Charlotte’s room contained a lumpy straw mattress in one corner, a low stool, a candle holder with a glob of old tallow and a chamber-pot. It was late afternoon and her odd companion, Lesage, had been out all day seeking word on Nicolas’s whereabouts. A wedge of sunlight slunk across the dusty floor. Perched on the stool, she watched the portion of the street the window afforded her.
Her stomach groaned with hunger. Although she had watched bread and cheese sellers passing in the street below, she had been too afraid to leave her room. Carriages, people, beggars, cats. It was a peculiar feeling to be in such proximity to so many strangers, these people whose names or relations or professions were utterly mysterious to her. Who were their brothers or fathers or wives? How on earth might she situate them in her imagination? Hundreds of them going about their business, gossiping with acquaintances, speaking in their foreign languages, laughing and cursing. And all of them at home in this place. To her it was sheer chaos. She ran her thumb idly along a groove in the wooden window ledge. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, expecting – half hoping for – a splinter to lodge beneath her nail at any moment.
Household sounds drifted up from the courtyard downstairs. Madame Simon with her voice like that of an old door – chastising tenants, arguing with merchants. People came and went. Foreigners. Mysterious tongues, murmurs, the clatter of tools. Charlotte smelled the neighbourhood’s muddy, shitty drains and heard the thick slap of washerwomen beating wet clothes in the courtyard. Soot from the city’s greasy fires stained the skin of her cheek, dust gathered in her hair, and through the floor she sensed vibrations from passing carriages. A brandy seller had set up his cup and flagon in the street. A man called out something to his animal or wife before his laughter shattered like glass into ever smaller pieces and trailed away. In the courtyard a chicken clucked. Somewhere a woman wept. It seemed there was always a woman weeping. Always a child crying, always a peddler singing out: ‘Qui veut de l’eau? Qui veut de l’eau?’ ‘Fromage d’Hollande . . .’
Her husband Michel had been to Paris when he was young and had described the city to her many times. He was excited, as if he had encountered a wondrous beast, and his voice took on a note of wary admiration as he told her of its buildings and streets, of the people loitering in doorways, its water sellers and thieves. ‘They have as many people living in one street as we have in the entire village,’ he’d claimed. But for Charlotte, Paris resembled a dark and horrible labyrinth of blind alleys and grime. Lesage had been right; it was a frightening place indeed. Where the worst in all of France come together. She had not been able to sleep the previous night, and had instead lain awake wondering at the voices of strangers out in the darkness, listening for her son. Now she was exhausted.
Where in this terrible warren of a city could Nicolas be? It seemed hopeless. Unwillingly, Charlotte thought of her other children. She closed her eyes. She heard their whispers around her shoulders, smelled their little sour exhalations, almost sensed their trusting hands in her palm; that tender weight. Oh, how she had prayed for them, over and over, shuffling the words as if they might accidentally transform into a secret cure; the terrible sense, when no such cure materialised, that the failure was her own. The gaze of a child preparing to die – so fearful, so forlorn – was surely the cruellest sight imaginable. They would remain children forever, people said, as if that might offer some consolation. We must have done something terrible to be visited by such things. Perhaps Nicolas had been right?
She shook her head to free herself of the cobweb of memories, then stood and paced about the dim room. Idleness was no friend to sorrow.
There were voices on the landing, a soft knock at the door. It opened and a woman’s smiling face peered in. ‘Ah. You are Madame Picot?’ the stranger asked.
Charlotte stood. Instinctively her hand moved to the book in the pocket of her dress. ‘Yes. Who are you, madame? I do not know you, do I?’
The woman eased inside, shutting the door behind her. She was short and plump, kindly-looking. She wore a deep green dress with lace cuffs and a grey bonnet on her head. She looked around the room. ‘I understand you are looking for your son, Madame Picot?’
‘Yes! Have you seen him? Do you know anything, madame?’
The woman shook her head sadly. She hesitated before crossing to where Charlotte stood by the window and taking her hands. ‘I am afraid not. But such a frightening thing to happen. I heard that someone took him? You poor woman. I am a mother myself, of course.’ She shook her head and squeezed Charlotte’s hands with an intense maternal affection. She appeared to be on the verge of tears herself. ‘I can’t even imagine such events. How old is your boy?’
‘He is nine.’
‘Nine?’ The woman clucked her tongue sympathetically and released Charlotte’s hands to steer her over to the stool. ‘Here, Madame Picot. Sit, sit, sit. Please, madame. You must be terribly worried.’
Grateful to have someone – even a stranger – take her wellbeing in hand, Charlotte sat on the stool. ‘I have someone helping me. He is out looking right now. Finding out what he can.’
‘A man is helping you?’
Charlotte didn’t answer for a moment. How to describe Lesage? ‘Yes. A man of sorts,’ she said eventually. ‘But, madame, please tell me: how did you know about us? About Nicolas?’
The woman glanced out the window, then hoisted her dress and squatted beside Charlotte, so close that she could sense the warmth of the woman’s shoulder. She smelled earthy, of spices, of lemons and washed linen. ‘Oh, there is not much that happens in Paris I do not know about, Madame Picot. The comings and goings. Who does what with whom. I’m like a . . . a mother to the city.’ She tapped Charlotte conspiratorially on the arm. ‘You know there’s a baker in Rue du Lour – not so far from here, actually – Monsieur Balon. He has three mistresses. Three! His wife has no clue. I know many other things. Even secrets from those at court. Some people are amazing. Yes. Many sorts of people come to me with their problems. This city is overflowing with rogues. A very dangerous place.’
And at that moment – as if summoned by this woman to underscore what she was saying – there came from the street outside the voices of men brawling. ‘Scoundrel, you fucking thief, I’ll kill you . . .’
The voices died away. From her voluminous clothing, the woman drew forth a shiny cross attached to a chain around her neck. This she placed in her mouth. Wet clink of gold against teeth. ‘I cannot help everyone, but I might be able to help you. I shall pray for your son. Light some candles at my church. Yes. As if he were my own child. I will do this for you, madame. And who knows? Perhaps the Lord will listen to our entreaties?’
Charlotte was overcome with emotion. Warm tears ran down her cheeks. ‘Thank you, madame,’ she said when at last she could speak.
The woman leaned in closer still. ‘But tell me, madame,’ she whispered. ‘I understand you have particular skills?’
Charlotte wiped her eyes. ‘What do you mean? How would you know such a thing about me?’
The woman chuckled. ‘As I told you: there is not much that happens in Paris without my knowing of it. Don’t worry, Madame Picot. I have quite some expertise in that area myself. Some spells and things. Remedies of one sort and another. Simple charms.’ She dropped her voice. ‘But you must be very careful in Paris with that particular knowledge, madame. You know, they are hanging some people any day now. Justine Gallant and her lover Monsieur Olivier, who attempted to contact the Devil. A nasty business. If the authorities found out about your abilities, you might find yourself in grave trouble . . .’
Charlotte was unsure if this was intended as a warning, but before she could formulate a response, the stranger continued, ‘But I’m sure it won’t come to that, will it?’ Then, after a moment, she said, ‘Tell me: where did you learn your craft, Madame Picot?’
‘It was passed along to me by an old woman in my country.’
‘Ah. An old woman? Charms? Healing? Women’s special business?’
Charlotte nodded.
‘Anything else? Darker magic?’
‘No, madame. Nothing like that.’
‘I see. And do you have a particular book that helps with these things?’
‘Yes, madame.’
‘Does the book have a name?’
‘A name? No.’
‘Is the book with you now? Perhaps you might show it to me?’
The woman’s manner was making Charlotte most uneasy. She was aware of the book in the pocket of her dress but made no move to draw it out. ‘The book is only useful if it has been freely given, madame. It cannot even be bought or sold –’
The woman removed the cross from her mouth and tucked a stray curl of hair beneath her bonnet. ‘Yes. But it surely wouldn’t hurt to show it to me, would it? I’m most curious. I –’ She stopped speaking and peered towards the door. ‘Who are you?’
Charlotte followed the woman’s startled gaze to the doorway, where someone hovered. It was Marguerite, the troubadour girl. Charlotte was suffused with tenderness for her; she would not have considered herself lonely until the sight of a single familiar face. She stood, as did the stranger – who seemed disgruntled to have been interrupted.
‘This girl’s family helped bring us to Paris,’ Charlotte explained.
The woman appeared unimpressed. ‘I see. And what do you want, girl?’
Marguerite blinked, said nothing. There followed an odd silence, broken only when the stranger muttered some excuses and slipped from the room, forcing Marguerite against the doorframe to allow her past.
Charlotte strode to the passageway and called out after her. ‘Madame? Madame?’ But the woman was gone.
‘Who was that?’ Marguerite asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Charlotte said, looking out to the dim landing. ‘She knew about what happened to Nicolas. She said she would pray for us . . .’
‘You have been crying, madame?’
‘Yes.’
‘There is no word of your son, then?’
‘Lesage is searching for him. I would not know where to begin. This city frightens me.’
Marguerite edged more fully into the room and Charlotte saw that in one hand she carried a small wooden cage in which a shape cooed and bobbled about. It was a dark-feathered pigeon with eyes like glittering black seeds. The girl held up the cage. ‘I want you to make me a charm, Madame Picot.’
‘What sort of charm?’
The girl told Charlotte that she had met a handsome fellow the previous summer when she was working in Paris with her family. It seemed that romantic words had been exchanged. ‘He said he loved me,’ the girl said, ‘and wanted to marry me. He does not even mind about my eye.’
‘Then you are most fortunate. What is his name?’
‘His name is Francis Bernard. He is one of the King’s musketeers. He is very witty.’
Charlotte nodded. She sat again on the low stool while the girl squatted on the straw mattress with the birdcage beside her on the floor.
Marguerite fumbled through her pockets and held up a dark vial, similar to what an apothecary might use to store his unguents. In it was a dark liquid, faintly red against the afternoon light. ‘I have some of my blood,’ she said. ‘Woman’s blood. The malady started for me recently. And here is a lock of hair he gave me last summer. These – and the pigeon – are what you said you need to make a love charm. That’s what you told me. Do you remember, madame? Only a few days ago.’
‘But if this man said he loved you, why do you need a charm?’
‘To make sure, madame. I do not wish him to find another woman to marry, do I?’ Marguerite frowned, apparently puzzled by Charlotte’s lack of enthusiasm. She withdrew a purse from her dress pocket. ‘And, of course, I can pay you, madame.’
Charlotte stared at the purse. ‘It’s getting late,’ she said finally. ‘I am hungry. Step outside and buy a candle and some bread for me. I’ll need a scrap of paper, too.’
By the time the girl returned, Charlotte had removed the pigeon from its cage, twisted its neck and sliced out its warm heart, which was about the size of a cherry stone. After worrying all day about Nicolas, she was grateful to have something practical to do. Her fingers were greasy with the bird’s blood and grey feathers jostled on the floor at her feet. She wiped her hands on her dress and devoured some of the bread Marguerite had bought.
Finally, with the girl watching on anxiously, she picked up her book and held it unopened in her hand for a long time. The cover was rough and marked, its corners torn in places. She hefted it in her palm. The book was warm and solid and she was reassured by its weight. Like any human heart. Its voices were becoming more and more familiar.
‘Can you write?’ she asked the girl after a time.
‘No, madame.’
Charlotte wrote the man’s name for her on the scrap of paper. francis bernard. Then she dripped some of Marguerite’s blood from the vial over the pigeon’s heart and wrapped this in the paper. This she bound as tightly as she could with the lock of Monsieur Bernard’s hair. She hesitated, suddenly unsure if she should perform such magic, but reasoned that everyone did such things. At the gates of Saint-Gilles women cast dust gathered from the church floor to ward off dark spirits, they scrawled secret formulae on strips of paper that were sewn into their clothes. Her own mother had been in the habit of kissing a protective charm worn around her neck when she glimpsed lightning. There was no real harm in it.
‘Now,’ Charlotte said. ‘Repeat after me: My Lady Saint Martha, worthy you are and saintly.’
‘My Lady Saint Martha, worthy you are and saintly.’
‘By My Lord Jesus Christ you were cherished and loved. By My Lady the Virgin Mary you were hosted and welcomed. Just as this is so, bring to me Francis Bernard, who is the person I desire. Calm, peaceful, bound of hand and foot and heart . . .’
As obedient as a lamb, the girl followed her example. The prayer was lengthy and by the time they finished, it was almost dark. With flint and tinder, Charlotte lit the candle. Her heart tolled heavily in her chest. Your blood, your blood, your blood.
‘Wear this next to your heart for three days, then bury it somewhere this Monsieur Bernard will pass by.’
Marguerite took the thumb-sized package. ‘And this will work?’
‘It should. Now go. You might as well take this pigeon for your family. It will make a good pie.’
Marguerite bundled the gutted pigeon in the folds of her dress. When she had finished, she looked up at Charlotte. ‘I was thinking, madame. When you find your son, you should order Lesage to strike down the men who took him. My mother says he is a very dangerous man.’
‘Your mother knows Lesage?’
‘Yes. She says she met him here in Paris but couldn’t recall who he was at first. He worked at the fair a lot, she says, and his name used to be Adam du Coeuret, but she had not seen him for some years.’
‘Adam du Coeuret?’
‘Yes. He used to work with La Voisin.’
‘And who is that?’
The girl shook her head in wonderment. ‘I am surprised that someone like . . . yourself does not know her. Catherine Monvoisin is a terrible witch. She helps women who are with child. She murders the babies and burns them in her oven. Other things – worse things, if you can believe it. She has an Enchiridion, the blackest of all the black books, full of dark magic. How to raise the dead, turn people into dogs and crows. She sells inheritance powders for men to kill their wives and for wives to kill their husbands. My mother says La Voisin has met with the Devil himself. Lesage used to be her assistant.’
Charlotte crossed herself, closed her eyes. ‘Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum . . .’ Afterwards, her spirit felt becalmed. ‘Are there many such witches in Paris?’ she asked.
The girl pushed her dirty hair back from her eyes. ‘Yes, madame. The city is full of such people. They are everywhere, even if you don’t see them. They are doing the Devil’s work for him here on earth, my father says. The one called Françoise Filastre has made a pact with the Devil himself. She’s a fat, ugly crone. And they say La Bosse has killed dozens of people with curses and charms. They mostly live up in Villeneuve, on the outskirts of the city. You should find them and ask them if they know about your son. They deal in such matters. They might know something.’
Charlotte considered what the girl had told her. Her blood trembled to think of all the people in this city crawling over each other like rats in a cellar. A man sang in the street below. ‘Go home now, girl,’ she said, ‘before it grows too late.’
The girl seemed relieved to have been dismissed. Without another word, she stood, took her empty cage and slipped from the room into the dark passage.