After that discovery, only three things of significance happened before the Black Madonna Benefit for Chartres.
The first is that nobody at the Préfecture de Police believed our concerns about Léon Chanson or the solar flares—which had been active for a week, and promised more activity into the next. A well-dressed gentleman named Carl Montrose, who did not tell us his rank but to whom the police deferred, reminded us that as we were not relatives of the missing man, we were not the ones who ought to file a missing person’s notice. Since there was no proof of Léon having committed a crime, the police had no reason to divert manpower to seeking him out.
Also, I thought I overheard one of the officers say, “Ah, so that is Catrina Dauvergne.”
But I may have imagined it, just as I might be imagining their increased presence on my street. A lot of good they’d do, if someone had some kind of electrical device, ready to launch a more deadly earthquake than the one in Chartres.
For that and several other reasons, I slept poorly.
The second thing of significance was that I came home on Thursday night to find a small bouquet of violets hanging off my doorknob, with a note: Wishing you well. Be careful. Love, Rhys.
They might have been poor contrast to the expensive sprays I’d received last week from Léon Chanson and Joshua Adriano. Yet those, I had left at my office. These I brought inside—as Rhys could have done, since I’d changed neither my locks nor my security code, but he had chosen not to intrude.
The third thing of significance was a gift from Scarlet, on Friday. She and I had stayed in for a quiet night with the Marian letters, eating Italian carry-out and discussing the next night’s festivities. The Adriano brothers were coming to town for the benefit, finally getting their double date with us. At first Scarlet could talk of little else than seeing Caleb. Then, after I’d reached the end of the letters and was flipping through them again, wishing there were more, she said, “I have a present for you.”
I looked up, honestly confused. “Why?”
She laughed. “Close your eyes.”
I peeked, of course—I am not a trusting person. Perhaps expecting as much she hid her surprise between her hands until she’d set it on the coffee table in front of me.
“Open your eyes!” It was a gilt bronze jewelry box from the eighteenth century with a miniature portrait set into it of a dark-haired young woman, done on porcelain. I began to reach for it, but Scarlet caught my hand. “Look at the bottom!”
Below the picture were engraved the initials, L.C. “Lisse Clairon?” I gasped. “How…?”
“It was in the box with the letters, in Lyon. I bought it from the historical society. I made up a story about you being distantly related—I mean, it could be true. If she had two children, and they had two children, and they had two children—”
“And you wanted me to get some kind of impression off of it, right?” I hadn’t enjoyed my previous visions, but they’d been useful. And this was only a jewelry box. What horrible images could connect themselves to a jewelry box?
Glad for the distraction from other matters—earthquakes, Rhys, dead stalkers—I took a deep breath, then laid my hand over the box. Nothing. At first. Too much time. Too many hands.
I remembered what Rhys had suggested at the farmhouse, and whispered softly, “Show me Lisse.”
I closed my eyes—
She spills her jewels onto her vanity table. Every piece of true value from her mother. A necklace from her beloved aunt. Impatient, she scoops all of them into a small bag. She will sell every piece, if it gets her enough gold to bribe her way into Paris and get her friends out. She sets aside only two pieces. One is her Madonna necklace; it would fetch little money and garner suspicion of Catholic leanings. The other is a bracelet of cheap glass beads, of even less monetary value.
Her fingers linger on it, and her eyes burn. Gui gave her that, proudly. A poor laborer, strapping and good-hearted, he would never have dreamt of such impudence before the Revolution. Early promises of equality had affected him deeply—but faced with the Terror, he’d valued basic humanity more.
“And so they killed you,” she whispers, laying the bracelet on the letter that tells her so. “But not my sisters.”
I blinked back into my own world, horrified by what I’d seen. “She went back,” I told Scarlet. “She didn’t stay in Lyon. She went back to Paris. Didn’t she understand the danger?”
“Lisse doesn’t sound like the kind of woman who cared a lot about danger,” Scarlet pointed out.
Once she’d left for the evening, and I’d locked my three locks and set my alarm, I sat by my window and I lit a Gauloise.
It was my first since the catacombs. Not finding it anywhere near as satisfying as I’d expected, I stubbed it out and went to bed.
“Caleb!” Scarlet didn’t just call his name—she trilled it and broke into a run, evening gown and all. Both Joshua and Caleb Adriano turned toward us, startled. But Caleb recovered in time to catch Scarlet up when she threw herself into his arms.
He seemed almost as surprised by his own smile as he was at finding himself with an armful of Scarlet Rubashka, and he spun her easily in a circle while I caught up more sedately with his brother. Joshua took my hand and kissed it. Then he turned it and, his hazel gaze holding mine, softly kissed my wrist.
Yes, I thought. Please do distract me. But it only tickled.
Still, the night was young—a perfect spring evening for our Black Madonna benefit. Floodlights lit the great medieval gate through which patrons in formalwear—those with invitations, at any rate—passed through the protective wall into the festive courtyard, then the museum itself. The Cluny, which is actually the Musée National du Moyen Âge-Thermes et Hôtel de Cluny, generally closes before 6:00 p.m., but it was not unusual for us to host private events in the evening. For this one, however, our public relations coordinator had outdone herself.
Wine flowed. Crystal sparkled. All twenty-three rooms of the former Abbey Hotel, with its vaulted ceilings and arched windows, were open to be explored by the culturally inclined. Although the underground thermes, or ancient Roman baths, required a guide, our very best docents had volunteered to lead groups through.
My hand on Joshua’s tuxedoed arm, we made our way to the Notre-Dame de Paris Hall, which displayed works off the great Cathedral herself—decorations and sculptures that had been torn off during Revolution. Particularly disturbing were the heads of the Kings of Judah, statues that had been torn down and beheaded just as the Sisters of Mary had been. An aristocrat had smuggled the heads into his home, where they’d remained hidden until the 1970s. Now, dozens of guests wandered amidst the statuary, or sat at the handful of white-draped tables at the back of the room. To one side, a choir performed pieces by Hildegard von Bingen, the famed twelfth century nun who wrote so much beautiful plainchant, much in praise of the Virgin Mary. Their clear Latin voices echoed off the stone walls like a church at high mass.
It sent shivers through me, even as I remembered my duty to mingle. I was not, thank heavens, the hostess. Not being a people person, I had preferred to do my work in setting up the function and in allowing the event to unveil “my” Madonna relics to press and patrons alike. Neither had Joshua lied about not focusing on his family. I was unsure just how much funding they had contributed for the decorations, the refreshments, the musicians or the extra security, but it had been a great deal.
To borrow an English saying, they’d put their money where their mouths were. But they kept quiet about it.
Still, even without being the center of the event, our respective roles demanded a great deal of socializing. I had to look past the history that surrounded us and, for once, focus on the living instead. Some people I knew from their continued support of the Parisian arts—this included nobility and members of the National Assembly, as well as those patrons who were simply ungodly rich. The usually reclusive Elise Villecourt was there in full grand-dame style, her barely gray hair upswept from a strong face, her expensive gown and diamonds timeless—did that woman never age? She was speaking to the director of the Banque de France and the producer of the film that had won the most recent Palme d’Or at Cannes.
And over in a corner stood Ana Reisner, looking wholly out of place in a navy suit vaguely reminiscent of Catholic school uniforms. When she smiled in recognition at me and waved—so American—some glimpse of true beauty shone through. She could be handsome, I mused, if she did not work so hard at being ugly.
“Hi, Catrina!” she greeted, coming to my side when I extended a hand of welcome. “This is some swanky party you throw. And look at you! You’re a knockout.”
“She is, isn’t she?” murmured Joshua. Tonight he looked even more tall, dark and handsome. This time, I made the effort to meet him halfway as his gaze slid down my body. I was wearing a sleeveless, jade-green Chanel—probably one of the last designer gowns I would ever buy, even on sale, now that I had a mortgage. The draped neckline looked almost modest in front, until you saw how far the drape plunged in back. I’d accessorized with a collar, bracelet and earrings of gold filigree that I’d purchased once in Portugal—filigree being an excellent way to get the most effect from only a little bit of gold. I wore my hair swept up in a loose twist.
When Joshua used our position against the wall to run his hand discreetly down my bare spine, he was able to start at the very base of my skull, drawing his warm fingers all the way to the curve of my derriere. Yes, I thought, with a slight shiver. If I make the effort, he might get me over Rhys yet. Get my body over Rhys, anyway. Which was a start.
Since there was absolutely nothing positive I could say about how Ana looked, I tried, “How has your week been?”
Her eyes twinkled. “I’ve made an intriguing discovery about one of your embroideries, but I want to double-check a few more facts before I get your hopes up. Maybe we can meet about it Monday. Can you believe this music?”
We proceeded to praise the performance, compare the group’s CDs of the visionary nun’s work and generally enjoy ourselves. Strangely, talking to Ana did not feel like an obligation.
Or, as Scarlet put it when I beckoned her over for introductions, “She does feel good, doesn’t she? Like we’re already friends. Good to meet you, Ana!” She grinned, patented Scarlet. “Or to reunite with you in this lifetime, anyway.”
Ana laughed—but Scarlet drew me away from her and Joshua.
“I saw the woman in black,” she whispered dramatically.
I blinked at her. Unlike Ana, Scarlet did not look out of place; she’d chosen an art nouveau gown which, on her delicately boned body, gave the impression that she’d stepped out of the 1920s. Even the silver key around her neck looked intentional.
But then she said things like that. “Woman in black…?”
“Haven’t I told you about her? Every now and then I see a woman in black watching me. At least, I think it’s the same woman. I’ll have to show you some of the pictures I’ve caught of her—I’m very sneaky, but so’s she. Most of them aren’t especially good, but it’s fascinating, all the same.”
“Ah,” I said.
“Caleb and I tried to intercept her, but she was gone before we could.” She shrugged. “Anyway, we’re going to cut out early—this is beautiful and all, but it’s time we had a real date instead of a family obligation date, you know?”
The way she held my gaze and raised her eyebrows, quite high, I could not possibly have missed her meaning. But I did not know why she was reporting to me, unless…
“I could have Joshua see me home safe,” I assured her.
Scarlet lowered her voice further. “Um, yes. About that. Before we go, Caleb wanted a word with you. In private.”
I made my apologies to Ana—who assured me that all she needed to enjoy the night was another glass of wine and no roving men to spoil the music—and to Joshua, who asked me to return as soon as possible and kissed me, to give me extra incentive.
There are some men who kiss so well, you don’t have to be in love or even attracted to enjoy it. Joshua had that kind of lingering, practiced kiss. His lips were soft. His mouth tasted amazing. “Please do not leave me alone for too long,” he breathed, drawing his hand down my bare arm until our fingertips caught, then parted. “I will be lost without you, Catarina.”
Which was just so…Italian. But there’s a reason Italians are such popular lovers. Husbands, rarely. Lovers, absolutely.
“Caleb was afraid if he came back through the crowd, we might never reach escape velocity,” explained Scarlet, as she drew me across the room—
And that’s when I saw Rhys.
Tall. Slim. Glowering. He must have seen the kiss.
I met his gaze with a coolness I did not feel as I swept past. Even when we’d been living together, sleeping together…
It was a mistake, to remember that. I bit the inside of my cheek, to maintain my poise, and tried to notice that he wore his usual, uninspired black suit. Instead, I noticed how good he still looked despite it. I remembered him standing beside me for my grand-mère’s funeral. And I felt sad, and guilty.
But even when we’d been together, neither of us had spoken of monogamy. And besides, Rhys had Brigitte Taillefer standing beside him, glaring with her own malevolence.
Caleb waited for us in the lit front courtyard, beside the ancient well. “Catrina,” he greeted, looking uncomfortable—but Scarlet jabbed him in the side, so he forged on. “I apologize if I overstep, but…you and my brother seem closer, tonight.”
“So do you and Scarlet,” I pointed out.
“Exactly. I am fond of Scarlet, as she is of you. It gives me concern, but…perhaps my fratellino has already told you…?”
“He’s married,” interrupted Scarlet. “Joshua.”
That, I had not expected. In fact, I shook my head, as if to make it not be true. I had higher standards than this.
Scarlet is the one who looked truly sympathetic. Caleb simply appeared uncomfortable as he produced a slim wallet and opened it to a family snapshot—Joshua Adriano, gazing down at a black-haired baby in his arms, while a frail woman with my coloring and large doe eyes gazed helplessly into the camera.
“Her name is Pauline,” Caleb explained. “Their son is Benny. She hasn’t been well. This is not the first time….”
Scarlet took over. “We’re so sorry, Cat. As soon as Caleb mentioned it, I said we had to tell you. Just in case….”
Just in case I planned on bedding Joshua, to get over Rhys? After only a few weeks, my friend knew me better than I’d expected. “Thank you for letting me know,” I told them, trying to look at the picture—at Joshua’s waif of a wife—again. “Not that it matters, since our relationship is strictly professional, but I appreciate your concerns.”
Caleb nodded, and Scarlet looked relieved. But after we said our goodbyes, and they stole away, I felt ill. I did not need earthquakes to shake up my world. Joshua was married.
I felt very, very tired as I turned back to the building—and saw Rhys waiting for me by the door. I wished I could walk past him, pretend he was not there, but he deserved better. Perhaps so did I. So I went to him.
It was too soon. My body was still too familiar with him, and the temptation to put my arms around him—out of recent habit if nothing else—frustrated me. I could not stand another lecture.
I did not expect him to say, “You’re beautiful tonight.”
It hurt. I knew I did, but to hear him say it only reminded me of what I’d lost. “If that’s all…”
“We need to talk.” His hand moved, as if to reach for me, but he lowered it again. “I know you’re busy, and do not mean to keep you, but Catrina, we really must discuss this.”
“This?” I prompted.
“Us. I need—” He swallowed, and corrected himself. “I would like to see you again. I would like to repair some of the damage I seem to have done. Please say—please consider letting me take you to dinner soon. There’s so much…”
His struggle to avoid demanding anything intrigued me. “We have done equal damage, and the situation has not changed.”
“I think it has,” he insisted. Then, bolder, he tried, “Don’t go home with Adriano after the party.”
I raised my eyebrows in challenge. Not that I meant to sleep with Joshua, but he couldn’t know that.
“I may have no right to tell you what to do, but I can admit what I want. I can hope we might want some of the same things. Please, Catrina, before you do something that drives us further apart. Give us a chance.”
There he went, saying us again. Part of me longed to try. Part of me pegged it as the ultimate foolishness—walking right back into the madness.
Rhys stepped closer and brushed his fingers softly over my cheek, his head bent over me like a prayer. “Catrina…”
And what madness.
How I could have noticed anything other than him at that moment, I’m still unsure. At least the courtyard was well lit. I gasped, my gaze focusing on a woman just beyond him, just inside the door. It helped that she lifted a hand, to catch my attention, before she slipped into the shadows beyond.
“Yes,” I said. “Fine. Dinner tomorrow night. No sex with Joshua. I’ve got to go now.”
Rhys blinked, understandably doubtful. “What?”
But I didn’t have time to reassure him.
I had to go find the antiquities thief who’d just shown up at our Black Madonna benefit.
I followed Aubrey by catching sight of a flip of velvet skirt around a corner, the heel of a black boot descending stone stairs. She waited for me in the underground galleries, in a small, rough-walled niche that hid us from other patrons who might wander by.
She was a petite woman, older than me by anywhere from a few years to an unlikely decade. Her brown hair fell into her eyes in a bohemian manner. Her gown of purple-black velvet, form-fitting except where it flared out in the skirt and under the elbows, with black boots and a large silver necklace, gave her a decidedly youthful, Goth flavor—which she pulled off neatly. When I leaned in to kiss her cheek in cool greeting, I sensed it—the same connection that had eased us into friendship, even back when I’d been at my least friendly. The same connection I felt with Scarlet and, I thought, with Ana.
For some reason, that nebulous bond reminded me of the Sisters of Mary, whose friendship was such that they’d died together—or most of them had. I’d learned no more about Lisse’s return to Paris. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
The bond hardly made sense. Aubrey and I were close enough that I would not report her, and she would not steal from me—of that, I felt certain. But dying together seemed overly dramatic.
“They are stunning,” Aubrey greeted—presumably of the Black Madonnas. “I had to see for myself. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” I hesitated, then asked, “Did you also see the Interpol agent in the great hall upstairs?”
“The frumpy one?” Aubrey smiled. “I expect there’s more than her. But I’ve noticed a few too many familiar faces, here. I shouldn’t stay. It’s just…” She hesitated, looking concerned, and then admitted, “Something’s not right here, Cat. I don’t know what, exactly. But the guard outside the retaining wall, where the tunnel used to open into the Roman baths, and the guard just down the hall, where the water was once heated? They aren’t to be trusted. I thought you should know.”
I wished I could ask how she knew that, and why they weren’t to be trusted, but I sensed she was taking a chance just telling me this much. “Okay,” I said slowly—and made up my mind. Perhaps this shouldn’t be my concern. But it was my museum, damn it. And my Black Madonnas. “Could you perhaps do me another favor, before you head out?”
Aubrey was happy to distract the guard for me. Hanging back, I didn’t get a chance to hear what she said after flouncing up to him, but damn, she knew how to work it. The way she shifted her weight made the bell of her lower skirts sway. The way she leaned conspiratorially closer gave him a great view of her cleavage. At first he shook his head, but after Aubrey pressed closer to him, with a coy dip of her head and another shift of more intimate weight, he allowed her to lead him away, around the corner, into deeper shadows.
I pushed quickly through the heavy wooden door before he could return to his post, and passed into the dark tunnels of what had once been Roman plumbing, back when Paris had gone by the name of Lutèce and the bathhouses had been an area of huge social importance. I reached to switch on the light—but nothing happened. I stepped carefully forward, and my foot slipped on something like loose gravel. But that was impossible….
Luckily, I’d last used my tiny, embroidered wrist purse before I’d slowed down on my smoking habit. Inside it were my museum ID, several folded Euro notes, my lipstick…and a cigarette lighter. I flicked the lighter and held the flame high enough to see that the light bulb for the overhead lamp was missing. Then I lowered my hand and, as the pool of flickering golden light reached the floor, I sucked in a breath of slow, horrified recognition.
Dozens of little ceramic tiles, of a familiar shape and feel, had been deliberately arranged across the pitted rock floor, almost directly beneath our exhibit.
And my Black Madonnas.