Champagne Breakfast

November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
6:15 am CEST

“What I’d give for some champagne,” Astrid says. Marcel watches Astrid’s index finger as she directs his attention to the delicate pages of Albion Ravistelle’s Toele. “You’re seeing that, right? I’m not losing my mind?”

The two stare at a kind of optical illusion—or bona fide supernatural occurrence. The Elliqui characters in several places on the page change—entire lines reorder and shift—stories alter —unbeknown additions appear. The anomalous editing is slow and ghostlike.

Marcel looks at Astrid, “What the hell happened while I was asleep?”

Astrid shrugs. “Much, apparently.”

“Are these changes happening in your book?” he asks.

“No—or maybe. I’m not sure yet. These changes here tell of Yafarra’s last stand in the Avu.”

“How she was entombed?”

“So it seems.”

Marcel lifts and opens Astrid’s book and flips to the chapter, “The Fall of Wyn Avuqua”. He mutters to himself, “So I guess history is no longer written by the winners but something else altogether.” Astrid can see that he has found the section on the killing of the innocent.

“So, Marcel?” She says latching her eyes to his. “You know the tale of the Wyn Avuquain innocent, right?”

Incredulity rises into Marcel’s expression. “You want me to answer that question, seriously?” He sees that she is indeed serious. “Um, yeah. Of course I know. It is one of the oldest—” He breaks off. He scratches his head. “I mean, you discovered documents about it years ago…” His red eyebrows furrow. “Why does my stomach hurt suddenly? I have this weird feeling we talked about this before—like, yesterday. But…” He lowers the book and stares at his teacher. “What the fuck? We’ve always known that story.”

“We have?” She asks. Astrid studies him and tries to connect some kind of cypher to the impossibility. Her stomach growls.

“Yeah. Right?”

“You slept last night?”

Marcel nods. “Yes. But what does that have to do with anything?”

Astrid shrugs. “I’m not sure. It’s all I can figure. Maybe these shifts in history insert into our memories after we distance ourselves a bit. Maybe sleep.”

“Haven’t you slept?”

“Barely.” The weight of fatigue is heavy, but somehow easily ignored. Breakfast would be good, she thinks. And champagne. She gestures to her book, “Tell me, is there anything in there about Yafarra’s last stand?”

Marcel scans. Pages flip. A few moments pass. He thumbs to the index and searches. “Well,” he says standing, “I’m not too sure how to answer you. What’s written here—the tale I know—is the same as it ever was.”

“And what tale is that?”

“The story you pieced together from several sources—”

“Yes—and?”

“That Yafarra was slain—her head was taken—and she was entombed by Templar—with the prophecy, and hidden.” He reads from the book: “—the author of this German account leaves no clues to Yafarra’s remains save this: Her Majesty shall always remain within the Heron’s talon.”

She turns back to the Toele. “There is perhaps one other surviving Itonalya tome like this—it is only rumored, of course. And now with Wyn Avuqua discovered, I’m sure there are hundreds. But Albion’s Toele is now—right now—changing.”

“What does that mean? Like, lines of history run side by side—and the change is happening right now—in real time?” Marcel’s excitement and wonder makes her smile. But the smile is laced with more pain than joy.

“Real time? No damn idea what that might mean.”

Marcel shrugs, “Me either, at this point.”

“What has me disturbed is who or what is holding the pen.”

Marcel recoils. “Ugh. Brain hurts.”

“Noted,” Astrid agrees. A warble from her stomach seems to agree.

“What is the author saying.”

The pads of her fingers touch the parchment. They slide gently across the runes, over the words, through veils of meaning. She reads in silence.

“I don’t know how to answer you. I could pour over this book for months—years. One page seems to contain more than I’ve been able to gather in my entire career.” She sighs. “It would take too much time to locate anything on Yafarra’s last stand. If my book hasn’t changed on that subject, maybe this one won’t either.”

“Seems to me that Yafarra’s entombment was meant to be a secret. How, after all, could anyone tell of it?”

“You’re right,” she nods. “It is said that what few Itonalya escaped were not aware of the inner dealings of Yafarra’s court. Therefore, like us, their accounts are a matter of conjecture.”

Astrid closes the Toele. “Another time, my love,” she says to it as she rubs her hand over the cover. “Another time.”

She tells Marcel about her evening. Everything from her visit with Howard Fenn to her encounter with Graham and Rearden to the surreal experience within Basil Fenn’s artwork.

“Busy as usual,” Marcel says when she finishes. “So you’re the lucky one that gets the first read of the Red Notebook. Swell. After the Journal, I don’t think it wise to keep up on Newirth’s work. Have we decided yet that these things are above our pay grade and its time to get out of here?”

“You read my mind—but I’m not leaving without Graham.”

Marcel narrows his eyes, “Sounds like Rearden has you stuck. What? Did he say, ‘You read this and tell me what it says and then I’ll let you go’?”

“Not exactly.”

“What did he say?”

“It’s what he didn’t say that troubles me.”

Marcel says, “What do you mean?”

Astrid thinks for a second. “If Rearden succeeds with either bringing Loche to some kind of murderous state and gets him to write—the outcome could be catastrophic. If he fails with that he’ll figure a way to kill the man. Jesus, he’s designed the death of Loche’s son already.” A sharp stab of pain presses into her temple at the thought. “The Red Notebook is his last wild card—his remaining unknown. It will either benefit him, destroy him or do nothing at all. One thing is for sure, though—no matter what it says, I will know. I will have read the secret. And it’s damn certain he won’t let me live knowing it.”

Marcel’s chest puffs up. “Then we won’t let that happen. He can’t just kill you openly.”

“No. But there’s a reason he wants me to read it at a Masque. Tomorrow’s event, despite its high-class crowd, will be dangerous. I’ve been through Albion’s House. There are a lot of shadowy nooks—a lot of places where a killing could take place.” She shivers. Pages from Edgar Allan Poe’s The Masque of the Red Death flutter in from eighth grade—the colored rooms, the chiming clock, the pursuit of Death into the last black chamber.

“I won’t let it happen. I’ll shadow you everywhere you go. I’ll get some kind of weapon.” His sentiment seems outlandish, yet his ferocity provides some comfort.

“Whatever happens,” she says, “He can’t know what it says—and he can’t be allowed to possess it.”

“Maybe Fausto can help,” Marcel says.

“Maybe. But I think we may need Albion and his sort in the end.” Astrid puts her hand on his shoulder, “If you lose me, I’ll find you. Don’t go risking your skin to find me. These people are dangerous. If you lose me, find us a way to escape.”

“Speaking of Fausto, I’ve already had some ideas about that,” he says with a mischievous grin.

There is a knock on Astrid’s door.

“Professor Finnley?” a voice says from outside. “Delivery.”

Astrid opens to see two smartly dressed attendants with two carts. “Albion Ravistelle sends his compliments to both you and Marcel Hruska.” His open palm directs their attention to the hanging garments and boxes stacked on the higher of the two carts. “I bring a wide range of attire—gowns and doublets, cloaks and cowls.” He bows his head. “And from Fausto Boldrin—masks. The most beautiful masks in all the world.” The attendant behind with the other, lower cart then announces, “And I bring breakfast and champagne.”