The Expected One (19 page)

M
aureen and Peter followed the melodious sound of madrigals as they drifted through the halls. Approaching the entrance to the ballroom, they received their first glimpse of Sinclair’s elaborate and sumptuous affair.

Maureen felt as if she had been transported to another time. The cavernous ballroom had been draped in velvet hangings, and flowers and candles adorned the halls by the thousands. Elaborately wigged and costumed servants moved quietly and efficiently through the room, providing food and drink and cleaning up discreetly after the more rambunctious revelers.

But it was the guests themselves who were the bijoux for this luxurious jewelry box. Their costumes were elaborate and extravagant, period outfits from various eras throughout French and Occitan history, or costumes representing elements of the mystery traditions. An invitation to Sinclair’s event was coveted by the esoteric elite across the globe; delighted recipients went to enormous lengths of time and expense to develop appropriate attire. There was a contest for the most original costume, as well as for the most beautiful and the most humorous. Sinclair was the sole judge and jury, and the prizes he awarded were often worth a small fortune. More important, a win guaranteed a coveted spot on the guest list for next year’s event.

The music, the laughter, the clanking of crystal wineglasses stopped abruptly as Maureen and Peter entered the room.

A liveried man with a trumpet blew a heraldic note as Roland stepped forward, dressed in a simple Cathar robe, to announce their arrival. Maureen was surprised to see Roland dressed as a reveler rather than an employee on this night, but she had little time to contemplate this as she was swept into the entrance.

“It is my privilege to announce our honored guests, Mademoiselle Maureen de Paschal and the Abbé Peter Healy.”

The crowd froze like wax mannequins in their places, staring at the new arrivals. Roland quickly indicated that the band should resume playing to cover the awkward moment. He put his arm out for Maureen and escorted her into the ballroom. The gaping continued, but not as obviously. Those more skilled in decorum had covered their shock with feigned disinterest.

“Do not mind them, Mademoiselle. You are a new face, and a new mystery to be discovered. But now,” he said pointedly, “they will accept you quickly. They have little choice.”

Maureen didn’t have time to think about Roland’s meaning as he swept her out to the dance floor, leaving Peter behind to watch with growing interest.

“Reenie!” Tamara Wisdom’s American accent was incongruous in this European setting. She swept across the ballroom floor where Maureen had just completed a dance with Roland. Tammy looked wildly exotic in a gypsy costume. Her extraordinary hair was dyed a shiny raven’s wing black and hung to her waist. Gold bangles covered her arms. Roland winked at Tamara — somewhat flirtatiously, Maureen noticed — before bowing to Maureen and excusing himself.

Maureen hugged Tammy, delighted to see another familiar face in this increasingly strange land. “You look gorgeous! Who are you dressed as?”

Tammy twirled gracefully, ebony hair flying behind her. “Sarah the Egyptian, also know as the Gypsy Queen. She was Mary Magdalene’s handmaiden.”

Tammy lifted the red taffeta of Maureen’s skirt with one finger. “And I don’t have to ask who you are. Did Berry give you this?”

“Berry?”

Tammy laughed. “That’s what Sinclair’s friends call him.”

“I didn’t realize the two of you were that close.” Maureen hoped the disappointment wasn’t obvious in her voice.

Tammy didn’t have a chance to respond. They were interrupted by a young woman, not much older than a teenager, dressed in a simple Cathar robe. The girl carried a single calla lily and handed it to Maureen.

“Marie de Negre,” she said, then bowed deeply and scampered off.

Maureen turned to Tammy for an explanation. “What was that about?”

“You. You’re all the gossip tonight. There’s only one rule for this annual soiree, and it’s that no one has ever been allowed to dress as
Her.
And then you appear, the portrait version of Mary Magdalene. Sinclair is announcing you to the world. This is your coming-out party.”

“Lovely. It would have been nice if I had been informed of this little detail. What did that girl just call me?”

“Marie de Negre. Black Mary. It’s a local slang for Mary Magdalene, the Black Madonna. In every generation, a woman of the bloodline is given that name as an official title and holds it until death. Congratulations, it’s a very serious honor here. It’s as though she just said, ‘Your Majesty.’ ”

Maureen had little time to contemplate the chaos that swirled around her. The room was filled to capacity with elaborate distractions: too much music, too many eccentric and interesting revelers. Sinclair was nowhere to be found; she had asked Roland about him during their dance, but the Languedoc giant had shrugged and answered as vaguely and enigmatically as always.

Maureen was looking around the room as Tammy spoke.

“Looking for your watchdog?” Tammy asked.

Maureen gave her a look, but nodded, willing to let Tammy think her concern was only for Peter’s whereabouts. Tammy indicated that Peter was walking toward them, coming up from behind Maureen.

“Behave yourself, please,” Maureen hissed at her friend.

Tammy ignored her. She had already stepped up to welcome Peter.

“Welcome to Babylon, Padre.”

Peter laughed. “Thank you. I think.”

“You’re just in time. I was about to give Our Lady here a tour of the freak show. Wanna join us?”

Peter nodded, and smiled helplessly at Maureen, tagging along as Tammy led them at her rapid pace across the ballroom.

Tammy led Maureen and Peter through the party, whispering conspiratorially at the various small groupings as they passed. She made introductions as appropriate when she saw friends or acquaintances in the crowd. Maureen was acutely aware that she was the center of scrutiny as they moved through the room.

The trio passed a small grouping of scantily clad men and women. Tammy nudged Maureen.

“That’s the sex cult. They believe that Mary Magdalene was the high priestess in a bizarre set of sexual rituals that evolved from ancient Egypt.”

Maureen and Peter both looked scandalized.

“Don’t shoot the messenger, I just call them as I see them. But wait, don’t answer yet. Look over there…”

The most bizarre group so far, dressed in elaborate alien garb replete with antennae, stood in the back of the room.

“Rennes-le-Château is a star gate, with direct access to other galaxies.”

Maureen burst out laughing, while Peter shook his head in disbelief. “You weren’t kidding about the freak show part.”

“And you thought I made this stuff up.”

They stopped to observe a huddled group of people who were listening intently to a rotund little man with a goatee. He appeared to be speaking in rhyme as his admirers tried to take in every word.

“Who’s that?” Maureen whispered.

“Nostradumbass,” Tammy quipped.

Maureen stifled her laughter as Tammy continued.

“Claims to be the reincarnation of you-know-who. Speaks only in quatrains. Tedious as hell. Remind me later to tell you why I hate the whole Nostradamus cult.” She shuddered dramatically. “Charlatans. Might as well be selling snake oil.”

Tammy kept them moving across the room. “Thankfully, they’re not all freaks here. Some of the people are amazing, and I see two of them right now. Come on.”

They approached a group of men dressed in costumes of the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century nobility. A patrician Englishman broke into a huge grin as they approached.

“Tamara Wisdom! It is a pleasure to see you again, my dear. You’re looking marvelous.”

Tammy gave the Englishman a European double-cheek air kiss. “Where’s your apple?”

The man laughed. “I left it in England. Please introduce us to your friends.”

Tammy made the introductions, referring to the Englishman only as Sir Isaac. He explained his choice of costume for them. “There is far more to Sir Isaac Newton than the apple,” he said. “His discovery of the laws of gravity was a by-product of his greater work. Isaac Newton was arguably one of the most gifted alchemists in history.”

At the end of Sir Isaac’s speech, the group was approached by a young American man, tall and looking somewhat uncomfortable in his Thomas Jefferson costume and his powdered wig. “Tammy, baby!”

His embrace of Tammy was an all-American bear hug, which he followed with a dramatic dip and a kiss on the lips. Tammy laughed and explained to Maureen.

“This is Derek Wainwright. He was my first guide through France when I started researching this madness. Speaks flawless French, which saved my life more times than I can tell you.”

Derek bowed low to Maureen. His accent was pure Cape Cod, full of Massachusetts broad vowels. “Thomas Jefferson at your service, ma’am.” He nodded to Peter. “Father.”

Derek was the first member of the group to even acknowledge Peter’s presence. Maureen noticed, but didn’t have much time to consider it as Peter asked a question.

“So what is Thomas Jefferson’s association with…all this?”

“Our great country was founded by Freemasons. Every American president from George Washington to George W. Bush has been a descendant of the bloodline — one way or another.”

Maureen was taken aback by this. “Really?”

Tammy answered. “Really. Derek can prove it on paper. Too much free time in boarding school.”

Isaac stepped forward to pat Derek on the shoulder. He announced grandly, “Paul was the first corrupter of the doctrines of Jesus, isn’t that right, Tammy?”

Peter shot him a look. “Excuse me?”

“It’s one of Jefferson’s more controversial quotes,” the Englishman explained.

It was Maureen’s turn to look surprised. “Jefferson said that?”

Derek nodded, but appeared to be only half listening. He was glancing around, checking out the party as Tammy talked. “Hey, where’s Draco? I thought Maureen might enjoy meeting him.”

Three of them laughed hard at this. Isaac answered. “I offended him, and he stomped off to find the other Red Dragons. I’m sure they’re holed up in a corner somewhere with their concealed spy cameras, taking notes on everyone. They’re in their colors tonight, so you won’t be able to miss them.”

Maureen’s curiosity was piqued. “Who are they?”

“The Knights of the Red Dragon,” Derek answered with feigned dramatic emphasis.

“Creepy.” Tammy elaborated, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “They wear these outfits that look like Ku Klux Klan uniforms, only in bright red satin. They told me I could learn the secrets of their esteemed club if I would donate my menstrual blood to their alchemical experiments. Of course, I jumped at that offer.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Maureen’s reply was dry before she burst out laughing. “Where are these guys? I’ve got to get a look at them.” She looked around the room but didn’t see anyone who met Tammy’s bizarre description.

“I saw them go outside,” Newton answered helpfully. “But I don’t know if I would expose Maureen to them just yet. She may not be ready.”

Tammy explained. “Very secret society stuff, and they all claim to be descended from somebody royal and famous. Leader is a guy they call Draco Ormus.”

“Why does that sound familiar?” Maureen asked.

“He’s a writer. We have the same esoteric publisher in the U.K., which is why I know him. You may have run across one of his books in your travels through Magdalene territory. The ironic thing about him is that he writes about the importance of goddess worship and the female principle, yet they won’t allow women into their boys’ club.”

“How very British,” Derek said, nudging Sir Isaac, who looked perturbed.

“Don’t include me in that lunatic’s company, cowboy. All Brits are not created equal.”

“Isaac here is one of the good ones,” Tammy explained. “Of course, there are a number of bona-fide geniuses in the U.K., and some of them are my great friends. But in my experience, a lot of the English esoterics are snobs. They all think they hold the secret of the universe and that the rest of us — particularly the Americans — are new age idiots who do shoddy research. They think that because they can write three hundred pages about the sacred geometry of the Languedoc and create another two hundred pages of mostly fictional family trees, they have it all figured out. But if they would put their compasses down for a minute and allow themselves to feel something, they’d discover that there is a lot more to the treasure here than can be quantified on paper.”