Stefan, I have written this tonight as much to stave off madness, as to make the record. I am weary now. I have packed my valise, and I am ready to leave this town when I have seen this bitter story to the end. I will seal this letter and put it in my valise with the customary note affixed to it, that in the event of my death, a reward will be waiting for it in Amsterdam, should it be delivered there, and so forth and so on.
For I do not know what the daylight will bring. And I shall continue this tragedy by means of a new letter if I am settled tomorrow evening in another town.
The sunlight is just coming through the windows. I pray somehow Deborah can be saved; but I know it is out of the question. And Stefan, I would call her devil to me, if I thought he would listen. I would try to command him in some desperate action. But I know I have no such power, and so I wait.
Yours Faithfully in the Talamasca,
Petyr van Abel
Montcleve
Michaelmas, 1689
Michael had now finished the first typescript. He withdrew the second from its manila folder, and he sat for a long moment, his hands clasped on top of it, praying stupidly that somehow Deborah was not going to burn.
Then unable to sit still any longer, he picked up the phone, called the operator, and asked to speak to Aaron.
“That picture in Amsterdam, Aaron, the one painted by Rembrandt,” he said, “do you still have it?”
“Yes, it is still there, Michael, in the Amsterdam Motherhouse. I’ve already sent for a photograph from the Archives. It’s going to take a little time.”
“Aaron, you know this is the dark-haired woman! You know it is. And the emerald-that must be the jewel I saw. Aaron, I could swear I know Deborah. She must be the one who came to me, and she had the emerald around her neck. And Lasher … Lasher is the word I spoke when I opened my eyes on the boat.”
“But you do not actually remember it?”
“No, but I’m sure … And Aaron-”
“Michael, try not to interpret, or to analyze. Go on with your reading. There isn’t much time.”
“I need a pen and paper to take notes.”
“What you need is a notebook in which you can record all your thoughts, and anything that comes back to you about the visions.”
“Exactly, I wish I’d been keeping a notebook all along.”
“I’ll have one sent up. Let me recommend that you merely date each entry as you would in a free-form diary. But please continue. There’ll be some fresh coffee for you shortly. Anything else, simply ring.”
“That will do it. Aaron, there are so many things … ”
“I know, Michael. Try to stay calm. Just read.”
Michael hung up, lighted a cigarette, drank a little more of the old coffee, and stared at the cover of the second file.
At the first sound of a knock, he went to the door.
The kindly woman he’d seen earlier in the hallway was there with the fresh coffee, and several pens and a nice leather notebook with very white lined paper. She set the tray down on the desk and removed the old service, and quietly went out.
He seated himself again, poured a fresh cup of black coffee, and immediately opened the notebook, entered the date, and made his first note:
“After reading the first folder of the file, I know that Deborah is the woman I saw in the visions. I know her. I know her face, and her character. I can hear her voice if I try.
“And it is more than a safe guess that the word I spoke to Rowan when I came around was Lasher. But Aaron is right. I don’t really remember this. I simply know it.
“And of course the power in my hands is connected. But how is it meant to be used? Surely not to touch things at random, the way I’ve been doing, but to touch something specific …
“But it’s too soon to draw conclusions … ”
But if I only had something of Deborah’s to touch, he thought. But he sensed there was nothing, or else Aaron would have sent for it too. He examined the photocopies of Petyr van Abel’s letters. That’s all they were-photocopies. No good for his anxious hands.
He thought for a moment, if such confusion in one’s mind could be called thought, and then he drew a picture in the notebook of a necklace, showing a rectangular jewel in the center, and a filigree border, and a chain of gold. He drew it the way he would draw an architectural design, with very clean, straight lines and slightly shaded detail.
He studied it, the gloved fingers of his left hand working nervously in his hair, and then curling into a fist as he rested his hand on the desk. He was about to scratch out the drawing when he decided against it, and then he opened the second file and began to read.
Fourteen
Marseille, France
October 4, 1689
Dear Stefan,
I am here in Marseille after several days’ journey from Montcleve, during which I rested at Saint-Rémy and made my way very slowly from there, on account of my wounded shoulder and wounded soul.
I have already drawn money from our agent here, and will post this letter no later than one hour after I finish it, and so you will receive it on the heels of my last, which I posted upon my arrival last night.
I am heartsick, Stefan. The comforts of a large and decent inn here mean little or nothing to me, though I am glad to be out of the small villages and in a city of some size, where I cannot help but feel at ease and somewhat safe.
If word has reached this place of what happened at Montcleve, I have not heard of it yet. And as I put away my clerical garb on the outskirts of Saint-Rémy and have been since then the Dutch traveler of means, I do not think that anyone will trouble me about those recent events in the mountains, for what would I know about such things?
I write once more to stave off madness as much as to report to you, which I am bound to do, and to continue the business at hand.
The execution of Deborah began in a manner similar to many others, in that as the morning light fell down on the square before the doors of the Cathedral of Saint-Michel all the town collected there with the wine sellers making their profits, and the old Comtesse, somberly dressed, coming forward with the two trembling children, both dark-haired and dark-skinned with the stamp of the Spanish blood on them, but with a height and delicacy of bone that betrayed the blood of their mother, and very much frightened, as they were taken high to the very top of the viewing stand before the jail, and facing the pyre.
It seemed the little one, Chrétien, began to weep and cling to his grandmother, whereupon there ran through the crowd excited murmurs, “Chrétien, look at Chrétien.” This child’s lip trembled as he was seated, but his elder brother, Philippe, evinced only fear and perhaps loathing of what he beheld around him, and the old Comtesse embraced and comforted both of them, and on her other side welcomed the Comtesse de Chamillart and the inquisitor Father Louvier, with two young clerics in fine robes.
Four more priests, I know not from where, also filled the topmost places in the stand, and a small band of armed men stood at the very foot of it, these constituting the local authorities, or so I presumed.
Other important personages, or a great collection of those who think themselves very important, filled up the rest of the elevated seats very quickly, and if there had been any window anywhere that had not been opened beforehand, it was opened now and full of eager faces, and those on foot pressed so close to the pyre that I could not help but wonder how they would save themselves from being burnt.
A small band of armed men, bearing a ladder with them, appeared from the thick of the crowd and laid this ladder against the pyre. The young Chrétien saw this and turned fearfully once more to his grandmother, his shoulders shaking as he cried, but the young Philippe remained as before.