Book of Stolen Tales (28 page)

“As you can tell, I'm well defended,” Renard said. “And this doesn't include the security measures you can't see.”

I gathered that the point of this tour was to impress Dina. He could wage a small war with these armaments. Dina's eyes lit up when she saw the weapons. I sensed for the first time since we'd fled Naples that she felt safe and protected from Alessio and Mancini.

Several large glass display cases held a set of solid gold dinnerware, a vast collection of coins, and jewelry. Ropes of matched pearls, amethyst-encrusted earrings, and a necklace of fire opals were arranged on black velvet trays.

There, alongside the jewelry, sat the second volume of Basile's anthology. “Can I take a look at this?” I asked, indicating the book.

“Possibly,” Renard said slowly. “Later perhaps.”

I pressed him on it. “I'd also appreciate it if you'd consider signing the photographed copy indicating where and when you purchased the book.”

“Let's deal with that later, too,” he said again. His less than enthusiastic response bothered me, but I could hardly snatch his keys and open the display case. They dangled from a ring on his belt so I had no chance to get them.

Renard drew our attention to a bracelet of fat pinkish pearls with a little pendant enclosing an enameled portrait. The bracelet was oddly suspended from a light fixture. He scooped it off and presented it to Dina.
“Un cadeau pour mademoiselle. Un petit
token.”
He fastened it around her slender wrist. She beamed with pleasure and he pointed to the pendant.

“C'est que j'ai utilise pour ressembler à,”
he said.
What he used to look like
.

He took us to other rooms, many of which I hadn't seen in my wanderings the night before. The first, a glass conservatory filled with exotic plants, doubled as an aviary. I recognized a white cockatoo and parrots with jewel-green plumage; others I had no name for. In another room, he showed off an enormous wardrobe containing ball gowns and men's dress from bygone ages. Silk sashes, leather boots, women's dress slippers, elaborate masks. Costumes, perhaps, from plays and parties his ancestors once staged.

Eventually he excused himself. “I have matters to attend to this afternoon and ask you to join me for dinner at eight.”

“A fascinating gentleman,” Dina observed after he'd left. “He was handsome once.” She held up the bracelet. The pendant showed the face of a young man, in his twenties I guessed, with long chestnut hair, expressive brown eyes, and a strong jaw.

“Strange man, in my opinion. Although you two seem to have become fast friends.”

“I certainly hope so! I adore this place. He has marvelous taste, don't you think?”

“Yes, he has. Where did your clothes come from?”

“He keeps them for guests, apparently. There are more stunning dresses too.”

“You'll have a much better chance to persuade him to let me photograph the book, Dina. Will you do that?”

“Let's be patient. We can't just storm in here making demands.” “On the contrary, we need to keep moving. Alessio followed us last night. That means Mancini knows we're here.”

“Renard can protect us. There's no way I'm rushing away.”

This was building toward an argument between us so I relented. “Okay. We can stay a little longer; it won't hurt to rest up. But we don't know whether we can trust him. What happened to his face, anyway? Is he a burn victim I wonder?”

“An accident. He traveled frequently to oversee his family's business. An oil tanker collided with his car and he almost died. He's quite sensitive about it. Since then he's kept to himself on the estate.”

Twenty-Eight

November 24, 2003

Les Alpilles, France

A
shiftless and unrewarding afternoon ensued. I asked one of the stable grooms to accompany me into the wood surrounding the garden to satisfy myself about Alessio's fate. We retraced the route back to the forest path. I found the trampled bushes where he fled from the dogs easily enough; that was all. I searched the area; there was no sign of his body. No blood on the leaves, no torn clothing. Either he'd survived or Renard's men had disposed of the evidence. Was he alive? And if so, where had he gone? It had been easy enough for Dina and me to walk right into the house. What prevented Alessio from doing so?

The body of the doe had also disappeared. There was no sign of it in the clearing. I wasn't sure what to make of its absence.

I decided to return to the library to find something to read. Renard hinted he was a follower of the occult. He might have some interesting material about necromancy. As I passed by the library window I chanced to look in and saw Dina and Renard sitting side by side. So much for his pressing matters of the afternoon. Dina's head was bent, her long locks curling over her shoulder. She held a book in her hands and appeared to be reading to him. Over his face flitted the most conflicting expressions. Not the quietly attentive look one would expect from a listener. No, his gaze bore down on Dina with a savage lust. She'd look up at him after finishing a passage, perhaps to add her thoughts about the piece, and suddenly the wildness would disappear as if he'd learned to push it away at will.

When I got inside, the rest of the household staff had finally materialized. One of them was kind enough to bring me coffee in my room. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading the English translation and making notes.

When we entered the dining room that evening, Renard was nowhere to be found. Dina looked around nervously while a manservant poured wine. The merchant didn't put in an appearance until the first course was served twenty minutes later. He looked even larger as he appeared in the doorway, his tall figure thrown into relief by light from the huge, five-pronged silver candelabra. Dinner was an uncomfortable affair. Renard seemed tense and spoke little, although I couldn't help noticing the way he doted on Dina's every word. He had little to say to me. Nor did he linger once the meal was over. He rose and bade us a curt good night. I looked at Dina meaningfully but she wouldn't meet my gaze.

Once again, as night descended, the house grew silent as if the two of us were its sole occupants. Dina didn't seem inclined to talk and took up a book to read in front of the fire. I prowled through the chambers once more to satisfy my curiosity about where Renard had gone. I checked the strong room. It was firmly locked and the book within it. Not finding him upstairs, I went down to the kitchen. His two dogs were curled up in front of the hearth. One of them leapt up, growling, hackles raised. I quickly shut the door. Interesting. For some reason he'd kept them inside tonight.

I happened to glance out the hall window on my way back to the drawing room and saw Renard striding across the gravel drive. I slipped out the front doors and followed him quietly, trying to remain unobserved. If he caught me I'd just say I was restless and couldn't sleep.

The moon was as strong as last night. He walked through the avenue of statues with their vividly flaming torches, and as he did, his figure appeared to recede. The depth of shadow and the torch-light must have been playing a visual trick on me. I rubbed my eyes. When I looked again, he'd vanished.

I wandered down the row of statues, looking left and right, thinking he must have veered off somewhere. Soon I came to the ranks of flower beds, but couldn't find any sign of him. The forest lay ahead. I stopped then, having no intention of venturing into it.

Young trees and bushes grew thickly at the wood's edge, their branches interlaced, the moonlight tracing each twig and leaf to compose a silvery web. I sensed a presence in the trees ahead, but could make out nothing more than their limbs glistening with frost. I peered intently at the pattern of branches. They shifted, but not from the wind as there was little breeze. Something was watching me.

A white stag, its antlers hidden among the tracery of branches and twigs, stood among the trees. It was a giant, the tip of its head a good seven feet off the ground. Then it moved, and I saw the head belonged to a tall human form swathed in a long shadowy cloak. A kind of phosphorescent glow seemed to surround the figure, although that may have been the effect of the moonlight.

Its dark eyes glittered with malice. What on earth was Renard playing at? The stag head, magical though it seemed, must be some kind of elaborate ruse. In the still, wintry night I could almost believe the vision was real.

Just as quickly as it had appeared, with a white flash it turned and fled deeper into the forest. Was this a threat Renard concocted knowing I'd follow him tonight? Or had I caught him unawares in some bizarre nightly ritual? His fascination with the occult led him down some strange paths.

We saw nothing of the merchant the next day. One of his staff informed us we'd be expected for dinner again that night. Dina immersed herself in the library, which she exclaimed was so impressive she could spend the rest of her life there.

“During my years at the palazzo,” she said, “the few pleasant moments I had were mostly spent in the library. And I went often to the
biblioteca nazionale
, with my guard trailing along, of course—that's how I became friends with ewan. Except for him and Luisa I had no companions. So books became my friends. I always feel happiest around them.”

At eight that evening Renard and I stood at the foot of the staircase waiting for Dina. He was dressed in formal dinner attire but offered me nothing from his “guest” apparel. I suppose if he regarded me as some kind of rival for Dina's affection that made sense. I felt out of place in my sadly wrinkled jacket and jeans.

Dina appeared at the head of the stairs in a silk gown, a deep rose red. Its hem brushed the floor. It set off her pale skin and dark eyes beautifully. Circled around her wrist was the bracelet he'd given her. On her long, slender neck she wore the fire opal necklace.

Renard's fingers trembled when he took her hand. He seemed to grasp it too tightly at first, as if he couldn't help himself. He quickly apologized and released her.

Candles were the only source of light in the dining room, but they provided an agreeable, muted radiance. The dining table was set with linen, crystal, and the gold dinner service. We didn't sit down to eat immediately; instead Dina took her place at the grand piano at the far end of the room.

I watched Renard as he leaned on the piano listening avidly to her play and sing. I loved her voice as much as the first time I'd heard her sing but felt stung by their exclusion. Renard's brown eyes softened whenever he looked at her and his every gesture spoke of complete infatuation. And yet there were also glimpses of that feral nature I'd seen last night. I sensed he was constantly at war with his dark internal instincts.

Because of my brother I grew up steeped in Mesopotamian lore, so my observations were quite naturally often influenced by those old legends. Now, observing a man with violent impulses who'd become entranced with Dina, I was reminded of Gilgamesh and his companion of the soul, the primitive Enkidu, raised by wild animals. Gilgamesh's solution to pacifying him? He asked a woman to seduce Enkidu and teach him the ways of civilized life. I thought I saw something of this nature at work that evening. The relevance of those stories written thousands of years ago never ceased to amaze me.

Dina encouraged Renard's attention by flirting with him pitilessly.

I hoped this might change when we were seated at the table but it was not to be. They addressed each other, frequently in French, barely acknowledging my presence. The dinner, at least, was sumptuous, accompanied by excellent wines. Dina and I did justice to every course except for a serving of venison so rare it swam in blood. Renard ate that but otherwise barely touched his food. After the port, fruit, and a delectable Boursin, our host signaled to one of his staff. A few minutes later the man returned carrying the book. He placed it in front of the merchant.

Renard toyed with it and then eyed me. “I've come up with a proposal.”