly, more frenzied even than the first; pressed for explanations she spoke of their raptures, of her own possession by a lustful imp, of howlings and animal noises uttered by the unfortunates driven to their knees by the army of demons unleashed in rage against the Holy Sacrament.

With tears in her eyes she spoke too of Soeur Marguerite, of how in spite of her prayers she was forced to dance until her feet bled, and of Père Colombin, of his purification by fire of the infested air, of his struggle with the forces of evil until he too was brought to his knees in his attempt to wrestle them to the ground.

Mère Isabelle was with him now, revealed Piété. As the evil spell had begun to fall from the congregation, as the nuns, released from their frenzies by the sound of his voice, began to turn toward one another in wonder and bewilderment, Père Colombin had fallen to his knees, swooning, the pages of the Ritus exorcizandi slipping from his fingers. A minute of chaos as the bereft and panic-stricken nuns thronged to his aid, certain he had himself succumbed to the forces of darkness…

But it was merely exhaustion, explained Piété. To the relief of the nuns, Père Colombin managed to raise himself to his feet, held on either side by a member of his faithful flock. Raising a trembling hand, he declared himself in need of rest and allowed himself to be borne off to his cottage, where even now he rests, surrounded by books and holy artifacts, working on a further solution to the ills that plague us.

It must have been a fine show. A rehearsal, I supposed, for Sunday’s opening performance, but why had LeMerle arranged for me to be absent? Could it be, in spite of his bold words, that somehow he fears what I may discover? Is there some part of this performance that LeMerle does not want me to see?

47

Alfonsine has been officially pronounced possessed. So far the demons of her infestation number fifty-five, though Père Colombin swears there are more. The ritual of exorcism may not be completed until every one of these has been named, and the walls of his cottage are papered with lists to which he is constantly adding more names. Virginie too has acquired a pale and haggard look and has been seen on several occasions walking in tiny circles around the walled garden and muttering to herself. When asked to stop and rest she merely looks up with an air of terrible calm and says “no, no” before reverting to her interminable circling. Rumor has it that it is only a matter of time before she too is declared a victim of the infestation.

Mère Isabelle has still not left her rooms. LeMerle denies that she is possessed, but with so little optimism that few of us are convinced. A brazier of coals has been lit outside the chapel, on which have been scattered sanctuary incense and various powerful herbs. So far, this has served to protect us from renewed attack. Another burner was placed outside the infirmary, and yet another at the abbey gates. The smoke is sweet when fresh but turns sour very quickly, and the air, already stifling, hangs like dusty curtains across the white-hot sky.

As for the Apparitions, the Unholy Nun has been seen twice today and three times yesterday, once in the dorter, twice in the slype and twice more in the gardens. No one has yet commented that the Nun seems oddly grown in stature, or has noticed the large footprints she left in a vegetable patch. Perhaps by now such things are no longer meaningful to us.

We spent the rest of today in idleness not unlike that which followed the death of the old Reverend Mother. Mère Isabelle was unwell, LeMerle was studying, and robbed of our direction we once more fell into the roles to which we were accustomed, our thoughts returning to the events of the last week with increasing fear and anxiety. Our ship drifted rudderless toward the rocks and we were powerless to stop it, turning instead to gossip and unhealthy self-examination.

Soeur Marguerite scrubbed the already spotless floors of the dorter until her knees bled. Then she scrubbed the blood with increasing frenzy until she was returned to the infirmary for examination. Soeur Marie-Madeleine lay upon her bed, whimpering and complaining of itching between her legs that no amount of scratching could assuage. Antoine left the confines of the infirmary-there were now four sufferers there, strapped to their couches, and the noise, she said, was driving her mad-and regaled me with gruesome details, embellished no doubt to considerable effect. In spite of myself I listened.

Soeur Alfonsine, she says, is very ill. The smoke from the brazier, far from cleansing her lungs, seemed to have exacerbated her condition. Soeur Virginie takes this as a sign of possession, for the afflicted woman has been coughing up more blood than ever before, in spite of her cures and LeMerle’s frequent visits.

As for Soeur Clémente, reports Antoine, for three days she has taken no food and hardly any water. So weak that she can barely move, she looks at the ceiling with glazed, unseeing eyes. Her lips move, but senselessly. It will be a merciful release.

“What did she do to you, Antoine?” The question was out of me before I knew it. “What harm did she do to you, that you hate her so much?”

Antoine looked at me. I suddenly recalled the one moment in which I thought her beautiful-the thick sheaf of blue-black hair released from the wimple, the roundness of her rosy shoulders, her soft nape as LeMerle reached for the shears. She has changed beyond recognition since then. Her face was like basalt, remote and pitiless.

“You never did understand, Auguste,” she said with mild contempt. “You tried to be kind to me in your way, but you never understood.” She surveyed me for a moment, hands on hips. “How could you? You always had it easy. Men looked at you and saw something they wanted. Something beautiful.” She smiled, but the smile darkened her face rather than illuminating it. “I was always the dray horse, the fat slut, too stupid to hear their laughter, too good-natured even to hate them in my secret heart. To the men, just meat, just enough warmth for a quick fumble, just a pair of legs, a pair of tits, a mouth and a belly. To the women I was stupid, too stupid to keep a man, too stupid even to-” She broke off abruptly. “I never cared about the father. Never asked myself who he was. My child was all my own. No one even suspected the fat slut was with child at all. My belly was always round. My tits were always heavy. I’d planned to have it in secret, to hide it perhaps, to keep it mine.” Her eyes were suddenly hard. “It was going to be the one thing I really owned. All mine. Needing me, not caring that I was fat or stupid.” She looked at me. “You might have known how to carry it off. Don’t think I ever believed in your tale, Auguste. I may be stupid, but even I know you were no more a rich widow than I was.” She smiled, not unkindly, but without warmth. “You kept your child, fatherless or no. There was no one to tell you what to do, or if there was, you ignored them. Isn’t that so?”

“It is, Antoine.”

“I was fourteen. I had a father. Brothers. Aunts and uncles. They all assumed I wouldn’t know what to do. They had it all arranged before I could say a word. They said I wouldn’t know how to care for a baby. They said I’d never live with the shame.”

“What happened?”

“They were going to give it to my cousin Sophie,” said Antoine. “I was never even consulted. Sophie had three children already, and she was only eighteen. She would raise mine with hers. The scandal would soon be forgotten. Laughed over. Fancy that! The stupid fat girl had a child! But, my dears, who was the father? A blind man?”

“What happened?” I said.

“I took a pillow.” Her voice was low and reflective. “I put it over my child’s head. My little son’s soft dark head. I waited.” She gave a smile of terrible tenderness. “No one wanted him, Auguste. He was the one thing I’d ever had of my own. It was the only way I could keep him.”

“And Clémente?” My voice was a whisper.

“I told her everything,” said Antoine. “I thought she was different. I thought she understood. But she laughed at me. Just like the others…” Again the smile, and just for a second I glimpsed once again the dark beauty of the woman. “But it doesn’t matter,” she said with a hint of malice. “Père Colombin promised-”

“Promised what?”

She shook her head. “This is mine, my secret. The secret I share with Père Colombin. I don’t want to share it with you. You’ll know soon enough, anyway. You’ll know on Sunday.”

“Sunday?” I was dancing with impatience. “Antoine, what did he say?”

She put her head to one side, an absurdly coquettish gesture. “He promised. All the women who laughed at me. All the ones who made fun of me and made me do penances for greed. No more poor Soeur Antoine, stupid Soeur Antoine to blame or to bully. On Sunday we light a flame.”

And from then on she was silent and would say no more, but folded her fat arms onto her bosom and turned away with that maddening, angelic smile.

48

She found me in the church at daybreak. For once I was alone. The air was rancid-sweet with last night’s incense, the thin sunlight filtering through layers of floating dust. For the luxury of a moment I closed my eyes and smelt the hot reek of smoke, the scorch of flesh…But not mine, this time, Monseigneur. Not mine.

How they would dance! The habits, the virgins, the hypocrites. What an act it would be! What a rapturous, unholy finale!

Her voice jolted me from a reverie that had sunk me almost into slumber. True, I had not slept in three days. “LeMerle.”

Even half-conscious I knew that note. I opened my eyes. “My Harpy. You’ve worked well for me. You must be looking forward to seeing your daughter tomorrow.”

Three days ago that ploy might still have worked. As it was, she barely acknowledged my words, shaking them aside as a dog may shake water from its pelt.

“I’ve spoken to Antoine.”

Ah. A pity. I always knew my plump disciple to be a little unstable. It was like her to let something drop without considering the implications. A loyal slave, Antoine; but no thinker. “Yes? I trust she was a stimulating conversationalist.”

“Stimulating enough.” The sequin eyes glittered. “LeMerle, what’s happening?”

“Nothing that need concern you, my Winged One.”

“If you’re planning to harm anyone, I’ll stop you.”

“Would I lie to you?”

“I know you would.”

I shrugged and held up my hands. “Forgive her, Lord, her hurtful remark. What more can I do to make you trust me? I’ve kept Fleur safe. I’ve asked nothing more of Perette. I was thinking that tomorrow you could skip mass and collect your daughter-take the road while I’m tying up my few loose ends-meet me, perhaps, on the mainland, and-”

“No.” Her tone was final.

I was beginning to lose patience. “What then? What more do you want of me?”

“I want you to announce the bishop’s visit.”

I wasn’t expecting that; trust you, my Winged One, to find my weakness. “What, and spoil my surprise?”

“We don’t need any more surprises.”

I touched her face with my fingertips. “Juliette, it’s of no importance. Tomorrow night we’ll be in Pornic, or in Saint-Jean-de-Monts, drinking wine from silver cups. I have money put aside; we can start again, start a theater troupe or anything you’d like-”

But she was not to be cajoled. “Announce it at Chapter,” she said. “Do it tonight, Guy, or I’ll do it myself.”

Well, that was my cue. I should have liked your cooperation, my dear, but I had never really expected it at this late stage. I found Antoine by the well-the spot seems to hold a special place in her heart since Germaine’s hanging-and she reacted quickly to the signal she has been anticipating for the past week. Perhaps she is not as slow-witted as I take her for, for I saw her face light up in real pleasure at the task. In that moment she looked neither dull-witted nor ugly, and I felt a moment’s unease. Still, she follows me without question, which is what counts; she does not have your scruples, and she at least understands revenge.

Oh really, Juliette. You always were a simpleton despite your learning. What do we owe to anyone but ourselves? What do we owe to the Creator, sitting there on his golden throne dispensing judgment? Did we ask to be created? Did we ask to be thrown into this world like dice? Look around you, little sister. What has he dealt you that you should take his side? Besides, you should know better by now than to play against me; in the end, I always win.

I knew she would wait until Chapter. Knowing that, I struck first, or rather, Antoine struck, with the help of Soeur Virginie. It was a rousing performance, so I hear; a vision led them to your cache and to the evidence concealed therein-the tarot cards, the poisons, and the bloodied quichenotte of the Unholy Nun. You would have fought but were no match for Antoine’s brute strength; on the orders of the abbess, you were taken to the cellarium and imprisoned there, awaiting a decision. The rumors took wing at once.

“Is she-”

“Possessed?”

“Accused?”

“No, not Auguste-”

“I always knew she was a-”

It is a sigh almost of satisfaction, the whisper taken up-wishwishwish-with a coyness, a fluttering of eyelash and lowering of lids more at home in a Paris salon. These nuns have more feminine tricks than a battery of society prudes, exercising their false modesty to captivate. Their desire smells of sour lilies.

I made my voice grave. “An accusation has been made,” I announced. “If this is true, then we have-we have nurtured-hell’s catamite in our midst from the very first-”

The phrase enticed them. Hell’s Catamite. A good name for a burlesque or a tragédie-ballet. I saw them squirm in scarce disguised excitement.

“A spy, mocking our rituals, secretly in league with the forces that seek to destroy us!”

“I trusted you,” you said as I led you to the cellar door. And then you spat in my face and would have gone for me with your nails if Soeur Antoine had not pushed you into the room and shut the door.

I wiped my brow with a Cholet handkerchief. Through the slit in the door I could see your eyes. Impossible to tell you at this time why I have betrayed you. Impossible to explain that this is the one measure that may save your life.

49

At first I was disorientated. The room-a storeroom annex to the cellarium, hastily reconverted into a cell for the first time since the black friars-was so like the cellar in Épinal that for a time I wondered whether the past five years had not been a dream, my mind’s attempt to play its fleeting sanity like a fish on a line, reeling it inward and inward until understanding breaks the surface.

Giordano’s cards were enough to confirm their suspicions. I wish now that I had paid more attention to their warning; to the Hermit, with his subtle smile and cloaked lantern; to the Deuce of Cups, love and forgetfulness; to the Tower aflame. It is past noon now, and the storeroom is dark except for half a dozen slices of sunlight against the back wall from the ventilation slats, too high to reach, in any case too small to present any hope of escape.

I have not wept. Perhaps some part of me expected his betrayal. I cannot even say that I feel sorrow-or even fear. Five years have sown a kind of serenity. A coldness. I think of Fleur at noon tomorrow, waiting by the tamarisks.

This was once a cell, I realize. Today it reverts to its original function. The black friars once did penance in such cells, hidden from the daylight, their food pushed through a narrow slot in the door, the air rank with the stink of prayers and guilt.

I will not pray. Besides I do not know to whom I should do so. My Goddess is a blasphemy, my Marie-de-la-mer lost to the sea. I can hear the surf from here, carried across the marshes by the west wind. Will she remember me? Will Fleur grow with my face in her heart, as I kept my own mother’s image close to my own? Or will she be the child of strangers, unwanted or worse-to grow to love them as her own, to be grateful, glad to be rid of me?

The thought is useless. I try to regain my serenity, but her image troubles me too much. My heart aches for her touch. Once more, I ask Marie-de-la-mer. Whatever it costs me, once more. My Fleur. My daughter. It is not any prayer Giordano would understand, but it is a prayer nevertheless.

Time’s black rosary counts the interminable seconds.

50

I think I slept. The darkness and the hush of the surf lulled me, and for a time I dreamed. Bright images pranced by me: Germaine, Clémente, Alfonsine, Antoine…The snakeskin-silvery scar on LeMerle’s shoulder, the smile in his eyes.

Trust me, Juliette.

My daughter’s red dress, the scrape on her knee, the way she laughed and clapped at the players in the dusty sunlight a thousand years ago. I awoke to find the slices of sunlight high up on the wall, reddened as the sun began its descent. Feeling refreshed in spite of everything, I rose to look about me. The room still smelt of the vinegar and preserves that had been kept there; in a clearing space a pickle jar had been broken and a damp patch remained on the earthen floor, redolent of clove and garlic. I searched the floor, thinking perhaps to find a sliver of glass overlooked in their haste, but there was nothing. In any case I do not know what I would have done with it if there had been one; the thought of my blood on the earth, mingling perhaps with the aloes and vinegar of the spilled pickles, revolted me. Tentatively I touched the walls of my cell. These were stone, the good gray granite of the region, which sparkles with mica in sunlight but in shadow looks almost black. There were indentations scratched into the stone, I realized, short, even marks chiseled at intervals in the granite that my fingertips discovered in the semidarkness: five marks, then a neat cross stroke; five marks, then another. Some brother had perhaps tried to mark his time in this way, I realized, covering half the wall with the orderly down-and-cross strokes of his days, his months.

I went to the door. It was locked, of course, the heavy wooden panels banded with iron. A metal hatchway-secured from the outside-might serve as a means to deliver my meals. I listened at the door but could hear nothing to indicate whether or not anyone kept watch over the prisoner. Why should they? I was safe enough.

Daylight waned until it was nothing but a purplish blur. My eyes, accustomed to the dim light, could still make out the shapes of the door, the twilit pallor of the ventilation slats, a heap of flour sacks that had been left in a corner to serve as bedding, a wooden bucket in the opposite corner. Without my wimple-it had been removed when I was led here, as was the cross at the breast of my habit-I felt oddly estranged from myself, a creature from a different time. Yet this l’Ailée was cold, and her quick calculation of time was like that of a mariner measuring the approach of a coming storm, not that of a prisoner awaiting the hours to execution. In spite of everything there was still power to be had, to be used, if only I knew how.

Interesting, that no one had come to speak to me. Strangest of all that LeMerle should not have come-to justify himself, or to gloat. Seven rang, then eight. The sisters would be making their way to Vespers.

Was this, then, what he had planned? Was I to be removed from the scene until his game-whatever it was-had been played out? Was I still a danger to him? And if so, how?

I was roused from my meditations by a rattling at the door. There was a clang as the spy hole was flung open, then a clattering as something was thrust through, bouncing noisily off the hard floor as it fell. I saw no light at the spy hole, heard no voice as the metal hatch was locked again from the outside. I felt on the ground for the object that had been pushed through and had little difficulty in finding a wooden plate, from which a piece of bread had rolled.

“Wait!” I stood up, the plate in my hand. “Who’s there?”

No response. Not even the sound of footsteps receding. I concluded that whoever it was must be waiting behind the door, listening.

“Antoine? Is that you?”

I could hear her breathing behind the metal trap. Five years’ worth of nights in the dorter had taught me to recognize and identify the sounds of breathing. These short, asthmatic breaths were not Antoine’s. I guessed it was Tomasine.

“Soeur Tomasine.” My guess was correct. I heard an indrawn shriek, stifled against a forearm. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I won’t-” The voice was almost inaudible, a high whimper in the dark. “I won’t let you out!”

“That’s all right,” I whispered. “I’m not asking you to.”

Tomasine paused for a second. “What then?” The high note was still in her voice. “I’m-I’m not supposed to talk to you. I’m not supposed to-look at you.”

“In case of what?” I said scornfully. “In case I fly through the hole? Or send an imp to leap down your throat?”

She whimpered again.

“Believe me,” I said, “if I could do any of those things, would I still be here?”

A silence as she digested that. “Père Colombin lit a brazier. Demons can’t pass through the smoke.” She swallowed convulsively. “I can’t stay. I-”

“Wait!”

But it was too late. I heard her footsteps recede into darkness.

“Damn.”

And yet it was enough to begin with. LeMerle wanted me hidden, had frightened poor Tomasine so badly that she did not even dare to speak to me. What was it he wanted to conceal? And from whom-the bishop, or myself?

I paced the cell after that, forcing myself to eat the bread Tomasine left me, though it was dry and I had never been less hungry. I heard the bell chime for Vigils, then Lauds. I had maybe six hours. To do what? Pacing, I asked myself the question. There was no means of escape. No one would help me, even though there was no one posted at my cell door. No one dared disobey Père Colombin. Unless-no. If Perette were going to come, she would have done so already. I had lost her the day in the barn, lost her to LeMerle and his trinkets. I was a fool to believe that she, of all people, might help me. The clear gold-ringed eyes were witless as a sparrow’s, pitiless as a hawk’s. She would not come.

Suddenly there came a scratching at the door. Shh-shh. Then a low hooting sound, like that of a baby owl. “Perette!”

The moon was up; the light from the ventilation slats was silver. In its reflected glow I saw the hatch open a crack, saw Perette’s luminous eyes through its mouth.

“Perette!” Relief suffused me so that I felt almost weak, stumbling in my haste to reach her. “Did you bring the keys?”

The wild girl shook her head. I moved closer to the hatch, close enough to be able to touch her fingers through the opening. Her skin was ghostly in the moonlight.

“No?” I forced myself to be calm, even through my disappointment. “Perette, where are they?” I spoke as slowly as I could. “Where are the keys, Perette?”

She shrugged. A speaking gesture of the shoulders, a movement of the right hand to indicate width, a round face: Antoine.

“Antoine?” I said eagerly. “You say Antoine has them?”

She nodded.

“Listen, Perette.” I spoke slowly and clearly. “I need to get out of here. I need you-to bring me-the keys. Can you do that?”

She gave me her blank look. Desperate now, my voice rising in spite of myself, I pleaded. “Perette! You have to help me! Remember what I said-remember Fleur-” I was gabbling now in my desperation to reach her. “We have to warn the bishop-”

At my reference to the bishop she cocked her head abruptly to one side and hooted. I stared at her. “The bishop?” I questioned. “Did you know he was coming? Did Père Colombin mention his visit?”

Again, the hooting sound. Perette grinned.

“Did he tell you what-” It was the wrong question. I rephrased it as simply as I could. “Are you playing another game tomorrow? A trick?” My excitement was clenching my fists, fingernails scoring my palms, knuckles cracking. “A trick to play on the bishop?”

The wild girl gave her eerie laughter.

“What, Perette? What trick? What trick?”

But she was already half turning in sudden disinterest, her attention caught by some other thought, some shadow, some sound, her head ticking to one side, then to the other as if to some unheard rhythm. One hand came up slowly to close the hatch.

Click.

“Perette, please! Come back!”

But she was gone, without a sound, not even a cry, not even a farewell. I laid my head on my knees and I wept.

51

I must have slept again, for when I awoke the moonlight had faded to a greenish blur. My head was pounding and my limbs were stiff with cold, and there was a draft at the level of my ankles, which made me shiver. I stretched out first my arms, then my legs, chafing my frozen fingers to restore the circulation, and I was so preoccupied with this that for a moment I did not realize the significance of that draft, which had not been there before.

Then I saw. The door was open a crack, allowing dim light to penetrate into the cell. Perette was standing in the doorway, a hand to her mouth. I sprang to my feet.

She gestured urgently at her mouth, to indicate silence. She showed me the key in her hand, slapped her thigh, then mimed Antoine’s lumbering gait. I applauded her soundlessly. “Good girl,” I whispered, moving toward the door, but instead of allowing me to pass, Perette motioned me frantically to let her through. Slipping past me, she pushed the door shut behind her and squatted on the floor.

“No, Perette-” I tried to explain. “We have to go-now-before they find the keys are gone.”

The wild girl shook her head. Holding the keys in one hand, she performed a series of rapid movements with the other. Then, seeing that I did not understand, she repeated them more slowly and with barely concealed impatience.

A stern countenance, a sign of the cross. Père Colombin.

A bigger sign of the cross. A quick, amusing mime of horse riding, one hand holding a miter that threatened to be blown off by the wind. The bishop.

“Yes. The bishop. Père Colombin. What then?”

She clenched her fists and hooted in frustration.

A fat woman, rolling as she walked. Antoine. Père Colombin again. Then a mime of Soeur Marguerite, twitching and dancing. Then a complicated mime, as if repeatedly touching something hot. Then a gesture I did not understand, arms outstretched as if in readiness to fly.

Perette repeated it with greater insistence. Still I did not understand.

“What, Perette?”

The flying gesture again. Then a silent grimace, miming the torments of hell beneath the fluttering movements. Then, once again, the “hot” gesture as Perette sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose, as if at a stench.

Almost I began to understand. “Fire, Perette?” I asked her hesitantly but with growing comprehension. Perette beamed at me, showing me her clenched fists. “He’s going to light another fire?”

Perette shook her head and pointed at herself. Then she motioned at the roof, a circular gesture that encompassed the abbey, herself, everyone in it. Then the flying gesture again. Then she took out the pendant of Christina Mirabilis from her garment and showed me, insistently, the miraculous virgin, ringed with fire.

I stared at her, beginning at last to understand.

She smiled.

52

You see now why I cannot leave.

LeMerle’s plan was more vicious, more implacable than anything I could have imagined-even of him. With the help of gestures, hootings, mimes, and scratchings in the dirt, Perette explained it, occasionally laughing, occasionally losing interest like the innocent she was, distracted by a piece of mica shining against the granite, or the cry of a night bird beyond the walls. She was wholly innocent, my sweet Perette, my wise fool, quite unaware of the sinister implications of the favor LeMerle had asked of her.

That had been his only mistake. He had underestimated my Perette, believing her to be under his control. But the wild girl is no one’s creature, not even mine. She is like some birds, which can be trained but not tamed; let the glove slip, for even an instant, and she will bite.

For now, at least, I have her attention. I may lose it at any time; but she is my only weapon now as I try to devise a plan of my own. I do not know whether my wit is a match for the Blackbird. What I do know is that I must try. For myself, for Fleur. For Clémente and Marguerite. For all those he has damaged and deceived and crippled and mocked. For all those to whom he has fed the pieces of his bitter heart and poisoned thereby.

This may mean my death. I have faced that. If I succeed it may certainly mean his, and I have faced that too.

53

Perette has locked me back in the cell. Anything else is simply too dangerous. I hope Fleur will understand if my plan goes awry-and I hope Perette remembers her part. I hope-I hope. Everything seems to be built upon those two words, those two fragile syllables like the cry of some forlorn seabird: I-hope.

Birds are singing outside. In the far distance, though not as loud as last night, I hear the sounds of the surf on the island’s western shore. Somewhere in the breakers, the statue of Marie-de-la-mer rolls endlessly against the fine sand, polishing, dwindling, scoured by the shoreline into slow oblivion. Never have I been so conscious of time-of that which remains to us, of its passing, its tides.

Some minutes ago someone tried the door and, finding it locked, went away. I shiver to think what might have happened if Perette had left it unlocked. My breakfast, a piece of bread and a cup of water, was pushed through the hatchway, the trap slamming shut as soon as I collected it, as if I were infected with the plague. The water smelt sharp, as if someone had fouled it, and though I am thirsty, I did not drink. The next hour will tell whether or not my hopes are founded.

If she remembers. If LeMerle suspects nothing. If my skill holds. If my one shaft hits true.

If.

Perette, do not fail me.

54

Since last night, the sisters have been busy preparing for this morning’s festival. Flowers cover every surface; hundreds of tall, white candles have been lit in the chapel; and the altar is decked with an embroidered banner, which I am told dates back to before the black monks, and which is used only for this ceremony. The chapel’s holy relic-a finger bone of the Virgin, in a gold reliquary-is on display, along with a selection of the Virgin’s ceremonial robes and dresses. The new Sainte-Marie has been draped in blue and white, with lilies-what else?-at her feet. I can smell the flowers from twenty yards away, even over that of the extra braziers, which have been installed at every entrance in spite of the heat, burning frankincense and sandalwood to dispel evil thoughts. There are torches too, hanging against the walls, and votives on every surface. The air is more than half smoke; against it, the light from the stained-glass window looks almost solid, as if it might be possible to pluck gems from the air.

I watched in secret from the opposite side of the causeway as the bishop’s retinue approached. I could tell his colors even at that distance-pitiful, that he should still need so much pomp and ceremony. It speaks of a pride that has even now not been mastered, doubly inappropriate in a man of the cloth. Liveried soldiers, gilded harness glinting in the sun…I’ll make a fine blaze of all his trumpery soon enough, but first we’ll dance our little measure, he and I. I have looked forward to it for so long.

Of course, he missed the tide. I meant him to; my observation of the comings and goings at the causeway has not been in vain. He expected to reach us last night, before Vespers, but on this coast, the tide takes eleven hours to turn. There is an inn on the other side, however, conveniently placed for such occasions, and he must have stayed the night there-no doubt angrily berating the fool who misinformed him-until this morning. Low tide was at seven. I’ll give him two hours more to reach the abbey, and all is set; with luck-and a little judicious planning-he should arrive just in time for my little comedy to begin.

A Blackbird’s song may haply be silenced, indeed. But not by such a gilded scarecrow as yourself, Monseigneur. You’ll not walk out of this performance, I promise. A pity that my Ailée cannot be among us at the finale, but that I suppose was inevitable. A pity nevertheless: she would surely have appreciated it.

55

It was time; all were gathered in the chapel as I made my entrance. Even my poor afflicted ones had been brought to the service-though they had been given seats throughout the long service, and were not obliged to stand or kneel. Perette was missing, of course, but no one paid much attention; her comings and goings had always been erratic, and she would not be missed. Good. I hoped she would remember her part. A small role, but a pretty one; I would be very disappointed if she failed to carry it off.

“My children.” I had coached them well; glassy-eyed with the burning incense, they watched me as if I were their only salvation. Mère Isabelle was standing at my right side, close to the brazier; through the smoke, her face was ash. “Today we celebrate the most sacred and most dear to us of our holy days. The festival of the Holy Mother.”

A rumor ran through the congregation, an ahhh of satisfaction and release. Above it, I could just hear the sound of drops beginning to fall on the roof slates; at last, it had begun to rain. I couldn’t have planned it better; come to think of it, a little strategic thunder would not come amiss. Perhaps the Lord would provide some when the time came, thereby proving that he does have a sense of irony. But I digress. Back to the Virgin, then, before she loses her freshness. Where was I? “The Mother, who watches down upon us in the presence of evil. The Virgin, who comforts us in our times of need; whose purity is that of the dove and the white lily”-nice touch, LeMerle-“whose forgiveness and compassion know no bounds.”

Ahhh. Not for nothing do we use the language of love to seduce these foolish virgins; pulpit rhetoric is indecently close to that of the bedroom, just as some of the more interesting sections of the Bible echo the pornographies of the ancients. I played now on this kinship in words they knew well, promising raptures beyond the realms of human endurance, ecstasies without limit in the arms of the Lord. Earthly suffering is less than nothing, I told them, in the face of the pleasures to come, the fruits of Paradise-I could see Antoine beginning to drool-the joys of unending service in the House of God.

It was a promising start; already I could see Soeur Tomasine grinning alarmingly; beside her, Marguerite’s face was a mass of twitches. Good. “But today is not simply a time of rejoicing. It is also our day of battle. Today we throw down the final challenge to the evil that has plagued us and plagues us still.”

Ahhh. Wrested from their pleasant thoughts, the sisters flinched and pranced like nervous mares.

“I do not doubt that today we shall defeat the forces of darkness-but if the worst happens, and we are once more tested to the limits of our faith, be of stout heart. There is always an escape for those of true faith, and with the courage to embrace it.”

Isabelle’s face was set in a grimace of determination. Saint or martyr, that look told me; this time, she was not to be thwarted. Angélique Saint-Hervé Désirée Arnault always gets her way.

Now, outside, I could hear a distant sound of horses’ hooves on the road, and I knew that my enemy was near; and just in time too. Timing is the greatest tool of an artist in my trade; good timing is a precision instrument, coaxing comedy or tragedy to one climax after another; bad timing is a bludgeon that kills all suspense and ruins both drama and punch line. By my reckoning I had maybe eight or ten minutes until Arnault’s grand entrance; time enough, anyway, to whip up the welcome he deserved.

“Courage, my children, courage. Satan knows we await him. We have faced him together, and we stand now united in our faith and our conviction, ready to go to war. The devil comes in a thousand guises, fair-faced or foul; he may be a man or a woman, a child or a beast, he may take the features of a loved one, of a man of power, even, on occasion, of a bishop or a king. The next countenance you see will be his, my children; already the Dark One approaches. I can hear the sound of his infernal carriage as it thunders toward us. Satan, we are here. Show us your face!”

Seldom has any audience-at Court or in the provinces-ever been so entranced by a single performer. Already, they were watching me as if their souls depended upon it. The braziers lit my face like the fires of purgatory; above us, the rain was cathartic; after so many days of heat and drought it exalted them, turned their faces toward the heavens, sent them staring toward the rafters as their feet began to move independently of their minds and my dea ex machina prepared to take the stage…

My hiding place was high in the bell tower, not far from the bell itself, which hangs from an iron crosspiece in the narrowest part of the spire. My eyrie was perilous, accessible only from the rough scaffolding erected by the workmen repairing the roof, but it was the only place from which I could work; and besides, Ailée has no fear of heights. Even so I could be certain of nothing; this performance could have no rehearsal, no second showing.

Even now I could see the bishop’s retinue, half a mile or less along the road; I could hear the outriders’ horses and the sound of the carriage wheels in the rain. It was a large group; as they approached I could see two banners, and I understood that the bishop had brought along a colleague, perhaps a superior, to share in his family’s triumph. I looked down into the chapel and I saw that Perette, with the swiftness that served her so well in her role as the Unholy Nun, had slipped once again into the shadows. I could only trust that she remembered all the instructions I had given her. Her eyes were bright with birdy intelligence, but I knew that the smallest distraction-a flight of gulls at a window, the lowing of cows on the marshes, the colors of the stained glass reflected upon the flagstones-might mean our undoing.

Inside the church the light was poor; from a cloudy sky only a little murky daylight filtered through the broken slates, and from below, the candlelight looked hazy beneath the pall of incense, a necklace of fireflies in the greater dark. In my habit I was the color of smoke; over my head I wore a hood so that the pale blur of my face did not attract attention. The rope-I hoped it was long enough-was looped three times around my waist, the end weighted with a piece of lead. My breathing seemed to fill the whole abbey as silence fell and LeMerle began his performance.

Oh, he was very good. He knew it too; and although I could not see his face from my position, I could tell from his voice that he was enjoying himself. The acoustics of the chapel were ideal for his purpose; they picked up every word to fling them unerringly to the back of the hall. The scenery was all in place: braziers, candles, flowers, a promise of heaven or hell. Much may be achieved, as LeMerle taught me in our Paris days, by the artful positioning of a few simple props; a lily in the hair or a pearl rosary in the hand suggests purity-even of the most debauched of whores-a flashy sword hilt carried ostentatiously at the belt will discourage attackers-even when there is no sword attached. People see what they expect to see. That’s why he wins at cards, and it’s why the sisters failed to identify the Unholy Nun. That’s his style-art and misdirection, and though I could see the bales placed all around the hall, although I could smell the oil with which he had saturated the straw, and guess at the oil-soaked rags that ran beneath every bench and pew, the sisters were blind to them for the moment, smelling only smoke and incense, seeing nothing but the stage and the performance into which they had been so carefully drawn.

But I-I could see it all now from my privileged position. Giordano had taught me something about engines and fuses; the rest needed only a little guesswork. A spark, correctly placed-from the pulpitum, for example-might be enough to set it off. And then, as Antoine had said, we light a flame.

I must be careful, I told myself. Timing was essential. I thought I knew his mind; now I prayed that I was right. He would not act until he had revealed himself; the temptation to gloat a little was too much for him to pass by. Vanity is his weakness; above everything else, he is a performer, and he needs his audience. That, I was hoping, would be his downfall. I waited, then, biting my lips as a murmur went through the congregation and the bishop made his long-awaited entrance.

Here he was; right on cue. Time for some music, I thought. Music is a great enhancer of moods, lending extra pathos and drama to a dull performance. Not that this one was likely to be dull; but I find a little Latin always does the trick; besides, it would buy us more time, allowing Arnault to enter freely. Psalm 30, then; I gave the sign and the congregation shuffled to its feet.

“In te, Domine, speravi, non confundar in aeternum: in justitia tua libera me.” I could see Marguerite flinch at the Latin words; Clémente’s head lolled and she grinned even more widely.

“Inclina ad me aurem tuam, accelera ut eruas me.” Of course, she was never an apt scholar in that tongue; perhaps she had begun to associate it in her mind with our nightly sessions, stimulated in turn with Juliette’s decoctions and with the sly workings of my hidden needle. In either case she began to rock nervously, her movement accelerating in tempo as the psalm continued. Behind her, Tomasine echoed her movements, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other.

“Esto mihi in Deum protectorem, et in domum refugü: ut salvum me facias.”

The unease had already spread to Virginie who, face upturned, was staring into the air with idiot intensity. At the name of God she gave a tiny shriek and clutched at her breasts. Piété giggled. I awaited the inevitable with a smile of satisfaction as Arnault and his little retinue made their way to the main doors.

The scent of incense was thick and muskily sexual-I hope it offended his priggish nostrils!-mingling as it did with the scent of female flesh. If I have taught them nothing more, I thought, at least I have wrought that change in them, that now they sweat-ooze-reek-their fear, their appetites. I have opened something in them, a secret garden if you like (see how Solomon continues to inspire me!), rank with avidness and life. I hoped he could smell it too, most rank of all on his niece, his precious niece, the family’s pride. I hoped it would choke him.

Ah. Just in time. The stink caused him to frown a little, his delicate nostrils flaring. He raised a scented handkerchief to his face as if to reassert his expression of benevolence. At my gesture-which was also a sign to Perette-the choir began a sweet but ragged rendition of Psalm 10, In Domino confido, and his smile returned, a professional smile, like mine, but not nearly as trustworthy. Behind the words of the psalm I could still hear their voices, their one voice, the voice of their affirmation, the voice of the demons I had awoken in them.

I had taken a step backward; thanks to the shadows and the smoke from the braziers, my face was partially obscured. In any case, Arnault did not recognize me but moved forward into the chapel, the archbishop at his side. He was visibly displeased with the situation but could not interrupt the psalm. His gilded eyes flicked self-consciously toward the archbishop, whose face was now a mask of disapproval.

Below me I could feel the sisters becoming restless; tiny, almost imperceptible movements rippled across them like dead leaves on a breeze. I had made sure to seat Tomasine, Virginie, Marguerite, and the other more susceptible ones in the front rows; their faces were slack, observing the visitors with glazed, frightened eyes as they moved slowly through the crowd toward the altar.

I needed only to speak one word, and the trap was sprung.

“Welcome.”

I saw it begin. One upturned face, then another-for a second I was certain this meant discovery, but the eyes were blanks. Another face turned upward, the arms outflung in sudden rapture, then the ripple ran through the entire congregation as, like fire, it leaped from one sister to the other. The psalm faltered, stopped as the cries began, pleas, incantations, obscenities. The Dancing Mass had refined itself since I last attended; Pandaemonium unfurled new petals in the face of this newcomer, strutting, prancing, falling to its knees or lifting its skirts in daring lewdness…In a few seconds it would be impossible to stop it. Arms flailed the smoky air. Faces surfaced only to submerge once more among hopeless cries. Clothes were rent and cast off. Virginie, always eager to take the lead, began to revolve madly, skirts wheeling out around her.

The bishop was taken completely by surprise. This was so far from what he was expecting that he was dazed, still looking among the cries and the scenes of chaos for the triumphant tableau he had been expecting to see. Isabelle was watching him from her place by the brazier, her face scarlet in the flames, but she made no move to greet him. Instead her small fists clenched against the side of the pulpit and her mouth dropped open as the noise redoubled and LeMerle stepped out into the light.

“Welcome.”

Such a moment was meant to be savored. Imagine this if you can: the greatest scion of the house of Arnault, a half-naked nun on one side, a grinning ecstatic on the other, and all the wild beasts of this hellish circus grunting and squealing and bellowing about him like the lowest and most debauched of sideshows!

For a second I was afraid that he had not recognized me, but it was rage that silenced him, not incomprehension. His eyes widened as if they might devour me; his mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Outrage swelled him from within like the frog in the fable, so that his voice, when it finally came, was a ridiculous croak: “You here! You here?”

Even now he did not completely understand. Père Colombin Saint-Amand, the man with whom he had corresponded, could not be this man. This interloper had somehow taken the place of the holy man, and the nuns, the nuns…But the nuns seemed to recognize him. Hands outstretched, pleading, praying. Even Isabelle-poor child, grown so wan in the past months, her face ravaged by sickness and disquiet-even she looked to him as to a savior, tears silvering her small pinched face as her hand reached out toward some object hidden behind the pulpitum…

Stupid disbelief slowed all his faculties. I couldn’t have that. I signaled to Isabelle to hold back, and to Perette, who must still be lurking out of sight, to take her place.

Meanwhile Arnault stared at me as if one or the other of us must be mad. “You here. How dare you? How dare you?”

“Oh, I’ll dare anything. You said so yourself, on one or another of our meetings.” I addressed the sisters, who had forsaken their raptures in curiosity and now stared at us open-mouthed: “Did I not warn you of how a fair face may conceal a foul one? The man before you is not what he appears.” I controlled my audience with a gesture as the crowd surged forward. Already, the liveried guards of the retinue had been separated from their masters; the archbishop was cut off-though I was glad to see he was well positioned to witness everything-and only the Bishop stood between me and the congregation.

Don’t let anyone tell you it isn’t worth it. The longer you have to wait, the more exquisite it is. I could see fear in him now-only a little, for he still believed this to be some kind of dream, but it would grow. Behind him, someone wailed and collapsed. They were beginning to move again, restlessly: a ripple that would soon once more become a wave. I took off my cross by the leather thong that bound it, and raised it in front of me. Then I laid it-negligently, or so it seemed-by the side of the pulpitum, and waited for the finale to begin.

This must be the moment, I thought, when Perette was due to appear. I sensed a drop in the voices below me, a slight hesitation in his delivery that no one perceived but myself. I could appreciate his timing: the lull during which the Unholy Nun was to make her last and most dramatic appearance. Unlike myself, however, he had not placed all his trust in Perette. She was not fundamental to his plans but an artistic touch without which he could manage quite well if he needed to. He would be disappointed, certainly; but I hoped her absence would arouse no suspicion in him. He knew Perette was too volatile to trust; I was about to gamble my life on the hope that she was not.

The bishop advanced, too angry for caution or curiosity. He was a tall man, taller even than LeMerle, and from my perch he looked more like a bird, a black crane perhaps, or a heron, as he marched up the steps toward the pulpitum with his robes flapping behind him. The smoke from the brazier stung my eyes, and there was rain dripping on my neck, but I had to see this confrontation. I had to be sure-I had to know that there was no other way than the one I had chosen-before I made my move.

I heard their voices below me, only slightly distorted by the shape of the bell tower. LeMerle’s clear tones, and those of the bishop, hoarse with disbelief and righteous anger, calling out instructions to his guards, which they could not obey without cutting a swath through a crowd of ecstatic nuns.

I could not yet make my move. LeMerle was still too close to the brazier, and if cornered, he might light the fuse and set the terrible sequence into motion. Had I left it too late? Was I to watch helpless as LeMerle carried out his revenge?

Then, as if in answer to my prayer, the bishop mounted the pulpitum and in the same moment, miraculously, LeMerle stepped away from the brazier. Now was the time, I thought, now-and, with a quick cantrip to ensure my safe footing and a whispered prayer to Saint Francis of the Birds, I took the rope in both hands and flung it out into the smoky air.

Mon père. I’m touched.“ I used my other vocal register so that the sound would not carry. ”After last time, I’d hardly anticipated such a warm welcome.“

Behind me, Isabelle was watching, white to the lips. Perette had failed me-a pity, though hardly of the essence-but now came the real test. Would Isabelle play her part to the end? Had I broken her, or would she declare herself against me? I have to admit the uncertainty excited me somewhat; besides, I thought, my escape route was safe with Antoine to keep it clear. At this stage I could risk a little self-indulgence.

“I’ll see you burn for this!” Hardly original, but it fitted the script. “I’ll finish you once and for all!” You see how unwittingly he played my game; his emotions betrayed his every move, as any cardplayer could tell you. With murder in his silvery eyes he came striding up toward me like a great gilded crow; for a second I was sure he would try to strike me, but I was younger and quicker than he was, and he dared not risk his dignity for a missed blow. Even now I could see that he believed it to be nothing but a trick of breathtaking impudence; he was more concerned about Isabelle and the now-unwelcome presence of the archbishop to consider my deeper motives.

“This man is no priest!” he said, turning to address the sisters in a voice that shook with rage. “He is an impostor! A trickster, a common stage actor-”

Less of that, Father. I’ll have you know I was years ahead of my time. “Is that likely?” I said with a smile. “Is it not more believable that this-this mitered abomination-is the real impostor?” Their voices told me they believed it, though there were a few cries of dissent among the many. “Certainly, there is one Deceiver in this hall,” I said. “And who is to say where? False priest, false bishop. Or are we all false? Can any of you say in all honesty that you have stayed true to yourself? Tell me, Father”-here I addressed the bishop in an undertone-“how true were you? How much more worthy to wear that robe than an actor-or a lecher-or an ape?”

He lunged at me then, as I knew he would; laughing, I evaded the blow. But it was a feint; instead of going for me, he made a grab for the silver cross I had forgotten on the side of the pulpitum, and brandished it with a cry of triumph.

His triumph was brief, however. At once and with a cry of pain, he dropped the cross and looked at his hand, where even now white blisters were beginning to rise like fresh dough.

It was a simple trick; placed so close to the brazier, the metal had become too hot to handle; but logic had long since abandoned my susceptible sisters, and the cry went up from the first row, spreading to the back in a matter of seconds.

“The cross! He cannot touch the cross!”

“That’s ridiculous!” shouted the bishop over the noise. “This man is an impostor!” But the crowd was pushing forward, straining in the pews; the guards were still too far away to be of use, and Monseigneur looked about to use his fists when he thought better of it and lowered his hands, teeth clenched.

“Very wise,” I told him, beginning to smile. “Lay a hand on me-lay even a finger-and all hell breaks loose.”

The rope caught at the first try. I felt the lead connect with the scaffolding opposite with a dull smacking sound. I tugged gently at the rope, but it held firm. Good. There was no time for further checks or precautions, and I secured the rope as well as I could to the rotten structure at my back. It was slacker than I usually like it, but I could not risk losing more time. I dropped my cloak from my shoulders, loosened the brown habit that concealed me, and stood on the narrow platform in my white shift. A swathe of blue cloth covered my all-too-recognizable hair. A moment of terror-it was too late, too much time had gone by, I would fall, I would fall-then the glacial cloak of the Winged One dropped over me, untouched by the passing years, and with it a kind of joy.

Head raised high, bare feet gripping the cord, arms slightly outstretched, l’Ailée stepped out proudly into the dark air.

I knew her at once. You don’t believe that? My first and best pupil-my only perfect achievement-of course I knew her. Even without her sequinned wings, veiled, and with a cloth tied over her hair I knew her grace, her assurance, her style. I was the first: seconds later others had seen her too. I knew a moment of pride-ay, that was my Ailée, all eyes drawn to her in envy and longing-even in my astonishment and growing understanding.

I should have known. That was her audacity. I wondered what had alerted her to my plan-pure instinct, perhaps, that malicious instinct of hers to thwart me at every turn and to lay low my pride-even doomed to failure as it was, it was still a brave attempt.

From this low angle I could see no rope supporting her. The muted candle glow made of her a figure of mist, a warm, hazy apparition that seemed to shine with an inner light. A distant rumble of thunder from across the sea served as her introductory drumroll.

From the frenzy came a voice: “Look! Above you! Look, I say!”

More faces turned to watch. More voices, clamorous at first, then falling to an awed hush as the white figure glided across the shadowy air, seemingly to hover right above their heads.

“Mère Marie!” wailed one voice from the depths of the congregation.

“The ghost of Germaine!”

“The Unholy Nun!”

The veiled figure paused for a moment in its passage over thin air and made the sign of the cross. Silence, awed silence, fell once more as she prepared to speak.

“My children.” My voice sounded terribly distant, the words resonating so far into the throat of the tower that they seemed barely recognizable. I could hear the beating of the rain against the wooden slats not five feet from my head and, somewhere across the water, a growl of thunder. “My children, do you not recognize me? I am Sainte Marie-dela-mer.” The voice I had chosen was deep and resonant, like those of the tragedians of my Paris days. A flutter went through the sisters like a breath of wind on the sea. “My poor, deluded children. You have been the victims of a cruel deception.”

LeMerle was watching me; I wondered at what point he would realize that all was lost for him; what he would do.

“Père Colombin is not what you think, my children. The man you see before you is a cruel impostor. No priest at all. A deceiver, whose true name is known to me.”

The collective gaze moved from the man to the woman, the floating woman to the man…The silence was terrible. Then LeMerle lifted his eyes toward me and I could see the challenge in his face far below.

Will it be war, then, Harpy?

No malice in the unspoken question, simply a bright look of anticipation, the gambler’s fever heightened to furnace intensity.

I nodded, almost imperceptibly, but I knew he understood.

Cue thunder. That was luck, Juliette; it could just as easily have been mine.

Did she expect me to run? I asked myself. Did she expect me to hide in the shadows? She should have known better. And yet it pleased me in some absurd way that my pupil should seek to outplay the master at his own game of deceit. She looked down at me, my lovely bird of prey, and we understood each other completely. In spite of myself, in spite of the danger, I played your game, eager to know how well I taught you.

The crowd was all faces, mouths open as if to receive honey from the sky. Above me, the storm was approaching fast; the rain had turned to a hail that rattled against the slates like dice. Although I was partly shielded by the roof above me, it was in poor condition, and I was uncomfortably aware that a single one of those hailstones might be enough to break my concentration and topple me from my perch. Was this what he hoped for? I’d expected him at least to deny my accusation, but he seemed to be waiting, almost as if he had something else planned…

The realization, when it struck me, almost cost me my footing. Of course! Even from my vantage point, with everything laid out below me, I had been misdirected, like the rest of them. I had been so busy watching LeMerle that I had hardly noticed Isabelle eclipsed in his shadow; only now as I scanned the little scene, did I understand his full intent. Isabelle herself was to be the fuse: what he wanted was not to light the flame himself, but to watch the bishop’s face as his niece sacrificed her own life, and who knows how many others, in a desperate attempt to beat the devil. She was poised to do it; a word might trigger her reaction. Now I understood the repeated sermons, the constant references to such martyred saints as Saints Agatha, Perpetua, Margaret of Alexandria, or holy miracle workers like Christina Mirabilis, who passed unhurt through flame to heavenly bliss.

I could see it in my mind; heavily robed and anointed with oil, she would leap into flame as quickly as summer stubble. I’d heard of it happening onstage, in the ballet, as a tulle skirt brushes the overheated glass of one of the footlights and fire jumps like an acrobat from one dancer to another, making lanterns of them all, torching their hair, vaulting ceiling-high in a trembling tower of fire and smoke. Whole troupes devoured in seconds, said LeMerle, who had once seen it happen-but-my God!-What a performance!

I could feel her eyes on me, now that I was awake to her gaze. I had to tread more carefully than ever; it was not enough to have interrupted LeMerle’s oratory or to have liberated the others from the dancing frenzy; it was not even enough to have thrown Père Colombin into doubt by endorsing the bishop’s claim against him. It was Isabelle I had to convince-only Isabelle. The question was: how much of the original Isabelle was left?

“There is no such saint as Marie-de-la-mer.” It was as if she had sensed my thoughts. Around her, the sisters awaited their cue, and LeMerle observed his pupil with the smile of a man with a hand of aces.

“As I told you before,” he said in a calm voice, “there is at least one deceiver here. Which is it to be? Whom do you trust? Who has never lied to you?”

Isabelle looked up at me, then back at LeMerle. “I trust you,” she said quietly, and put out her hand toward the brazier.

Her rope is too slack. I saw that at once. A moment ago I saw her change position and she swayed, gripping the invisible rope with her toes to stop it from swinging out of control. Where to now, my Harpy? Ten seconds and the place will be ablaze. A brave try, Juliette: but late, much too late. The pang I feel for you is real enough, but you chose this. I have to say I never imagined you’d really betray me, but a wise man anticipates every eventuality. You’ll fly from your perch in flames, my bird. A better end, perhaps, than to live, wings clipped, among barnyard geese.

“Vade retro, Satanas!”

Isabelle’s hand faltered an inch from the coals. Even then it might have been enough, but for a sudden draft from the open side door. Damn it, Antoine. I told you not to leave your post, whatever happened. In any case, the girl faltered, looked up in spite of herself, recognizing the language of ancient authority. That was a foul blow, Juliette; using my own weapons against me. But is it good enough? And, seeing your advantage, will you play or will you fold?

“The devil knows his Latin too,” I reminded Isabelle softly. I began to move, very slowly, toward the side door and the second brazier. A wise man always covers his bets, and if one fuse fails to light, it’s safer to have a second in reserve. But Antoine was standing at the side door, barring my exit with her huge body, and I saw that she too was watching the fake Virgin with a strange expression on her face.

“Listen to me, all of you.” The Winged One speaks again, and I can hear a hoarse note in her voice. “Père Colombin has lied to you. He has deceived and tricked you since the moment he arrived. Remember the curse of blood? That was only dye, red dye, that he slipped into the well to frighten you. And the Unholy Nun? That was-” She stopped then, realizing her mistake, and I grinned and began to recite the rite of exorcism.

“Praecipio tibi, quicumque es, spiritus immunde-”

“Look at his arm!” cried the fake Marie, in the voice of Juliette. “Make him show you the mark of the Virgin on his left arm!”

Timing, my dear: timing. If you’d thought of that at the start, you might have hurt me badly. But we’ve passed the time for signs and symbols; at this stage we need something more visceral: something closer to the nerve.

“Name yourself,” I told her, smiling. “Name yourself, because I don’t think anyone here believes you’re the Mother of God.”

“He is Guy LeMerle, he’s a theater actor and a-”

“I said name yourself!” Once more, Isabelle’s hand began to creep toward the brazier. “In the name of the Father!”

“He’s doing this for revenge-”

“In the name of the Son!”

“Against the Bishop of Évreux!”

“In the name of the-” She was going to do it; her hand was an inch from the coals; her long sleeve had begun to smoke-

“The bishop, his father!”

That was such an unexpected blow that I actually staggered. All around me the sisters had frozen; Isabelle was staring at me; the bishop’s face was cheesy with shock. The liveried guards were beginning once more to push through the crowd, swords loosened at their belts. And still my Ailée went on. “Admit it, LeMerle,” she cried. “Isn’t he? Isn’t he?”

My God, I thought, she’s good. Wasted on these tame things, she should be setting stages alight in Paris theaters. I gave her a little bow to acknowledge it, then I turned to the bishop, who was watching me with a look of sick horror. “Well, Father,” I said, smiling. “Aren’t you?”

The storm was almost over our heads now. Through the gaps in the roof I could watch its approach, hell’s black circus striding across the flats. Below me the candles grew suddenly dim as a cold gust rushed in from beneath the doors. A sound arose from the crowd below, a throbbing like that of a rotten tooth. Eyes flicked from bishop to priest, from Virgin to bishop. My ankle began to wobble with the strain of standing still for so long, and I shifted slightly to ease it.

“Well?” said LeMerle, almost caressingly. “Aren’t you?”

There was a pause. Now I could see how cleverly LeMerle had used my intervention; if the bishop denied the Virgin’s accusation, then he validated LeMerle’s imposture and Isabelle would light the fuse. If he admitted it, he was publicly disgraced in front of the archbishop, his retinue, and the entire abbeyful of nuns. But there was one detail LeMerle had forgotten; though I was not yet sure how-or if-I could turn it to my advantage. At the side door, almost invisible in the smoke from the brazier, stood Soeur Antoine, head lowered like a bull about to charge.

I suppose I should be grateful, my Juliette. How you knew, I cannot guess-witchcraft, perhaps. But what a way to force him into a confession! My own plan was more dramatic, perhaps-I always enjoy a fire, you know-but I should have guessed you’d try to protect these poor sheep you call your sisters. Well, my dear, have it your own way. Let them keep their lives-if you can call it life. In either case, justice is done.

“Well, Father?”

Arnault gives a single nod.

Ahhh. The sound is like a tower of cards falling.

It’s a lie,“ said Isabelle.

“No, my dear. It’s the truth.” LeMerle was watching the bishop; with a sudden movement he opened his priest’s robe and let it drop to the ground. A cry went up from the sisters; underneath the discarded robe he was dressed for travel, booted and spurred, with a leather vest leaving bare his branded left arm. It was the Blackbird of the old days who stood now smiling before the assembly, and as if to complete the tableau, lightning chose that moment to crack its bright whip across the sky, framing him in a sudden blaze of white.

The moan from the crowd had reached a pitch that I could barely tolerate, dragging at my heels like undertow. For a second I looked directly below me, and the world gave a sudden lurch. I felt the beginning of a tremor in my left leg, a tiny ticking of the calf muscle which, if left unchecked, would jerk the rope from under me into the kicking air.

I understood that this was precisely what LeMerle was waiting for; that the apparent recklessness of this unveiling had been as coolly calculated as the rest of his plan. One against sixty was odds even he might have hesitated to play; but if I were to fall…

Once more I shifted, uncomfortably aware of the slackness of the rope and of their white coiffes below me, waiting like gulls on a sea of eyes.

Ten more seconds and she will fall. Ten seconds more, eyes fixed on the white figure in the air. The diversion should be enough-the moment of flight, the broken shape on the marble-moment enough for me to find my exit. If not that, then to grab a weapon. Any of these sisters might buy my escape, but I would prefer Isabelle as hostage. A sword, a horse, and hotfoot across to the mainland. I’ll maybe leave the chit’s body in a ditch for him to find, or better still keep her with me. I could find uses enough for her where I’m going, and every day I’d fix in her flesh the barbs of my revenge. Not for myself-no, not this time. But for her, for Juliette, my sweet deceiver.

That I should live to see the day when I wished my Ailée to fall! He’ll pay for that too, you’ll see, in full coin. The congregation has become a chorus. The note-the long-drawn-out vowel of their despair-rises, swoops, soars again. Some weep in confusion, some tear their faces. But all eyes are on us both now, I watching her, she watching me. A turn of the friendly card-jack below, queen above-and our roles can be reversed once more. Even the guards remain frozen, swords half-drawn, awaiting an order that never comes.

I know what you’re doing, LeMerle. You’re waiting for me to fall. Buying time. I can feel you willing me, wishing me to slip, to stumble, the rope arcing into empty air without me, the long slice of darkness to the ground. I can feel your thoughts pressing against me. I am drenched with the rain now as water spurts from the gutter into the tower. The bell, barely three feet above me, spatters its note in a thousand droplets of sound. I will not-will not fall. But the gulf beneath draws me, and my cramping muscles scream for respite. I feel as if I have been here motionless for hours.

The rope jerks again in response to some involuntary spasm. The keening of my sisters makes me dizzy. And yet I will not-

– must-

– not-

– fall-

I see it happen with a dreamlike clarity. A series of tableaux, each fixed by the lightning as it strikes nearby-several times, in rapid succession. She slips, kicks out against the swing of the rope, and loses it-for an instant I see her arms flung wide, embracing the dark. Strike. Thunder, louder than ever before, so close overhead that for a moment I almost believe the strike has hit the tower itself…And in the brief interval of darkness that follows, I hear the rope give way.

I know I should run now, while their attention is elsewhere. But I cannot; I have to see for myself. Soeur Antoine is guarding the door; there is a dangerous expression on her face, but she is surely too slow to hinder me. As I glance at her, she begins to move toward me; her face is set in stone, and now I remember the strength in her big red arms, the size of her meaty fists. Nevertheless, she is only a woman. Even if she has turned against me now, what can she do?

The sisters crowd round, no doubt to see the body on the floor. At any moment there will come the cries, the confusion; and in that confusion I will make my escape. Soeur Virginie is looking at me, her small fists clenched; beside her, Soeur Tomasine’s eyes are narrowed into crescents. I step forward once again, and the nuns cluck like frightened hens, too stupid even to move aside. My sudden fear is absurd, I know. Ridiculous, to think that they might try to stop me: you might as well expect barnyard geese to attack the fox.

But something has gone wrong; the eyes that should have been gazing at the body on the floor are turning instead toward me. Even geese, I recall from my abbey days, can be savage when driven. And now they dare to block my way, to peck at me, to surround me with their stink and their reproaches…As I push forward into the space, Soeur Antoine raises a fist, which I could deflect with my arms behind my back, but already I am felled with astonishment, stumbling even before her blow lands. What witchcraft is this? I drop to my knees, my head ringing from a vicious punch to the back of the neck, but all I feel is a remote and silent amazement.

There is no body on the floor.

Strike.

And the tower is empty.

56

SEPTEMBER 7TH, 1611THÉÂTRE AMBULANT DUGROSJEAN CARÊMES

Some memories never fade. Even in the warmth of this good autumn, this good town, some part of me remains there, at the abbey, in the rain. Perhaps some part of me died there-died, or was reborn, I am not sure which. In any case I, who did not believe in miracles, witnessed something that changed me-only a little, but forever. Maybe, in that moment, Sainte Marie-de-la-mer was with us, sitting here now, a twelvemonth later. I can almost believe even that.

I felt the rope go. A muscular spasm, perhaps, or the slackness of the cord, or the rotten wood of the scaffolding as it gave way. I knew a moment of utter calm, frozen in the lightning flash like a fly in amber. Then reaching for nothing in a last gesture of desperation, my mind a blank but for the thought-if only I were a bird-my fingers splayed but finding nothing, nothing.

And then there was something in front of my face-a cobweb, a figment, a rope. I did not question its miraculous presence; falling, it was almost out of my hands before I had the wit to catch it. I missed it altogether with the right hand, but my reflexes were still good and I caught fast with the left, dangling for a second in midair with nothing in my mind but stupid disbelief-then I saw a pale face, twisted now in an urgent grimace as she mouthed at me from the hole in the roof, and I understood.

Perette had not failed me. She must have climbed up the scaffolding left by the workmen and watched everything through the gaps in the slate. I hoisted myself up-the ability to climb a rope, like that of balancing upon a line, is not easily lost-and dragged myself like a wet fish onto the slippery roof.

I lay there for a while, exhausted, whilst Perette embraced me, hooting with joy. Below us I could hear a surge of sound, incomprehensible as the tides. I think I lost consciousness; for a moment I drifted, washed by the rain, the smell of the sea in my nostrils. I would never fly again. I knew it; this had been l’Ailée’s final appearance.

But now Perette put out her small hand and shook me urgently. I opened my eyes; saw her sketch one of her quick hand-mimes. A horse; the sign for “haste”; the gesture she had always used to indicate Fleur. And again Fleur; riding; haste. I sat up, my head swimming. The wild girl was right; whatever the outcome of LeMerle’s drama, it would not be wise to remain. Soeur Auguste too had given her final performance, and I found that, after all, I did not regret it.

Perette took my hand, guiding me deftly toward the ladder, still in place some fifteen feet down the steep slope below us. She seemed quite unafraid of the danger but climbed with catlike ease, balancing delicately upon a ridge of broken guttering as she moved to let me pass. Rain stung our faces and hammered on our heads; thunder rolled over us like rocks; a lightning-struck tree was ablaze a hundred yards away, touching everything with a dim, apocalyptic light. And in the middle of it all we laughed, Perette and I, like mad things; laughed with the sheer joy of the rain and the storm; at the relief of my escape, and most of all, at the look on his face, the look on LeMerle’s face as he prepared to receive the pounding of his life from a gaggle of angry nuns…

I heard later that he went without a fight and with only a token protestation of innocence, still gazing in puzzlement at the place where I had been. It was as if the ground had been cut from under him, I heard, his words losing their witchcraft in the face of this new, greater sorcery. Certainly it must have seemed to them as if I disappeared into thin air. A miracle, came the cry, a miracle, and surely this floating lady was indeed Sainte Marie-de-la-mer, come to rescue her own, as in the old legends.

The discovery of a lightning-struck tree not a hundred yards from the church also sparked rumors of miraculous delivery. I hear that today there is a small shrine to the Holy Mother of the Sea, that the new Marie has returned to the mainland, and that a new Mermaid, so like the old one as to be almost identical, has reappeared in the abbey church. Already she is said to have healing powers, and pilgrims come from as far as Paris to see the place where she appeared to more than sixty witnesses.

The Bishop of Évreux was quick to corroborate the Apparition’s tale, revealing LeMerle as an impostor in a catalog of deceit and corruption. The miraculous appearance of the fleur-de-lis, emblem of the Holy Virgin, on the arm of the accused man was interpreted as definitive proof of the Apparition’s authenticity and of his own alliance with dark powers, and he was taken, dazed and unprotesting, into the custody of the secular court.

I cannot help but grieve a little. I have hated him in the past, but since then I think I came to know him better, and if not to forgive, at least to understand. He was taken to the mainland, I heard, to be examined by the judge in Rennes. I was in Rennes myself for a time, and saw the roundhouse in which he was being kept, and read the notices upon its doors telling of his arrest. These announced his forthcoming execution-I thought I detected the vindictive hand of the bishop in some of the details, which rivaled the execution of Ravillac, the king’s murderer, in their ingeniousness and brutality.

The bishop and his niece returned to Montauban, the ancestral home of the Arnaults. Apparently Isabelle had expressed the wish for a simpler life, far from the coast, and had joined a reflective order-this time as an ordinary sister, where, I hope, she learned to live in peace and forgetfulness.

The bishop himself fared less well. Though he protested that his false confession in our chapel had been extracted by fear, he never quite recovered from its effects. Rumors of his cowardice spread insidiously; open doors were softly closed; friendships withdrawn, ambitions quashed. I have heard reports that he too is planning to retire-ostensibly on the grounds of ill health-to the same monastery of which his late brother was abbot.

As for myself, I left the abbey that day. I could not stay and risk arrest-besides, too much had passed in that place for it to be a home for me again. So I left, taking with me LeMerle’s fine horse as well as the money and provisions I found in its saddlebags.

I found Fleur waiting for me in our agreed place, the orphan look gone from her face-had it ever even been there?-and we fled across the causeway, chased all the way by the tide, arriving at Pornic three hours later.

I do not imagine they looked for me very far. The bishop already had his man, and it would not have benefited him to blazon his Isabelle’s disgrace any further. I think he let me lose myself rather than face the story I might tell, and in any case I had the tide between us and the island, with an eleven-hour wait for the next safe passage across the strand.

Traveling with LeMerle had taught me to value caution. I sold his horse as I had Giordano’s mule so long ago, and with the proceeds bought myself a caravan and a mule to pull it. We lived well from our gold, Fleur and I, stopping for supplies in market towns but keeping to the smaller roads at other times for fear of the bishop’s men. Close by Perpignan we fell in with a group of gypsies who, when they heard my tale, welcomed us as their own. We had been traveling with them for almost three months until we met an Italian theater troupe who agreed to take us both.

Since then, we have toured provincial towns all over the district. The commedia dell‘ arte begins to gain in popularity as the Italianate fashions return, and masked, I need have no fear of being recognized as the Winged One of old. We are happy, Fleur and I, with our new friends: Fiorillo who plays Scaramouche, and Domenico, who plays Arlequin. Fleur plays the drum and dances, and I play piety once more with Isabelle. That I should be given that part-that name-always fills me with a kind of laughter so close to tears that sometimes I can hardly tell them apart. The mask hides my smiles-and the rest-and Beltrame, who leads the troupe, tells me he has never seen such a spirited Isabelle.

And yet there are times-many times this past winter-when I ask myself whether it is not time to have done with it all. A floor of boards is not so sturdy as one of earth, and the thought of a piece of earth of my own returns to haunt me even in my present happiness. Fleur needs a safe place, a home. A cottage by a village, a hearth, some ducks and a goat, a vegetable garden…Maybe my life at the abbey has lost me my taste for the wandering life, or maybe I begin to feel the approach of winter. I count my gold with more than greed in my heart and promise myself that before the winter comes I will have my cottage, my hearth…Fleur bangs her drum, laughing.

Over a year has passed since I left the abbey. I still dream of it sometimes, of the friends I left there, of my sweet Perette-how I wish I could have taken her with us! In some ways I miss the abbey life; I miss my herb garden, the companionship of the chapter house, the library, the Latin lessons, the long walks across the flats to the sea. But we are free here. Fleur’s nightmares have long since stopped, and this year has seen her grow taller, her hair darkened to russet but still bleached at the ends by the island’s sun, and though the knowledge sometimes saddens me that minute by minute she grows away from me into the young girl-the adult-she will one day become, she is still the same sweet Fleur, wilful yet trusting and filled with open wonder at the world.

Last week a messenger, traveling with a group of players from the North, brought me a packet. It was addressed to Juliett Ser Auguste, Dancer, in a round hand that I did not recognize, and it bore signs of having been carried for many months before the players came to me by chance. There was no address upon the packet, but my messenger told me it had been given him by a nun from Brittany some five months ago.

I opened it. The packet contained a leaf of thick paper, close-written in the same unfamiliar round hand, plus two printed news sheets. As I unfolded them something fell out from between the papers and rang upon the ground. I stooped to pick it up. It was a small enameled medallion that I knew well: on it was Christina Mirabilis, the miracle worker, floating arms outstretched within a ring of orange flame.

I read the letter. Here it is:

Dear Auguste,

I hope this Letter findes You, as I Praye every Daye thatt itt will. I think of You and Remembere You in my Prayers, You and Flore. I have kept Your Garden here, and Soeur Perpétue, who is very Kinde to Me, teaches me how to Tende itt and the Fowles which are My Duty. Margerit is the new abbesse now, and does Well enough. Itt is the Abbaye of Marie-de-la-mer Once Again, and I am Gladde of itt. I am Learning to Read and Write with the Help of Soeur Perpétue. She is Very Patiente, and minds nott thatt I am Slow. This is the First Letter I have ever Writ, and I Pray You will Excuse My Mistakes. I will Send itt with the Players at Mardi Gras. I love You Juliette, and Little Flore. I Send You Newes too of Père Colombin. I hope itt is nott a Sinne to be Gladde of Whatt has Past. I wish You Happinesse Both,

Your Perett

Printed text, dated September 1610.

Rennes Roundhouse

MARVELOUS AND MOST DREADFUL TALE OF WITCHCRAFTE!

On This, Twenty-First Daye of August, at the Abbey of Sainte-Marie-Mère was Apprehended a most Fell Sorceror, Accused, Tried, and Found Guilty of Various Offenses against God and the Holy Church. Perporting to be a Holy Cleric, the Accused, Guy LeMerle, named The Blackbird, Was Found to be in League with the Forces of Darknesse, to Consort with Familiars in the Guise of Birdes and to Conjure Satan, Bewitching to Death Several Holy Sisters of the Abbey by Foulest Means, and Guilty of Various Poisonings and Acts of Foule Desecration in the Abbey. When Questioned the Wretch Confesst Most Wholeheartedly to the Crimes of which he was Accused, showing a Most Damnable Pride in his Actions and Refusing to Recant his Allegiance to the Prince of Evil, even under Interrogation. Guards left to Ensure the Prisoner’s Safety reported most Marvelous and Fearful Sights during that fateful Eve, whereby Familiars, taking Several Forms of Birde or Beaste, did Visit him in his cell and did Speak with him throughout the Nighte, Entreating him to fly with them from the Place, but to no Avail. The Prisoner was Kept Secure, the cell Being Blest by His Holiness the Bishop of Évreux, and Barred Thrice with Steele. On the Day of September Ninth Justice Will be Done in the Marketplace in the Presence of the Bishop, of Judge René Durant, and of the People of the Town. In the Name of God and of His Majesty, Louis Dieudonné.

Second printed text, dated September 1610.

Rennes

MOST MONSTROUS AND DAMNABLE TALE OF A VISITATION

On this, the Seventh Day of September in Rennes, the Criminal and Convicted Sorcerer Guy The Blackbird Effected a Daring and most Monstrous Escape from Confinement in the Roundhouse of this Town, Being in league with the Spirits and Forces of Witchcraft. At midnight Guards set to at the Gate to Keep Close Watch upon the Prisoner were Approached by a Cloak’d Female bearing a Lantern, who did warn them to Stand Backe, if they did value their Souls.

Then Guards, Philippe Legros and Armand Nuillot, did request the Name of the Strange Visitor and were at once render’d Powerless by Witchcrafte, and despite Prayers and Brave Resistance did fall as if Drugg’d upon the Grounde.

Whereby Trembling with Righteous Fear they Observed the Female enter the Roundhouse by Demonic Means and in the Companie of Various Imps and Familiars, and though not Rendered quite Insensible, were by this Strange and Hellish Magicke Prevented from all Interference.

The Female left the Roundhouse some short Time Later, followed by a Cloak’d Figure, closely Wrapt about, which did then Reveal itself as Guy LeMerle, throwing off its Disguise with Laughter and much Manifestation of Joy. The Witch then bestrode him a Pitchforke which had been left lying beside the Hay Stall and did Flye into the Air upon it, with many Mocking Cries to the Unfortunates Below, who did perceive various Spirits and Familiars in the guise of Birdes, Battes, and Owles, which did Join Him in his Flighte. Monseigneur the Bishop of Évreux will have it Known that Any Man with Knowledge of this Fellow, or of his Associates, should with all Speed Divulge this Knowledge, or any Suspicion which may be Had of his Whereabouts, that this Witch may be Brought to the Justice of God and the Church. A Reward of Fifty Louis is offered for any Such Information.

Well, I recall no familiars. Nor the mad flight upon the pitchfork. Doubtless the guards invented the rest to escape punishment. As for my part-yes, Perette, I was the Female with the lantern-I cannot explain it. And yet like you, I feel a reluctant gladness to know that he escaped. A vestige, perhaps, of my early loyalty, or a desire for an end to this long, long dream.

I had always known Giordano’s alchemies would serve me someday. The roundhouse, with its thick walls and barred windows, was far from certain, even for your explosive powders, but well placed, and with a fuse made from a length of powder twine leading to a central bolus, I felt sure it would serve my purpose. I approached the guards first, offered them ale and companionship, and picked their pockets neatly in the process. I could have cut their throats-the old Juliette might have done just that-but I wanted to avoid it if I could; I have seen too many cruelties to add to the number. As it was, the guards ran away the minute the powder blew: and my assessment of their cowardice led me to hope for at least two minutes before they returned.

LeMerle was still half asleep when I came into the cell, curled upon the straw with his ragged cloak around him. Better not to look at him, I told myself: simply leave the lantern and the keys and let him make his own way if he could. I saw him twitch like a wakening cat and turned to go, afraid perhaps that if I did not, then I might never find the courage to leave him again. But it was too late; he murmured something indistinct and held up his arm to shield his face, and, like Orpheus, I looked back.

Of course he had been tortured; I had expected it. I know what happens during interrogation. Even a full confession only counts under torture. His face, half-turned into the light, was a mask of filth and bruises. His raised hand was a talon, every finger broken.

“Juliette?” It was barely a whisper; barely a voice. “My God, what dream is this?”

I could not reply. Instead I looked at him on the floor on the roundhouse and I saw myself-in the cell in Épinal, and the cellarium of the abbey-and remembered how I had sworn eternal revenge, sworn I’d see him suffer. I felt a pang of surprise that the thought of his suffering did not satisfy me as once I had imagined it would.

“It’s no dream. Hurry, if you want to be free.”

“Juliette?” He was more alert now in spite of the ravages done to him. “By God, is it in very truth witchcraft?”

I would not reply, I told myself.

“My Winged One.” Now I could have sworn there was laughter in the tone. “I knew it couldn’t end this way. After everything we were to each other-”

“No,” I said. “You were born to be hanged, not burned. This is destiny.”

He laughed aloud at that. They might have clipped his wings, I thought, but my Blackbird still sang. I was startled to realize how much the thought pleased me.

“Why do you delay?” My voice was sharp. “Are you so comfortable here?”

Silently he held his chained wrists to the light. I threw him the bunch of keys.

“I can’t. My hands.”

Haste made me clumsy, and I must have hurt him as I unlocked the irons. But his eyes held me still, bright and mocking as ever. “It could be as it was, you know,” he said, grinning with the anticipation of triumphs imagined. “I have money hidden away. We could start again. L’Ailée could fly once more. Forget carnival, forget market-day venues-that trick of yours in the tower was worth gold-”

“You’re mad.” I thought so too. Torture, imprisonment, ruin, failure, disgrace…Nothing had yet touched that arrogant assurance of his. That look of not-to-be-denied. He never gave a thought to the possibility of refusal, of rejection. I picked up the lantern, ready to go.

“You know you’d love it,” he said.

“No.” I was turning already toward the door. We had seconds, at best, before the guards returned. And perhaps the harm was already done, that last glimpse of his face in the soft glow of the lamp printed in fire and forever onto my heart.

“Please, Juliette.” At least now he was on his feet, following me to safety. “All those years I was traveling roads, trying to find my way and I never knew where until now. All those times I worked toward something I thought I wanted, which turned out to be nothing more than a passing whim on the hunt for some other rainbow’s end; all those women I lusted for and trifled with and ultimately punished for being too short, or too soft, or too young, or too pretty-”

“We don’t have time for this,” I said. I shook his hand from my shoulder, but he could not be stopped, every word he spoke a new refinement of pain.

“Come on, admit it. Why else would you have come back for me? It was you, Juliette. Always you. It didn’t matter whether you loved or hated me, we’re two parts of the same. We fit together. Complete each other.”

Without looking at him, and with a terrible effort, I began to walk away.

“Stubborn! Haven’t I chased you long enough?” I could hear anger now, and a kind of desperation. My step quickened. I could see the half-open door of the roundhouse in the torchlight. I ran out into the cool air. I could still hear LeMerle behind me, losing his footing, cursing in the dark. My shadow ran before me like a wild thing.

“You fool!” He was shouting now, heedless of whom he might alert. “Don’t you understand? Juliette! Must I say it in as many words?”

I could not hear it. I would not hear it. I ran forward into the night, a rushing silence in my ears, though beneath the pressing of my palms I fancied I still heard him, a ghost of him, an echo of desire.

I fled fast and reckless out of Rennes. Only I knew that it was two hunters I fled. And Perette, if it is a sin to be glad, then we are sinners both, for the thought of a world without LeMerle in it somewhere seems to me to be no world at all. I will write to you, sweetheart, and send the letter on with next season’s travelers. Tend my herbs well, but grow no morning glories among them. Chamomile brings sweet dreams, and lavender sweet thoughts. I wish you both, my Perette, and with them all the love you deserve.