The Witches of Cambridge (32 page)

“Well then,” Santiago says, grinning. “What are you waiting for, fatty?”

With every fiber of his being George wants to run from the gallery and not stop running until he reaches the café. So, careful to keep the fear from his eyes and the fire in his belly, George steps forward. He has one chance, he knows, one chance to catch Santiago off guard, one chance to pit the pathetic force of his power against the great, dark strength of Santiago’s.

As he steps forward, George reaches out to press his fingers over Santiago’s black heart and whisper the incantation, soft and low so Santiago can’t hear the words:

Coniungere vires ad de iustitia, et cum fata vindictam.

Mando tibi, et in die graviter redempti.

When the words have lifted off his tongue, George shuts his eyes, waiting for the blow he knows is coming. And yet, nothing happens. The air around him feels still, silent, and bright. George opens his eyes. He’s standing alone in front of the canvas of dark skies and purple seas. He opens his mouth. And then he sees something, a flicker of movement in the picture. George leans in and peers at the canvas. He squints, for the painting appears to be moving—ever so slightly—and nearly lost amid the crashing purple waves is a little bloodred boat being tossed among the spray, and clutching the helm is the tiny figure of Santiago, his face fixed in a scream.

Noa bursts out clapping. “Oh, George. I don’t believe it. I don’t bloody believe it.”

George just stares, speechless. And then, at the edge of his vision he sees a wisp of black hair, the flash of a smile, and, with his next breath, he inhales the scent of cinnamon sugar.

George smiles. “Thank you, thank you.”

Cosima’s voice floats through the air.
That wasn’t me. That was all you.

George frowns. “But…how?”

She laughs.
Sometimes we don’t know our strength until we need to use it.

—

Noa sits in the library, a pile of books on Monet on the long communal desk in front of her. She scribbles references and notes for her next tutorial. Every so often she stops to chew the cap of her pen. At the bottom of the pile is
Ulysses
, Amandine’s pick for this month’s book group. Noa hasn’t started reading it yet, slightly put off by the sheer size of the thing. She fingers the edge of its spine. Fiction would be a lot more fun, she thinks, if the words were accompanied by pictures.

Just then, another student drops a pile of books onto the desk a few feet away. Noa looks up and frowns. He’s dressed all in black with huge spiked boots, ripped skinny jeans, and a T-shirt emblazoned with an image of a bloody, severed head. He has matted, messy black hair, tattoos winding up his arms, heavily kohled eyes, two silver rings through his nose, and several more through both ears. Noa raises an eyebrow. He glowers at her and sits. Noa bites her tongue, then, unable to stop herself, leans toward him.

“It’s a good disguise,” she says softly.

He frowns. “What?”

“All this,” Noa says, gesturing at him. “Your elaborate costume, all smoke and mirrors so people—your parents—won’t see your secrets.”

At first he looks at her, stunned. And then he laughs.

“You’re hilarious. And delightfully bizarre.”

Noa shrugs. “And your father will understand that you don’t want to be an engineer. He might take a bit of convincing that you want to be a rock star, but I bet he’ll come around eventually.”

He stares at her. “Who the hell
are
you?”

“Noa.”

He holds out his hand.

“Claude. It’s fucking awesome to meet you.”

“Thanks.” Noa smiles. “And swearing doesn’t make you more interesting. You do it to distract people too, so they won’t see you. But, if you let them, they’ll like you.”

“Wow. You’re pretty direct, aren’t you?” Claude says. He eyes her and grins. “I think you might just be my new favorite person in the world.”

“Oh,” Noa says, a little taken aback.

Claude stands, slapping the engineering textbook on the top of the pile firmly. “So, since I won’t be needing these anymore, let’s split this joint and go find something fun. Failing that, we could drown our sorrows in copious amounts of caffeine. What d’ya think?”

Noa nods, concealing a little smile.

To love and be loved, she thinks, is perhaps not so impossible after all.

—

It’s Sunday morning. Héloïse and Theo stroll along Market Street together on their way toward pistachio cream croissants and Italian coffee for breakfast at Gustare. Theo has a newspaper tucked under his arm, ready to share the book review section while they eat. As they walk, not talking for a while, Héloïse enjoys the silence, the fact that they can be together, not needing to say anything, simply being together. And she’s still surprised, even after a year, by how easy it is, by how they seem to fit together without any effort or question. As they turn the corner into the market square, Héloïse stumbles over a discarded Coke can. Without thinking, she bends down to pick it up, then walks on and drops it in the bin. As her fingers let the can go, Héloïse has a sudden flash of memory to the bottle of paracetamol that still sits in her bathroom cabinet. If I weren’t here right now, she thinks, that can would still be lying on the pavement. Héloïse smiles.

Theo glances over at her. “I can hear you smiling.”

“I was just thinking about the little things,” she says, “about how it’s just all a matter of perspective.”

“Yes.”

“Theo, I’ve got something to tell you. Something else.”

“What?”

“It’s about Hemingway.”

“Oh?” Theo asks. “Great, I love Hemingway.”

Héloïse smiles. “Yes, I know you do.”

“You do?”

Héloïse nods. “A year ago I bought your books.”

“What books?”

“
A Moveable Feast
and
The Old Man and the Sea
.”

“My favorites.”

“You’d written all over them, in green pen—annotations, comments, thoughts and feelings. I read them and I…I shared every opinion. I didn’t realize it was you then, of course.” Héloïse smiles. “But that’s how I found you, I found you because of those books, because of what you’d written.”

Theo fixes his gaze on her, a smile of private delight on his lips.

“What?” Héloïse asks. “What?”

“Those were my books—”

“Yes, I know…”

“But I didn’t write in them.”

Héloïse stares at him. “You didn’t?”

Theo shakes his head. “Maggie did.”

“Oh,” Héloïse gasps. “
Mon dieu
.”

“Yes.” His smile deepens. “She drove me crazy, writing her thoughts in all my favorite books. When I’d go back to reread them I’d find all these essays in green pen.” Theo laughs. “I had to keep buying extra copies so I could read them without getting distracted. Until Mags got to them too.”

For a moment, Héloïse is knocked sideways, not knowing what to think or feel. Then Theo reaches for her hand.

“Maggie was my angel,” he says. “And she gave me one last gift: she brought me you.”

Héloïse sighs. She squeezes his hand. And then, for the first time since François died, Héloïse sees a glimpse of the future. She smiles.

—

“Add dried azalea leaves to the list,” Kat calls. “Oh, and we’re nearly out of fennel flowers, so let’s get more of them too.”

George steps into the kitchen, notebook in hand. “Anything else?”

“Nope,” Kat says. “Not right now.”

“Aura wants you to see her drumming skills, when you’re done.”

Kat smiles. “I’ll just pop the breakfast bread in the oven. Marcello’ll be here in a few minutes, then I’m free.”

“She’s banging spoons on the tables and giggling maniacally. She’d be at it with the knives too, if I let her.” He smiles. “That nurse was right, she’s several handfuls of mischief.”

“Just like her mum,” Kat says, kneading an extra pinch of salt into her dough, “so we know she’ll turn out all right in the end.”

George nods, grinning. “See you in a sec.”

“Yep.”

When Kat comes out of the kitchen, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron, and steps into the café, she sees her niece sitting on a tabletop with a spoon clenched tightly in each chubby hand, banging them against the wood. George sits at the table, drinking a cup of coffee, watching his daughter. Next to his cup sits a copy of
Winnie-the-Pooh
and one of
Ulysses
.

“How are you getting on with that?” Kat asks, nodding at the books.

Aura gives her aunt a toothless grin. “Am-ma!”

“Hello, kitten.” Kat sits, holding out an espresso cup. “I’ve brought you your favorite, frothy milk.”

“
Ulysses
is a walk in the park,” George says. “
Winnie-the-Pooh,
on the other hand, is a little more complex…”

Kat blows on the milk to cool it. “I’ve been on page five for the last three days. I don’t know what Amandine was thinking.”

“Perhaps she thought we needed a challenge.”

“Life’s a challenge,” Kat says. “I like to keep my literature simple.”

George looks at her, then at his daughter. “Life’s lovely,” he says.

“Yes,” Kat says. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

She sets the cup down on the table in front of Aura. “Here you are, kitten. Drink slowly.”

Squealing with delight, Aura grasps the cup in her chubby hands, then sets it down on the tabletop and drops one of her teaspoons into the cup. A little milk splashes up and Aura giggles.

The café door opens then and Marcello walks inside, bringing a gust of wind with him, along with Hamish.

“
Ciao a tutti!
” Marcello gallops over to Aura and squeezes her until she squeals with delight. Then he glances at George and winks. George blushes and gives him a little grin.

“Morning, all,” Hamish says, stepping over to Kat and giving her a quick but rather passionate kiss. “You ready for
Relations Between Banach Space Theory and Geometric Measure Theory
?”

“Does
E
equal
mc
squared?” Kat smiles. “Unless you want to stay for pistachio cream croissants and coffee?”

“Too right,” Hamish says. He follows Marcello into the kitchen.

Kat places a hand on her best friend’s shoulder and George looks up at her. “You’re right,” Kat says. “It’s lovely indeed.” Then she nods in the direction of the kitchen. “And I think it’s about to get even lovelier.”

While they talk about George and Marcello’s second date they don’t see the teaspoon in Aura’s cup slowly turn itself, stirring her milk. The little girl looks up, grinning her toothless grin. The scent of cinnamon sugar wafts through the air with a sprinkle of laughter.

“Ma-ma,” Aura whispers. “Ma-ma!”

—

Amandine sits next to Eliot on a bench overlooking a lake in the Botanic Garden. The sun is slipping behind the trees and the shadows are long on the grass. Frankie and Bertie run across the lawn, their little legs dashing, their blond heads a blur, weaving in and out of the trees, giggling and screaming as Sylvia chases them. Eliot reaches for his wife’s hand and laces his fingers between hers.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Eliot asks.

“Of course. I look at the poster of that painting every day in my office. It’s still my favorite.”

“I’ve got a confession to make,” he says.

Amandine stiffens. “Now I’m nervous.”

“No, it’s not a bad thing,” Eliot says. “At least, I hope you don’t think so.”

“What is it?”

“The day we met, it wasn’t an accident.”

Amandine frowns. “Sorry?”

Eliot looks down into his lap. “I was sort of stalking you.”

Amandine laughs. “What?”

“I saw you walking along Trumpington Road and I followed you into the Fitzwilliam. I watched you there, for hours. I watched you while you gazed at all those paintings. I fell in love with you then. So of course I had to meet you.”

Amandine smiles, thinking she’s never loved her husband more than she does in this moment. “I don’t believe…I can’t believe you never told me that before.”

Eliot shrugs. “I felt a bit silly. And I didn’t want to give you airs.”

Amandine laughs. “I’ve got something to tell you too,” she says. “It’s sort of…a slightly big secret.”

“Oh dear,” Eliot says. “Now I’m nervous.”

“No, it’s not a bad thing. Well…”

“Well, what?”

“You might not believe me at first,” Amandine says, taking a deep breath. “But I promise—”

“Ah,” Eliot says. “Is this about you floating about on rooftops?”

Amandine stares at her husband, speechless.

“Okay,” he says, “so I’ll admit…I didn’t just stalk you at the museum. I followed you around a few other places too. I must admit, it was a bit of a shock at first. But stranger things have happened.”

Amandine laughs. “Have they?”

Eliot gives a little shrug and smiles.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“I thought I’d let you tell me in your own time,” Eliot says. “I trusted you would, in the end.”

“Oh,” Amandine says, thinking of how she hadn’t trusted him, how she’d thought he was having an affair, how she’d stalked him herself. Amandine squeezes her husband’s hand, then turns and kisses his cheek. “Thank you.”

Eliot smiles. “For what?”

“For everything. For this lovely, lovely life.”

Cosima’s Flowers and Herbs

Acacia—
Secret love

Allium—
Prosperity

Amaranth—
Immortality

Baby’s breath—
Everlasting love

Basil—
Hate

Bells of Ireland—
Good luck

Bluebell—
Constancy

Bougainvillea—
Passion

Celandine—
Joys to come