THE SONG was a cloud of sound I could almost see.
Outside the sanctuary, it ebbed to nothing. Closer to the altar, the music flowed again. The source was close, and, taking a lit candle from one of the stands, I began to walk the chapel walls.
I came to the Madonna’s alcove. The hangings moved in and out, as if the stone behind were breathing. I pulled them apart. Inside, the doors of the screen stood open and the song grew louder, deep and slow.
From respect, I knelt before the Madonna, Mother of All. Our own mother’s devotion to this image had been great; as a young wife, she had prayed here for children.
The candle flame wavered and I saw another light: a faint line of brilliance in the wall. It should not have been there.
I leaned forward. Panels of oak lined the Madonna’s alcove to the height of my chest, and one was sprung slightly open, as if it were a door; from here, the light shone out.
But the gap was narrow and I used my knife to probe a way to make it wider. All the while, the song seeped through, now soft, now louder, moving like wind over water.
I found a post on which the panel could turn. It was simple enough but clever; no metal in the fittings—this was old work from skilled hands.
Crouching, I used my shoulder to push through, and wavering flame showed a tunnel sloping down to a glowing point. I could not tell how far away that light was, but I opened my arms to judge the space around me. The walls were two handsbreadth wider than my shoulders, with a roof close enough to brush against my head.
From somewhere distant the song came again, the thread that caught and drew me on. And there was something else—a rushing thunder; water, falling from a height.
I moved toward the glow and toward the singer. And as I came out from dark into a firelit space, it seemed a kind of second birth.
In sheer surprise I gaped.
Flames gilding her face, Margaretta sat on a broken plinth among a grove of tall, white pillars; she held the baby close against her chest.
It was the child who sang.
“How long have you been here?” I was not angry. I was awed.
“Since the night of the yule feast. And before that too. After her birth we hid here.”
The baby ceased to sing. She stared at me as the air shivered with the last notes.
Light flared from the fire, and I saw two things. The first was Aviss; he was sleeping on a pile of skins at Margaretta’s feet. The second was a stranger sight.
On all the walls of this cavern were red-handed prints pressed to the rock. Small hands, large hands. They seemed numberless.
“Each hand a woman’s life, or her daughter’s. So many, many lives.”
“What is this place?” I struggled to take in the sight. I wanted to ask where they had come from, all these women.
Standing, Margaretta beckoned.
Deeper in was an opening in the rock. Around it, like the painted border of an arch, a trail of tiny handprints defined the shape. Holding the baby up, Margaretta helped the child stretch out her arm, and as she pressed the palm and fingers against the rock, I saw that both were red.
“These are her sisters. It is your turn now, Bayard.” The baby was staring at me, and so was Margaretta.
“Why?”
“You will see.” She gestured at water seeping through the rock beside a seam of ocher, dark as dried blood, and showed me how to wet my hand for the color.
It seemed some strange blasphemy, but I put my red hand beside the palmprint of Flore’s daughter. In that flame-lit place it seemed to flicker as it dried.
Then I saw.
My handprint, a man’s hand, was so much larger than those of the children, larger still than that of my niece. Fingers like sentinels, it stood as a warning and a protection beside hers. The promise I had made given form.
“I see no other hand like mine.”
“No. You are the first. This is not a place for men.” Carrying the baby, Margaretta bent low to lead me through the narrow way. “This is called the Red Door.”
I followed, though my way through was harder than hers, and I entered a second cavern on my knees like a supplicant. But this was a place of wonder.
In the center of its floor was a dark pool, and a spring welled at its heart. The moving face of the water broke flame into jewels, and at the pool’s farthest lip a stream fell away and disappeared.
“Where does the water go?”
“To the cistern in the stables. And when it floods, to the river through the old moat. It carries offerings from this place, when they are given.”
I looked up and blinked. Above, ribs of stone fanned to form the roof. It seemed to me the structure must have been made by human hands.
Finally I understood. These caverns lay beneath the floor of the chapel, under the very foundations of the keep.
Margaretta beckoned. “Come closer, lord.”
There was only the sound of falling water, the soft crack of distant fire. I hesitated. Was I afraid of the child?
Margaretta held the baby so the hand marked with ocher could touch my skin. I felt those small fingers explore my face as if my niece were blind.
“Why does she do this?”
Margaretta said, “She is learning.”
“I do not understand.”
The baby drew back into Margaretta’s arms but did not cease to gaze at me.
“Flore brought me to this place before the child was born. And through her daughter, she has brought you here as well. It has always been a refuge in times of need.”
The sense of the child’s touch was still on my skin. “But you have no need to hide in caves, Margaretta. The keep will protect us and—”
“Hate is stronger than any wall.” She bowed her head, and when she raised it, tears were in her eyes. “Flore’s daughter must be given her name.”
“The priest will not christen this baby.”
Margaretta swallowed. “We do not need the priest. She is to be called Felice. Happiness. That is what her mother wanted.”
She held out my niece.
Cradling the infant, I asked, “Why did you do that?”
“Hold her above the pool.”
I hesitated, but did as I was asked.
And Margaretta said, “Mother, can you hear me?”
The baby was untroubled, smiling down at us both from my hands.
And, watching, the flow of the water seemed to ebb.
Margaretta clapped her hands. “We, your children, have returned.”
The stream stopped flowing.
The girl gestured to me.
I saw what she wanted me to do and lowered the baby. Margaretta scooped water from the pool, and her voice grew in power. “Here is your daughter, and we are her guardians. Protect her, Mother. Her name is Felice.”
Yes, it was a blasphemy. But I stood beside Margaretta for Godefroi. And for Flore.
And for Felice.