Charlotte sat for a long time, as if she had been struck by a blow. Outside, clouds covered the sun. She had neither the strength nor the inclination to light a candle, and the room around her – its walls, the bed – crumbled away until she was quite alone, drenched in sorrow as heavy as blood. Perhaps this was how it was to die, she thought, and half expected to see Hellequin on his awful black horse leering at her from the window. Certainly I could feel no worse than this. My husband, all my children. If I sit here then surely I, too, will vanish completely. At last. At last my heart has been picked clean. From outside came the cry of a water merchant, a gust of wind. Someone, somewhere, calmed a skittish horse and this evidence of the world continuing as if nothing untoward had happened seemed an affront fashioned for her alone.
She inspected her hands. The left palm still bore the wound Madame Rolland had carved into it. The gash was encrusted with black blood and still tender to the touch – a fact which surprised her, for the encounter with the old sorceress seemed so long ago. Her other hand had its own old scars; the time she nearly sliced the end off her thumb as a girl while helping her mother skin rabbits, the marks on the backs of her hands and wrists from her own encounter with fever. She supposed there was a whole life contained in a person’s hands; all they had done, everything they were yet to do. It was no wonder some people could read a person’s past and future there.
She cupped her hands over her mouth and nose and closed her eyes as if in prayer; indeed, within the tiny space there loomed a claustral world of scent and memory. There was her own familiar smell, of course, almost undetectable; sweat; and that of Paris’s musty air. Everything, it seemed, she had handled in her life. The pigeon’s heart, the pages of her book. Her village, her father’s sour breath and his arm around her shoulders as they strolled back to their cottage through the winter dusk. A bee’s sting on her wrist. The day her brother Paul broke his arm when a cow crushed it against a fence, and his terrible cries of pain when it was set by the midwife. How hard he had squeezed her hand. Smoke gathering in the morning breeze, the flavour of lark. The darkness of a pine forest after rain, beech leaves she had shredded through her fingers on summer days, a snuffed candle wick. She recalled Michel’s bristly cheek against her neck. The smell of autumn soil and summer clouds, sunlight seeping into the mist-shrouded valley at dawn. She heard her children singing in their plaintive voices and the nights when Béatrice, the youngest, still the youngest and somehow the most forlorn, had cried out in her sleep. Mother. Mother. Mother. When Charlotte had been pregnant with Philippe all those years ago, her hair had thickened and her breasts swelled. One warm afternoon she sat to rest on a tree stump and she felt her baby turn inside her – feet hard against her womb, his head pressed to her ribs. Some of the other women from the village passed by on their way from the fields, but they didn’t mock Charlotte for her idleness, as they might usually have done, but merely smiled at her. She had remained on the stump with her hand cradling her drum-tight stomach, caressing the child who had given her the clearest sign yet that he was waiting to be born. She wondered what kind of boy Philippe would have been had he survived infancy.
She withdrew her hands from her face. Enough. How unbearable it was to be so alive to the world and its endless comings and goings. She lit the candle. In her lap was her black book, as warm as a rabbit or cat. Idly, she thumbed its torn corners and the tiny clasp securing the forbidden pages. Then, barely aware of what she was doing, Charlotte held her left hand over the candle flame until the skin of her palm blistered, whereupon she pulled it away. Foolish, but at least it was a pain that would eventually ease.
Then she opened the clasp that secured the secret pages in her book. Ghostly whispers and dark murmurs drifted up to her like the scent from a long-smouldering fire. Help yourself, woman, and God will help you. Anything can be done, everything can be done. Unicorn horn, blood of a week-old lamb, hazel ash soaked in brine. Astaroth, Alazan, Ambriel. Anything you desire. Many other things. Some devils can take your toes without you even knowing. Eerie sigils without name or sound, but whose dark meanings were unmistakeable. Parchment of deerskin, a knife, a child less than a season old who has been willingly given like a gift. Demons can make storms appear. Thistle and goat fat. Thyme and blood. A woman’s heart contains all things. She creates life, gives suck to her baby; her heart is tender and loving. But it has other elements as well. It contains fire and intrigue and mighty storms. Shipwrecks and all that has ever happened in the world. Murder, if need be, and dragons and quakes. All that is, is God. Agnus Dei. The lamb. Kyrie, eleison. Mercy on my soul. Have faith and he will surely rise again. I ask of thee. I ask of thee. I ask of thee. Your eyes will be jewels, your bones will be cast of silver and your veins will run with gold.
It was dark inside and out when, finally, she closed her book, and by that time a new and thrilling strangeness had entered her. Your blood, your blood, your blood.
When she could bear herself no longer, Charlotte rose from her chair and, dreamily, as if operating under a power not her own, she took some of the coins from the treasure chest, put on her cloak, departed the house and walked in the direction of the river. The late-afternoon streets were busy with people hurrying to finish their errands or return home. When in sight of the river she hesitated, uncertain. Here, spread out before her, was the view Lesage had shown her – the bone-white towers of the church on the island, the washed-blue sky, thick ribbons of golden sunlight rippling on the water. To her it looked an unruly place, fit only for chaos and ruin.
She left the busier thoroughfares and wound her way south through the labyrinth of smaller, meaner streets until – after getting lost several times – she found herself at a bridge larger than any she thought possible. Along its great span were crowded all sorts of people offering any manner of service or entertainment, a sinister carnival of dancers, children, parrots, merchants and men all cackling and shrieking with pleasure. A group of laughing nobles were carried past in their sedan chairs and a pair of rough-looking men leered and gestured towards her. She wondered where Lesage had gone, what would become of him, and she realised she missed the ungainly reassurance he had provided. Perhaps she had been unwise to send him away?
She waded into the throng of jugglers and teeth-pullers, past the scribes and priests and braying aristocrats having their fortunes told. There was a family with a dancing bear. Grinning faces and feathered hats and the smoke from braziers. Several times she found herself unable to continue, so thick was the crowd, and on one of these occasions a man grabbed her arm and put his hot mouth to her ear. ‘Want to fuck me, whore?’ She tried to pull away, but he was stronger and determined to detain her. A hand clutched at her breast. She gasped, and was horribly aware of her own pathetic, outraged gasp. A few people turned around, then glanced away. A woman’s grin, the smell of cooking meat, flash of sweaty neck. ‘Because I want to fuck you . . .’ Finally, she broke away and jostled through the crowd to the other bank, where it was much quieter, more to her liking.
She asked an old woman for directions and, eventually, found her way to Rue des Canettes. Over a shopfront hung a sign of tin beaten into the shape of a mortar and pestle. On it were painted the words Monsieur Maigret, Predictions herbs and unguents. Through the murky window burned a lamp. She cupped her hands against the glass and peered through, but could make out almost nothing in the aqueous gloom. Shadows, the glint of metal, a bubble captured in the window’s thick, green glass.
A carriage startled Charlotte as it passed close behind her, leaving an acrid smell of horse sweat in its wake. Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. She waited for a moment with her hand on the door handle before forcing it open and stepping inside. The shop was as dark and silent as a cave and smelled powerfully of things dried and salted. She blinked and waited for her eyes to adjust. When they did, she found she was standing amid all manner of objects. Flasks, vials, books, instruments on benches, barrels and boxes on the floor. Pelts hung from the ceiling, maps and charts adorned the walls.
A shape rose like a great leviathan from the darkness. It was a man. ‘Good afternoon, madame.’
She started, then caught her breath. ‘Good afternoon. Are you Monsieur Maigret? The apothecary?’
A pause as his gaze travelled up and down her body, as if assembling her limb by limb with this eyes. ‘Yes, yes. What is it?’
‘There are some things I need. I’m told you can help me.’
The apothecary nodded. He was an immensely tall, ill- dressed man with dark eyes and a beard the colour of pewter that reached to his waist. On his head was a grubby coif, and around his neck was a leather strap with a medallion bearing an astrological design of some sort. He stood tilted slightly forward, with his arms behind his back like wings; indeed, there was something in his bearing reminiscent of a giant, peevish bird. ‘What do you need, madame?’
She hesitated. ‘Some unicorn horn. The blood of a week-old lamb. Hazel ash.’
Monsieur Maigret arched his eyebrows with surprise, but made no other movement. Then he narrowed his gaze. ‘I have not met you before, have I?’
Charlotte hesitated, unsure if his question were designed to trick her. ‘No, monsieur. Do you not have these items?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ducking his head. ‘I do. It’s only that . . . Might I ask what it is you intend to do with them?’
‘It is a charm for a baby, monsieur. To protect him from plague. The child’s mother is recently dead and his older sister fears for his life. She begged me to help her.’
‘There is certainly fever about this summer. I can feel it in the air, a sort of thickening. It must be a powerful charm.’
‘Oh, it is.’
‘Ah, yes. You are not from Paris, are you?’
‘No. I’m from a village south of here.’
‘Where is your husband?’
‘Dead.’
‘Children?’
‘All dead.’
‘Ah. And why did you come to Paris?’
‘I was looking for someone.’
‘I see. And did you find this person?’
She hesitated. ‘Not yet.’
‘What do you think of our fair city?’
‘I think it’s a wicked place.’
The old man laughed, displaying long yellow teeth. ‘Yes. That’s certainly one word for it.’
She held out her handful of coins. ‘I have the money, monsieur.’
He looked at her coins and muttered, whether with appreciation or contempt, it was difficult to tell. ‘Very well. Wait here, madame.’
Lighting a candle for her and taking the lantern for himself, he shuffled to the rear of the workshop where his shadow bobbed about among the countless racks of grimy flasks, mandrake roots, bird skulls and bones. Charlotte gazed around. Scattered across a nearby bench were sheets of paper covered with numerous numbers and diagrams and symbols. Circles, pentacles, the girdle of the earth. Calculations or spells in unknown languages, the splayed figure of a naked man. Forty is the most powerful number there is, for it was the number of years Moses wandered in the desert. Charlotte gazed at the illustrations and ran her fingers over them. They possessed a kind of majesty. Distance to the moon, various stars, the measure of all the things in heaven. Saturn and Mars, beams of light. All the means by which men tried to understand their world.
A bulbous mirror on one wall reflected the room back to her, everything it contained – her own face included – small and jostling in on itself as if in a globe of quicksilver. In the reflection, her features were inflated so out of proportion that she resembled a pinch-cheeked, bulge-eyed mantis. She was dismayed to see a smudge of dirt on her forehead and wiped it off with a finger wetted with spit. She peered again at herself quickly before glancing away. I was not a witch, but they made me one.
On a shelf above her was an array of animal skulls, a human one among them, the white of it almost luminous in the murk. She looked around to ensure that Monsieur Maigret was otherwise occupied, then reached out to touch it. The surface was cold and grainy. She drew back. Then she touched the bony globe again. Like a wooden rock, she thought. She tapped it several times with a fingernail.
‘Ah,’ came Monsieur Maigret’s voice close at her shoulder. ‘I see you have met my old friend Monsieur Joffroy.’
Charlotte spun around in fright. ‘I’m sorry, monsieur.’
‘You couldn’t resist.’
‘No, monsieur. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have touched it.’
‘Knocking will get you nowhere with him, I fear. The door is well and truly locked behind him.’
But rather than displeased, Monsieur Maigret appeared gratified, as if by her gesture a long-held, private theory of his had been proven. He placed his lantern on a bench where it sputtered momentarily before falling quiet. In his other hand was a cloth sack. ‘It’s the irresistible call of the dead. They require so much. But we also make our demands of them, don’t we?’
Charlotte was unsure how to answer this. She stayed silent and watched a greasy tendril of smoke issuing from the lantern.
Monsieur Maigret picked up the skull, balanced it on his palm and raised it to his face as if preparing to kiss it, but instead he peered into its large, eyeless sockets. ‘I wonder what he sees now. The fires of damnation, no doubt. Devils.’
Charlotte shuddered and stepped back, out of the man’s reach. ‘Was he truly your friend?’
The apothecary chuckled and shook his head. ‘No. I think perhaps that Monsieur Joffroy was friend to no man. This gentleman met his death at the end of a rope. A thief and the murderer of several people. Not that you could tell any of this from looking at his skull. Looks the same as any man once the skin has fallen away, doesn’t it? No eyes. No face. Larger at the back, perhaps. They say he was brave at the end, that he looked the hangman in the eye without flinching. I often wonder if he and his victims have met in the afterlife and what they might have said to each other. The executioner Monsieur Guillaume sometimes passes them along to me. A hanged man’s skull is a most powerful thing, you know.’
Charlotte felt her lips tighten with distaste. ‘What can it do?’
‘It reminds us of our fate, that’s what. Dust to dust . . .’
‘I think perhaps the world provides us with plenty of such reminders, monsieur.’
‘Indeed.’ He considered the skull once more. ‘And it tells me secrets about people. The dark things people might hide – even from themselves.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes.’ And, with a glint in his eye, he lifted the skull to his ear, nodded and made a face as if hearing incredible things. ‘If I hold it here like this. You don’t believe me?’
Charlotte laughed. ‘Why, yes. I do, monsieur.’
The old man chuckled again, this time more heartily, and lowered the skull. Then he held out the little sack of green fabric. Its contents clinked together. ‘I have what you asked for, madame.’
‘Everything?’
‘Of course.’
She made no move to take it.
‘You appear to be disappointed,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you hoped that I wouldn’t have all that you requested?’
‘No, monsieur. That would not make sense.’
‘Tell me, madame, what do you intend to use these ingredients for?’
‘A charm of protection. I told you, monsieur. A baby . . .’
‘Ah. Yes.’ The apothecary pursed his lips as he considered this. Then his eyes widened comically and again he raised the skull to his ear. ‘What’s that, Monsieur Joffroy? Is that true? Yes. I see. I see.’ He turned to her. ‘He tells me you are preparing to do something terrible.’
Charlotte caught her breath, but made no answer.
Monsieur Maigret placed the skull back on the shelf. ‘You know, they are hanging Justine Gallant and Monsieur Olivier at Place de Grève tonight. For murder. Witchcraft. They say they tried to summon the Devil himself.’ He shrugged and rubbed at his nose. ‘Some might interpret the event as a warning,’ he added.
They stood in silence. Eventually, Charlotte gestured towards one of the papers. ‘Tell me, monsieur, these diagrams – are they magic? What is the word that is written here?’
The apothecary made a small movement with his head, like a self-satisfied heron. ‘No, no, no, madame. Not magic. Of course not. No. This is science. Science. You don’t know how to read Greek, I suppose?’
‘No.’
‘Ah.’ He bent over the workbench to peer at the documents, tucking his beard aside as he did so. Muttering to himself, he smoothed the curling papers against the bench with his hand. ‘I doubt a woman could understand such complex astrological matters. The movement of the heavens and stars and so on.’ He arranged his fingers as if gripping invisible eggs, which he had circle each other in the air between them. ‘That word is eclipse. An eclipse is when the moon moves in front of the sun, which causes the earth to go dark.’
‘And this happens when night falls at the end of the day?’
The old man smiled. ‘No, no, no, no, no. An eclipse sometimes happens in daylight, and it is as if there is a brief night in the middle of the day – but it’s only for a short time.’
A brief night in the middle of the day. It sounded preposterous. Charlotte’s scepticism must have shown clearly on her face, for the apothecary held up an admonitory finger. ‘Oh yes. And not so rare as you might think. No. There was an eclipse only a few days ago, which is why I have been consulting these particular documents. It’s vital to know about these matters when it comes to making predictions for someone’s future success, you see. Even minor miscalculations could mean the difference between life and death. Now, madame. If you look here at these particular illustrations . . .’
The apothecary rambled on nonsensically about the heavens and the movement of planets and stars, but Charlotte’s mind drifted. Instead of paying attention to the papers on which the apothecary was pointing out various diagrams and formulae, she gazed at the old man’s grey hairs wavering about in the buttery lantern light. So much had happened. She wondered about her village of Saint-Gilles and imagined its inhabitants going about their business – Louis beating his flock of sheep from pasture with a switch, old Fournier lounging in the doorway with his pipe clamped between his teeth, the clatter of children and animals underfoot, the earthy stench of the dungheap. Such a place now seemed utterly impossible to her, as distant and ethereal as a dream. Dread keened across her skin. What did the villagers imagine had become of her – if they considered her fate at all? Was this how it was to be dead, to wonder about the living and whether they went about their business without you?
‘No,’ she murmured when she wearied of his lecture.
‘Pardon, madame?’
Her heart swelled with a feeling of pleasurable discomfort, like a pulse of illicit desire.
‘That was not an eclipse, Monsieur Maigret. No. I darkened the sun. It was me.’
The apothecary could barely contain his mirth. ‘Pardon, madame? You?’
She took the sack of ingredients and gave him her handful of coins, then took her leave before the old man could say anything more.
Power, she realised as she stepped into the street. That feeling was power.