Immortal Muse (6 page)

The dinner was Provost Marcel's affair. That by itself was troubling. The rumors were that Charles of Navarre and his men were close to the city, that they would enter Paris at the Provost's invitation. From the Left Bank to the Right, and all over the Île de la Cité, the factions were stirring.

No one was in much of a mood for a gathering, but the Provost's invitation was not to be turned down. Nicolas, for his part, appeared almost jolly at the thought. “You are all to remain inside,” Nicolas told the staff as they were preparing to leave. “Marianne, you and Telo are to bar the doors and don't let anyone in you don't know. We should return by midnight.” He called to Telo, now a strapping lad of seventeen, and pointed to the door that Marianne was holding open. “You're to be the door guard tonight,” he said. “You're to stay right here until we return. Do you understand?”

Telo nodded. “Nicolas,” Perenelle asked, concerned, “are you expecting trouble tonight? Why these precautions?”

Beneath his best cloak, Nicolas shrugged. His face was impassive behind the hedge of his beard. “I expect nothing,” he answered, “but it's good to be prepared for anything in these days.”

Perenelle frowned. She crouched down to hug Verdette good-bye, and looked at Élise over the girl's head. “Make sure that Verdette stays out of trouble, and otherwise, do as Master Flamel has said. Let no one in that we don't know. We'll be back soon. Verdette, you'll behave, won't you? I want you to say your prayers especially well tonight, and go to bed early. I think it's going to storm. You'll do that, won't you?”

“Yes, Maman,” Verdette said, her face so solemn as she nodded that Perenelle had to laugh.

Nicolas had already left the house. Perenelle stood, patted Verdette on the head. “Say a special prayer for me,” she told the girl. She nodded to the servants, then followed Nicolas outside.

The July heat had also gifted the entire city with the overripe smell of a midden. Her surcoat was long, and Perenelle gathered up the train over one elbow so that it didn't become soiled during their walk. The central gutter of the rue Saint-Denis was clogged with offal and there had been no rain in over a week to wash away the effluvium—that would be another blessing if a storm came tonight. Overhead, the sky was already dark, the clouds masking the moon and stars. Perenelle found herself wishing that she'd read the cards earlier; there was a sense that something was to happen tonight. The street was strangely empty, only a few people venturing out. The closest shops were shuttered, their window ledges pulled in.

Nicolas waited for her at the gate of their house; he crooked his arm to her as she approached—in public, he was always careful that their marriage appear entirely proper and happy. He even managed a smile as she took his arm, and he noticed that she glanced at the sky. “If the storm breaks while we're at dinner,” he said, “we'll borrow an oilcloth from the Provost. After all, he's a draper.” His smile widened, as if he'd made a joke.

Nicolas set off down the rue. He carried a staff in his free hand, though it wasn't his formal cane, but an oak limb that she'd noticed in his laboratory a few days ago, the whorled knob of the top strangely dark, as if it had been in a fire.

The uncapped end of the staff
clunked
dully on the cobbles of the rue. “So, Madame,” he asked, as if he were making conversation at the dinner, “how goes your work lately?”

She hesitated. Since Nicolas had given Perenelle her own laboratory, he'd rarely asked about her progress. Despite his gift of the space, he seemed to believe that she could accomplish nothing and that her puttering about was nothing more than a silly female dalliance, whereas his own work was vital and all-important. He'd laughed when she'd declared, in the first days of her work, that she would seek to unlock the Great Work: the Philosopher's Stone.

Nicolas had respect for Perenelle only for her ability to decipher and translate the old texts, a task at which she was far better than he. That was the payment she made for her laboratory—she had to translate and copy all the many manuscripts he purchased. She had to give him the knowledge they contained, even if she wasn't permitted to make copies for her own research, nor did he ever acknowledge her help.

Sometimes she resented the labor, but she stroked the pendant and those feelings would eventually recede. Nicolas loved her, despite his gruffness, his temper, and his neglect. She could hear his voice as it had been, kind and gentle, and her irritation would recede. He needed her; that was enough.

She knew that what Nicolas sought in the old manuscripts was more visceral and immediate than her quest for the Philosopher's Stone: the spells and incantations of power. The only part of alchemy that interested him was the “Solve et Coagula” portion of the Great Work: dissolving the
prima materia
so it could be reconstituted in the coagula part of the formula—mercury turned to solid silver, lead to gold; the white and red stones. That way led to riches, after all.

For her part, Perenelle had no interest in that aspect. She had turned her attention to the property of the Stone that was said to heal and to give immortality: the liquid part of the stone, the elixir of life.

“It goes slow,” she answered. “I fear that the answers I'm seeking aren't in the manuscripts we've yet found, and I feel as if I'm groping in a dark room while my hands are covered in thick mittens. I can reproduce all the experiments my father started—as you know—but what eluded him still eludes me. The mice to which I've fed my poor attempts have all died a normal death, or they die early.”

Nicolas laughed. The sound of his amusement bounced from the shop signs and buildings around them as they approached the bridge to the Île de la Cité, where the Provost's apartments were located. “And your work, husband?” she asked him.

“It goes better than yours,” he answered. “I have begun to unlock the mystery. The manuscripts begin to talk to me.” His lips tightened grimly. “And at an auspicious time.”

“What's happening, Nicolas?” she asked him. “What are you expecting?”

He didn't answer at first. They stepped on the Ponte au Change, the Seine rolling underneath on its slow, wandering way to the sea. “The Provost oversteps himself,” he said finally. “And it will cost him dearly.”

“Something will happen
tonight
?”

“Perhaps,” he answered. “But you will act as if you expect nothing. You will smile and be the perfect wife and companion, or you will regret your foolishness and Verdette will as well. You will show nothing. Do you understand me?” His arm tightened against her hand with the words. “Say it,” he hissed.

Her eyes had widened, and she wanted to touch the pendant, though she couldn't with him restraining her. “I'll show nothing,” she said.

“Good.” The staff tapped on the cobbles again as they passed over the Seine. He released her hand. “That is all I require of you. Have the wits to follow that direction.”

She nodded. She found the pendant with her now-free hand and she stroked it, letting the touch of it soothe her.

 * * * 

The d
inner took place in the great hall of the Royal Palace, the very location an indication of how Provost Marcel now regarded his status within the city. The hall was lit with great sconces with the Valois sigils significantly missing below, and all the chandeliers were ablaze with candles. Liveried servants were on hand to usher them in, and Provost Marcel and his wife, Marguerite des Essars, greeted them at the hall's entrance. “Ah, Madame Flamel,” the Provost said as he took her hand. “You look wonderful as always, and that necklace is gorgeous. You and Monsieur Flamel are a shining example of marriage for all of us. How is Verdette?”

“She's very well, Provost. Thank you for asking.”

“She's a beautiful child. Beautiful,” he said, still holding her hand and smiling, though his gaze slid across her face to Nicolas, speaking with Madame Marcel. “I smile every time I have the opportunity to see her. And she deserves to live in a world that values what you and your husband best represent. Let us look forward to that day, Madame Flamel.”

“That is my one great wish, Provost,” she answered. He inclined his head and she curtsied to him, passing into the hall as Nicolas made his own greetings to the man. Most of the diners were already there and seated: the bourgeoisie mostly—the wealthy merchants of the city. There was a heavy buzz of conversation in the hall, but few of the faces seemed to be smiling, and those few smiles were fleeting. She noticed that the minor nobles among the bourgeoisie were conspicuously absent, and none of those loyal to the Dauphin were in attendance at all. The air held a decided tension despite the brilliance of the hall and the festive draperies around the room—no doubt furnished by the Provost's own workshops. The hall might glitter and gleam, but those within were inhabited by a darker mood.

She felt Nicolas alongside her; she took his arm and they descended the few steps into the hall as servants pulled out the assigned chairs.

They were seated next to Benoît Picot and his wife Yvette, well down the table from the head where the Provost would be seated. Yvette was dressed in the latest fashion, her surcoat fully open at the sides to expose the lavishly embroidered underdress. She wore a pearl-laden choker and her shoulders were nearly bare, the low décolletage of the underdress and surcoat both frothing with lace.

It seemed to Perenelle that the others at the table kept glancing toward them—toward Nicolas. For his part, Nicolas seemed at ease, sitting back in his chair with the knob of his oak staff under his hand. The long table was laden with fine china and silver; Perenelle wondered where the Provost had come by such rich settings. Yvette noticed her looking at the silver, and she leaned over to Perenelle, her sweeping headdress touching Perenelle's own. “Navarre silver,” she whispered. “Or worse, English.”

Perenelle nodded. She stroked the silver handle of the knife; it was cold under her fingertip.

The Provost had finished greeting the guests, and now he and his wife moved to their seats at the head of the table, two of the wait staff pulling back their chairs. One of the deacons from Notre Dame stood and intoned the blessing. As the diners crossed themselves and the priest sat again, there was a flurry of activity around the hall as the food was brought in. The fare was as lavish as the setting, which given the uncertain state of the city, was in itself another display of the Provost Marcel's influence. Steaming plates of grilled vegetables came out first, arranged so that the vegetables formed images of well-known Parisian buildings. Roasted swans and peacocks were set on the table, reconstructed with their feathers and beaks, and stuffed with an assortment of meats, which the wait staff proceeded to serve. Platters of breads and pastries were set close to hand. Wine was poured into crystalline goblets. For a time, the diners concerned themselves only with eating.

Some time later, a bell was rung, and Provost Marcel stood as a silence moved slowly down the table. “My friends, my compatriots, my allies,” the Provost began, “the last few years have seen a great diminishment of our country and our city. The shameful performance of our army at Poitiers and the capture of King Jean were only the first signs. Since then, the dauphin has ignored the initiatives given him by the Estates General; he has tried to force upon us his Edict of Reform; he has devalued the very coins with which we buy bread and supplies. We here tonight—those whose sweat and energy are our city's greatest wealth, and who know best how to govern ourselves—are paying the price for the dauphin's incompetence.”

With that, a murmur arose, with several of the men rising to their feet in protest. “Treason!” Perenelle heard one of them shout. “The dauphin—” but the Provost raised his hands and shouted louder.

“Hear me out!” he called. “It is time for us to choose a better ruler while we can.” He clapped his hands, and four servants came in carefully handling a massive gingerbread-and-marzipan replica of the gates and towers of the Porte St. Michel. They set it down before the Provost. “King Charles of Navarre will be outside these gates tomorrow,” he said. “I propose that we, the true leaders of the city, unlock the porte and welcome him in. I say, give me the keys and I will be the first to greet them.”

The murmuring became an uproar, the uproar chaos. Everyone was shouting at once, gesticulating with fists and waving arms. A fight broke out mid-table, with a portly merchant pushed into the remains of a swan. Women shouted in alarm and moved back from the table. Perenelle rose with them, wondering which way she could flee. She looked at Nicolas.

And stopped. He was still seated, his head bowed over the oak staff, which he now clutched in both hands. His graying beard was moving, as if he was speaking, but she couldn't hear his words against the noise of the room. As she watched, curiously, she saw the knob of the staff seem to writhe under his hand, and a dark glow emerged from it, as if night oozed from the grain of the oak. No one else seemed to have noticed, but she heard a cry from the head of the table where Marcel had been standing, trying to shout down the crowd. The wail, high and shrill, turned everyone's head to the Provost. He was still standing, but now he clutched at his throat, his mouth working but no words emerging from his throat, only that unearthly, horrible keening. A terrible agony was written on the Provost's face: in the corded muscles of his neck; in the bulging, wide eyes; in the tongue that lolled from that open mouth, black as a lump of coal, black as the head of Nicolas' staff; in the heaving, desperate breaths he was trying to take; in the bloodless color of his face. Marguerite was shrieking alongside him, calling for someone,
anyone
to help as she grasped his arm.

The Provost's wail stopped suddenly, as if severed with a knife, and the silence was more horrifying than the sound. He seemed unable to take in a breath. He swayed in his wife's embrace. Perenelle glanced from the Provost to Nicolas; he was staring at the Provost's agony, no longer muttering, and there was an eager intensity to his gaze and a curve to his lips under the rampart of his beard. He was evidently taking great pleasure in the Provost's suffering, and that frightened Perenelle—she'd seen the ghost of this same expression in his face when he punished Verdette or one of the house staff.