CARCASSONNE—MID-FEBRUARY
More than three million tourists swarmed over the Disney-like facade of Carcassonne’s medieval Cité every year. Lia preferred Languedoc’s lonely, ruined citadels, with their shattered stones and hollow towers and courtyards overrun with brush, haunted by the ghosts of Cathar history and legend. Yet she admitted, as the celestial vision of the Cité rose from the fog above Carcassonne, the vast fortress was magnificent. Its intact walls, turrets, and towers had endured hundreds of years of battles and occupation to become one of France’s greatest cultural treasures.
Although muted sunlight had clambered through the layer of fog to warm the gray walls, clouds thickened as the morning moved on, and the Cité was shrouded in mist. The trinket shops were open for business, but their doors remained closed against the chill. Lia skirted past a group of tourists disembarking from a bus with German plates and sought out the Basilique Saint-Nazaire et Saint-Celse.
The nave was empty and cold. Votive candles flickered in aisle chapels—the only sign that worshippers had been here before her on this somber morning. Despite the eerie silence and jumping shadows, the massive nave enchanted Lia anew. Its arched ceiling was vaulted by six enormous spans that led east to the choir, where glorious panels of stained glass towered over the altar. Long pews formed rows that disappeared into the dark.
Lia edged down a row near the vault of Saint-Pierre and sat beside a column that stretched to the ceiling, huddling in her down jacket. She closed her eyes and calmed her mind until her breathing slowed. She heard footfalls but didn’t turn, certain it was a tourist. She dreaded catching anyone’s eye, wanting only to remain in the quiet space of her meditation. The steps faded.
Moments later, footsteps whispered again across the basilica’s tile floor, breaking her concentration. A warm current of air ran between her feet, carrying with it the scent of pine and warm hay. This time, her skin tingled. She rose and slipped past the column, entering the dark aisle of chapels along the western wall.
From the pillars on her right, a figure appeared. It was a man, not much taller than she but with a powerful build. As black as a shadow, he moved swiftly toward her. He wore a hooded, black wool sweater, stretched and torn, and jeans worn at the knees. His heavy boots were caked with mud. Suddenly, he was before her.
“Paloma,” he said, reaching out.
Lia drew back in alarm. “I’m not Paloma.” Her sharp voice ricocheted off the stone and tile.
“You were followed here,” he stated in a low and soothing voice, as if she were a child or a frightened animal in need of calming. “You’re not safe.”
It jolted her to realize he was speaking in Occitan, the ancient language of Languedoc. His hooded face, his torn clothing—he was clearly mad. Although rattled by their bizarre exchange, Lia responded in the same calm tone, hoping to send the man on his way.
“I think you have me confused with someone else. But it’s all right. Just leave me to enjoy this peaceful place.” Her hand closed around the phone in her pocket, and she wondered if she could dial 17 for the local police without looking at the screen. Yet she didn’t move away. A small voice chimed from deep inside her, You’re safe.
Air streamed through the vast space again, but unlike before, there was no warmth, no scent of summer. It was icy cold. The candles set in candelabras flickered, and several winked out as if invisible fingers had pinched their wicks. A door banged against the wall, followed by footsteps striding across the stone floor. Instinctively, Lia looked toward the sound, but no one appeared.
When she looked back, the man had his shoulder pressed against a small, wooden door set inside the chapel wall. She heard the soft scrape of wood against stone, and a fug of cold, moldy air poured from the open door.
“He’s inside the church. You must come with me.” She backed away, but in a motion so fluid she had no time to react, the man was behind her, one gloved hand over her mouth. “Paloma,” he whispered in her ear. “I am asking you to trust me. Please. Now.”
The iron vise of his arm wrapped around her chest, clamping her arms to her sides, and he propelled her toward the darkness. “Watch your head,” he said, and absurdly, Lia ducked, passing into a black space. The man pressed in behind, and she heard a click. She knew she should fight back, but claustrophobia paralyzed her reason. The blackness was so complete, Lia felt suffocated.
“Let me out,” she moaned, staggering backward on watery knees. Then she shoved past him in a frenzy of fear and groped at the wood in front of her, searching for a handle. “I can’t breathe!” she screamed. Her horror at being trapped in this enclosed space subsumed her fear of this delusional stranger.
“It’s just a short distance to the outer door.” The calm voice was meant to soothe her mania, even as strong hands pinned her arms to her sides. Only hope of a way out kept her from flailing against him with fists and feet.
The man took the lead as they plunged down a corridor, one of Lia’s icy hands clenched in his warm fingers. Her elbows brushed against the sides of the passageway, and the top of her head skimmed the ceiling. They were in an impossibly small space. Panic gripped tighter at her throat, and her every thought was a shriek. They pressed through the darkness, turning corner after corner for an eternity, until he stopped abruptly and Lia collided with his solid back. She heard a thump. He backed into her hard, and she was pushed farther back into the corridor. Sanity slipped. Again a thump. The man grunted with effort and cursed.
“Please, please, please,” she whispered, collapsing to the earth. It was damp and reeked of sealed tombs and forgotten places. Then he was in front of her, his hands touching her shoulders as he searched for her face in the dark.
“I need you to stand up and move back. This door hasn’t been opened in a long time, and it’s wedged shut. Please, I promise I will get you out.”
Lia clung to the wall as she half stood, half crawled backward. A loud crack reverberated, and a sliver of light appeared. A shadow shifted, blocking the light, and there was the sound of wood splintering.
Light flooded in and, with it, cold, sweet air. The wind howled through, churning up the earth at the exit created in the stone. The man continued to kick at the wood of the broken door until the hole was wide enough to pass through, and then he lifted her to her feet. Lia pulled out of his grasp and reeled over the threshold, gasping raggedly for air. He came to her side and laid a hand on her back.
“Don’t touch me.” Lia jerked away.
He removed his hand but remained beside her, waiting until she calmed. The wind cut through her sweater, and her bare hands shook as she zipped up her jacket. The knitted scarf that had hung loosely around her neck was gone.
At last, he pushed back his hood, revealing a pallid face that was split on one side by a scar. It ran red and angry from his left temple to the corner of his mouth, recently—and badly—healed. Her broken mind strained to make a connection.
“You’re not safe here,” he insisted. “Follow the path back into town. I’ll find you there.”
For one wild moment, she thought he was Gabriel. Those deep brown eyes regarding her with love and sorrow made her want to reach out and… With a shudder, she dropped her head into her cold hands. Then a shift in the air pulled her head up again. Thick, moist air flowed from the wreck of the doorway they’d exited through, colder than the chill wind that blew her hair into her face. She was alone.
• • •
Lia stood on the edge of a cliff just outside the Cité’s walls. The overcast sky hung heavy with a coming storm over the valley of vineyards to the south. Across the Aude River, Carcassonne huddled in the dim light, a gray, crumbling carcass of past glory. The rush of traffic on the distant A9 and an occasional wailing siren from the city’s streets assured Lia she was still in the present world. She pulled her phone from her pocket, but the screen was blank. She pressed the power switch and waited until the familiar apple symbol showed gray against the black void. No reception. Not a single bar.
In the stillness, Lia began to doubt what had happened in the basilica. The man’s sudden appearance, the stranger who was so disturbingly familiar, was upsetting enough. But with his disappearance, reality shook free of its tether, and she considered the possibility that she was losing her mind.
As she leaned over the edge, she braced herself against a boulder that jutted into the air. A hair’s width of a trail was just visible on the far left edge of the cliff, created perhaps by wild animals and enlarged by humans. Cigarette butts, a cracked Kronenbourg bottle, a discarded tennis shoe, and condoms were scattered alongside. Lia scooted over the edge on her behind, her toes straining. Her feet touched down, and she inched sideways along the eroding dirt path.
Once on solid ground, Lia looked back, but the ledge where they had emerged from the basilica was out of sight. A flash of white and brown sparked at the corner of her vision. A bird of prey looped and swirled on an air current, folded its wings, and dove into the vineyards below. Lia watched the place where it had vanished, but the bird did not reappear. She continued down the path, and soon she emerged on a gravel road that led to a sidewalk of chipped and broken cement.
She crossed onto a side street she knew in the small city, walking past the open garage doors of an automotive repair shop, a plumbing supply store for contractors, a grimy tabac. Men in blue coveralls or sweatshirts and denims stopped their work to watch. There were a few leers and some friendly smiles, but no one troubled Lia. The sight of their humble figures and the sound of their mellifluous French or melodic Arabic was a balm poured over her frayed nerves.
A familiar shape with lean shoulders and a crown of dark gold hair appeared half a street ahead. She picked up her pace. “Lucas!” she shouted. Abruptly, he veered left into a passageway. Lia followed. It wasn’t a through street but an alley that ended in a low brick wall with a closed wooden door set inside. She faltered and stepped back. She’d had enough of low, close spaces.
Lia’s feet carried her in the direction of the signs pointing south—Centre Ville, the center of town. The streets widened to allow the passage of cars, and soon she was forced onto the sidewalk. She approached the entrance to a hotel, where several taxis waited.
A taxi driver took her to the lot near the Cité where she’d left her car just a few hours before but a lifetime ago. She sat in her car, watching the thick clouds gather in a downy layer across the horizon. Finally, she called Lucas.
“Lia! I tried calling, but your phone was out of service range. Where are you?”
“I’m—” The cold weight of fatigue pressed down on her. “I’m sorry, Lucas, I think I’m coming down with the flu… I’m chilled and feverish. I just need to get back to Minerve.”
His hesitation lasted two heartbeats. “No, of course, take care of yourself. I have plenty to do here.”
“Are you at the basilica?”
“Yes. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“It’s just that I thought…” She looked around the parking lot. Her Peugeot, two taxis, and four large tour buses were the only vehicles. Of course, Lucas could have parked elsewhere, but this was the closest lot to the Cité’s entrance.
“Lia?”
“Nothing. I’m not making any sense.” Lia wanted to be far away from Carcassonne and this bewildering day. “I’ll call you next week? Again, I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t wasted your time.”
As she pulled away from the citadel grounds, the pregnant skies opened and the rain burst forth.