The Book of Shadows (42 page)

She raised a half-robe to the candlelight just then; its whiteness had gone gray. “These clothes, each piece,” said she, with a sigh, “
each piece
is bloodstained. Do you understand?” I said I did.

“How is it you have all these clothes?” I asked.

“How is it,” echoed Sebastiana, “that I've ended up with this ragged, tattered, and moth-eaten
musée des modes
?…You have read a bit in my Book, no?”

“I have,” said I.

“‘Le souper grec',
and its preceding chapters?”

“Yes.”

“Eh bien,”
said Sebastiana, “then you know of the royals and aristocrats, the privileged people I painted. And you know too that I had property safely beyond the city.” I nodded. Madeleine sat silently by. Sebastiana fingered a length of blue damask. “When these…
acquaintances
of mine slipped into exile, I agreed to store their wares, ‘hold them' till they came to reclaim them. Of course, the few who may have returned would have searched for me in vain, for I was secreted here by then.”

It was rather dangerous, what you did, no?
asked Madeleine.

“Sedition would have been the official charge,” said Sebastiana. “Punishable, of course, by death.” Then, with forced lightness, she cast aside the memory of that long-ago day just as she cast aside this moth-eaten dress or that unraveling blouse, and she drew from the armoire a suit of salmon damask.

“No, no,” I demurred. I could not imagine wearing such a showy thing, and I said as much. “Ah, but this was the color of the
proper
Van Dyke costume,” said she, passing her hand over the smooth fabric on the back of the jacket, which was broad, too broad for me. I wondered were these…Asmodei's clothes?

“Some of them are, yes. Asmodei
was
known to dress in his day. ‘The glass of fashion and the mold of form,'” she added, wistfully, quoting some unnamed source. “But
this
suit,” she went on, “this is an archer's suit, one worn by a friend, a certain Marquis, whose days ended in Spain, I believe.” The suit was topped with a short cloak. I tried the ensemble on, at Sebastiana's urging, and Madeleine's too. To my surprise, it fit passably well.

“Mais non!”
I said. “I cannot! It's too….
pink
! I look like…like an overlarge salmon! I'd feel obliged to walk
backward
down the street in such a suit!”

It was great fun. We whiled away the night like that, the three of us. Madeleine, sitting cross-legged on her spread, grew ever more at ease as the hour of our departure approached. Sebastiana, her arms turning like the wheel of a mill, pulled from the seemingly bottomless armoire suits of ditto and suits cut of Genoa velvet, and shirts edged in varieties of Flemish lace—the laces of Antwerp, Mechlin, Brussels, and Binche, all of which she could identify by their motif. There was damask, chenille, dimity, and brocade. There was the most exquisite passementerie. I modeled the clothes that Sebastiana
presented,
for yes, each outfit came with a story of its provenance. And then we'd all opine;
enfin,
we voted, the three of us, and the clothes were packed or discarded, depending on majority rule.

Many of the outfits did fit; there were droppable hems, and the trousers buttoned at the knee, or near enough. We'd a store of pins, too: Sebastiana made minor alterations. It was fun! Truly, it was. Sebastiana spun her tales faster and faster. We doubted fully
half
of what she said that night, so exaggerated did the tales become. Madeleine would laugh from time to time, the mechanics of which act were, of course, grotesque—Sebastiana, as kindly as she could, told the succubus to sit back, lest the spurting blood stain the clothes; still, it was nice to see the ancient girl smile and laugh…. Poor Madeleine, I miss her; I began missing her the moment Father Louis and I—

The mission! Alors,
my mission,
our
mission, was simply this:

The elementals would accompany me southward, to the city of Madeleine's birth; at a crossroads beyond that no longer extant city, she, or her mortal remains, lay buried in unconsecrated earth. There, by means still quite mysterious to me, we—Father Louis, Madeleine, and I—would seek to undo whatever trick of the Church had consigned Madeleine to a centuries-long deathless death. She sought to live again, to live so that she might finally and truly die. Yes, Madeleine wanted desperately to die.

It seemed that in years past, when first they met, Sebastiana had tried to help Madeleine effect this, but for whatever reason she had failed, and refused to try again. Madeleine and Father Louis had then tried all manner,
all
manner of ways to win her release over the centuries, to no avail. My saviors had come to believe that to effect Madeleine's death it would take the strength of a new witch. They'd waited a long time for a new and untried witch, a
powerful
witch to make herself known—Sebastiana
had
agreed to assist in the finding of such a one. Such a one as I.

Our
“soirée”
ended at the first light of day. Again, as it had at C——, dawn came to redefine my life.

Sebastiana and I packed the
nécessaire
. Crammed as it was, we could barely close it.
“Ah, attendons!”
exclaimed Sebastiana, just as I'd secured the first of the brass buckles. “I nearly forgot.” With that, she took from under the easel that bag of black velvet, to which she'd returned the golden shears hours earlier. “You won't be needing these, at least not for a while,” said she, withdrawing the shears; she secured the mouth of the bag, tied around it the leather strap that had held my braid at its base. “But the rest of this, all this, is yours.”

“What is it?” I asked, watching as Sebastiana shoved the bag deep into the
nécessaire
.

“Let us say that it contains a legacy of sorts, passed from me to you; the contents are yours to dispose of as you please.”

I thought then that the bag contained certain
trinkets,
things Sebastiana knew I'd need, or thought I might want. I thought specifically of her red coral combs; though those remained in her hair, I took the bag to be full of similar items; and, once I tasked myself again with the brass buckles of the
nécessaire,
I gave the bag not another thought.

And then I saw the coach that would carry me from Ravndal. To say that I have not traveled widely is, of course, a gross understatement. Still, even
I
knew that one rarely if ever came across such a coach as
that
on the backroads of France. Indeed, it had been years since so showy a thing adorned the streets of Paris. I said as much—once I'd steadied myself—when Sebastiana led me outside at dawn and I saw…

“You cannot go fast,” said she, “it's true; but you
can
go in style.” Style, indeed! I stared as the thing came rolling to a stop before us, Roméo at the reins of its two horses. “It could take four horses,” said Sebastiana, “but you'll have to make do with two.” Roméo, lantern in hand, remained atop the box; his smile—so
pleased
I was to see him smile—outshone the low moon, the blue light of which caused the coach to glow. The elementals? They were near, doubtless hovering as little more than misted soul, clouds of life-matter drawn out along the shore. Asmo? Nowhere to be seen. Sebastiana stood beside me wrapped in an ermine stole, smiling and stifling her laughter.

“Isn't it grand, great heart?” she asked.

“Grand,” I echoed. “Yes;
grand,
it is. Surely you don't mean for me to—”

“Roméo, my boy,” directed Sebastiana, “the
nécessaire
sits ready, inside the studio. Would you please?”

Roméo came near us. He leaned nearer Sebastiana. I heard what it was he whispered; he wanted first to show me the coach. “Go right ahead, then,” said she. “But it's properly called a berlin.”

I was in possession—
incredible,
this!—of one of three carriages built by a Parisian saddler in 1770, all of them intended to lead young Antonia and her senior attendants into France. Problem was, the girl was sent from Austria in a hurry, and this last of the berlins was not yet completed.

The young Archduchess had been promised to the French for a full year before they were able, as Father Louis put it, “to take delivery.” Heads of state had waited with lessening patience upon the girl's first blood. Maria-Theresa, most eager of all to ally Bourbon and Hapsburg, had ordered that her daughter's inexpressibles be checked thrice daily. The Empress's private correspondence with the French envoy, Dufort, made repeated reference to the
imminent
arrival of one “General Krotendorf.” When finally the future Queen of the French spotted her silks, her mother was ecstatic! The “General” had arrived to save Austria! Long-standing plans were quickly set in motion.

One thing
not
set in motion was the third coach, still unfinished. Paid for in full and forgotten, the trap would come to sit for years in the saddler's garage. At first, no one could afford it; later, no one wanted it. Twenty-odd years later, in the early days of the Revolution, when all workmen and merchants engaged in the opulent trades sought desperately to drop their wares, Sebastiana bought the berlin—“A bargain,
je t'assure
!” said she—and used it to decamp from the rue Cl——to Chaillot, under cover of darkness; later, laden with all it could carry, Sebastiana had it driven to Ravndal, where it had sat unused in the stables ever since.

That morning, beneath a brightening sky, I took Roméo's hand and climbed into the coach for a closer inspection. The inner walls of the cab were lined in red satin and trimmed in cherry wood. The facing banquettes were upholstered in blue velvet; the cushioned seats themselves bore thread-paintings depicting the four seasons. I smacked a seat and a thick puff of dust rose up.
“Regarde!”
said Roméo, and with that he lifted the same cushion to disclose a commode! In addition, the carriage bore a larder for storing provisions, a simple stove, and a dining table that could be lifted up from beneath the deep blue carpet. I inspected a tall box beside the larder—a portable set of cutlery, complete with spice box and egg cups, the whole made of porcelain, gold, and hammered steel. Four hooks bearing unlit lamps were screwed into the dark wood; two lamps hung between each set of windows; over the windows were black shades of fine, doubled linen.

What a fool I'd feel like rattling south to the sea in so ostentatious a trap! “Isn't there a simple diligence I might board and…” But Sebastiana dismissed my concerns with a wave of her hand.

Climbing from the berlin, I saw that someone—Roméo, no doubt—had toned down the rich appearance of the outer carriage. Gilded wood had been painted over; still it shone through in spots like gold in a streambed. The door handles had small black sacks tied over them; along the road I'd steal a peek: solid gold. What band of brigands would
not
set upon such a contraption as we crawled along the backroads of the country?

“My dear,” said Sebastiana, in response to the question I had not voiced. “You have read too many novels. And we don't call them
brigands
any longer; they are mere thieves.”

“Call them what you will,” I countered, “but as we near the southern port cities they'll pick us apart!”

Sebastiana assuaged my fears thusly: “Heart,” said she, rather dryly, “you're a witch traveling in the company of two entities several centuries old. I think you'll be all right.” It was then I would have sworn I heard Asmodei's quite distinctive, ferruginous laugh somewhere above us. It came like sounds from a forge, issuing perhaps from an upper-story casement, perhaps the roof; but, looking up, I saw no sign of him.

All that happened next happened quite fast. It's a blur to me now, though these events transpired but a fortnight ago.

Sebastiana had left me a bit of my beloved blond hair, tying it back with a green silk ribbon, and Roméo, seemingly amused by my new suit and hairstyle, single-handedly loaded the
nécessaire
onto the berlin before climbing back atop the box. “Is he…?” I asked hopefully of Sebastiana.

“Yes, dear,” said she, “but only as far as”—here she named a village a half-day's drive from Ravndal—“and then he returns to me, to us.” Roméo would drive me to P——and there he'd help me hire a driver and fresh horses. He'd return to Ravndal on one of the horses, the second of which he'd sell in P——.

Eager though she was to see me take to the road, Sebastiana let me return to the studio. I lingered there a short while, alone. I left the chatelaine standing beside her boy; they spoke admiringly of the berlin. I sought to
absorb
the studio, take in its every detail. But all I remember now is staring at the map that Father Louis had clipped to an unpainted, yellowed canvas set atop the easel; early the previous night, he'd detailed the route we would take south, to the crossroads, to the sea. Finally, I stepped out into the roseraie. The air was chilling and wet and sea-scented. Mist rose at the base of the bushes. I dared not snip a bloom, but I did sniff those few that had fast become my favorites. Would that I could retain their scents, take with me their sweet perfume. It was then a tide of anguish rose within me, but it was without depth, and I mastered it fast, fast as it rose.
I would not cry
. Quickly, I quit the garden. Passing through the studio, I took up the two
Books of Shadows
—Sebastiana's and mine—and made my way out to the coach.

Sebastiana stood in her ermine wrap. Roméo sat high on the driver's box, reins in hand. The elementals? They had neared; I knew it somehow. And I know now that when Sebastiana, rather mysteriously, addressed…addressed the very
air,
saying,
“Courage!”
and offering a quite literal
“Adieu”
…I know now that she spoke to an unseen Madeleine.