The previous day’s storm left the world looking wetly vibrant, as if a painter had just slapped paint onto the canvas. The world seemed acutely sharp and alive. But Haidée was in no mood to appreciate it.
She stood just outside the village of Mont Saint Filan breathing in the salty air from the surrounding sea. Her head ached with the natural stimuli, as if her nerves had been rubbed raw. That morning, she had taken double the dose of the tonic to wake herself up from some particularly bad nightmares. She remembered little of those subconscious sojourns, preferring instead the lividness and side effects of a drug that she hoarded almost religiously.
But at the moment, she questioned the wisdom of it. Everything around her seemed louder and brighter when all she wanted was some quiet and undisturbed sleep.
After a covert breakfast, barely avoiding the easily agitated Madame Boulanger, she had gone outside for a walk. The ground had been still slightly wet, but then, she had not cared about the mud sticking to the heel of her shoes. When she had reached the edge of the observatory’s land, she had looked out toward the small church and the bit of cemetery beside it. There had been men out already, digging a grave in preparation for D’Aubigne’s funeral which Everard and Father DeLorme had planned for the next day. The magistrate had raised no objection—Galliard hadn’t even suggested that the funeral be postponed so that he could figure out what was going on.
Beyond the cemetery had been Laroche’s farm. Even from her vantage point, she could see the wall that separated the farm from the observatory land just beyond a copse of red leaf trees. She had wondered exactly where on the wall the farmer had found D’Aubigne. She also wondered if the blond haired astronomer had simply been killed elsewhere and had been dumped at the wall deliberately for someone else to find. And if that was true, what would be the purpose in that?
Those thoughts had been in her head when the marten, who had faithfully followed her, got distracted by something and had run off into the trees. She had consoled herself with the loss of her companion with the reasoning that it was a wild animal with a mind of its own. Then she had entered the village. A quick walk through the main street revealed that it was still too early for any of the shops to be open. The Green Café where she had had her first conversation with the observatory librarian Seymour Davenport had a closed look even though she could see light in the interior. She had not bothered to knock to see if it was really closed.
The Cormorant, however, was open. The innkeeper, Fasset, had given her a baleful look, but said nothing when she had ordered a cup of tea. She had taken a seat in the mostly empty dining room. Apparently the inn’s visitors got up even later than she did. She had sat there wrapped up with her own thoughts when she had been surprised by the scrape of moving chairs nearby.
The magistrate, Galliard, and two other men who she had recognized as Ducos and his friend, had taken a table not far from hers. A tired looking maid had walked by with a tray to serve them breakfast. The men had been talking in low tones, ignoring her. On the surface, it had looked like any other conversation, but something about the tones of their voices—even though she could not make out any distinct words—had seemed wrong.
She had been almost finished with her tea. There had been one last cold sip left at the bottom of the cup, a pale brown-green liquid with bits of browned leaves curled in suspension. She had glanced around her, looking to see if anyone was watching her. Once satisfied that she was unobserved, she had dipped a finger in the bit of leftover tea and began drawing a symbol on her table, a triangle with a slash through it and an odd yet distinct curling mark at the point of the triangle pointing to the trio of men. Then, she had said a word, soundlessly.
Her ears had gotten momentarily cold and then the murmur of the men’s voices had sharpened until she could pick up phrases and sentences.
“Are you sure that dead astronomer was just an accident?” That had been Ducos. He had sounded worried.
“It can’t be anything else,” Galliard had replied. “Only a fool would have gone out in that weather yesterday to dally about. He probably courted the wrath of God by doing that and ended up getting struck by lightning for his pains.”
“The doctor’s opinion was that he was struck by lightning?” Ducos’s friend had asked.
“Yes. He was quite positive about that fact,” the magistrate had replied.
Ducos had made a disbelieving grunt at the back of his throat. “I don’t like this. Two deaths in a matter of days? Either this is an omen or someone is trying to warn us.”
“Well, I think it’s a coincidence. However…”
The magistrate’s voice had trialed off and Haidée had scowled as she had noticed that the mark she had made on the table had dried out. She had decided not to renew the mark—she had heard enough to gather that the men knew nothing even though there was some odd reason why they were taking a particular interest in D’Aubigne’s death. Besides, a headache had started to creep up on her. So she had signaled for a maid that she was done and had left the inn.
“Mademoiselle Avenall, what a surprise to see you out here of all days.”
The voice broker her out of her reverie. She was aware again that she was standing on the path leading to the observatory just outside the village. The ground beneath her feet was somewhat spongy, not completely dried out yet. A few feet away was the island’s holy man, Father DeLorme. He was walking about hatless, his silver hair scattered with the wind. Around his shoulders was a flapping black cloak. His blue eyes were sharp, missing nothing.
“Good day, Father,” she said neutrally. “I wanted to take a walk this morning to clear my head.”
“I completely understand. The recent sudden tragedy is hard to take.”
She nodded. “It was certainly sudden. And disturbing.”
“I’m here if you want to talk about it, child.” His voice was soft and soothing. Compassionate and almost hypnotic. “I know these things can be hard to deal with by yourself.”
Haidée put her gloved hands into her coat pockets, considering. “Father, what is your opinion on the deaths of Messieurs Legard and D’Aubigne?”
“I’ve been told by Monsieur Everard that they were unfortunate accidents.”
“I think the two men were murdered,” she said bluntly. “No one seems to entertain that idea. I don’t think the magistrate will investigate.”
“Murdered?” The priest was taken aback. “Mademoiselle, what on earth would lead you to that conclusion? Surely it is not an overactive imagination?”
“I was not imagination things when I saw certain markings on the men’s backs. Or rather Monsieur Legard’s back. I was only told about those on Monsieur D’Aubigne. Those markers were meant to kill.”
“Markings?” Father DeLorme now seemed quizzical. “Don’t you mean tattoos? Many men have tattoos on their backs. That doesn’t mean anything?”
“They weren’t tattoos. They were marks made by ink. The kind of marks certain sorcerers would use. Certain unethical and homicidal sorcerers.”
DeLorme’s eyes narrowed. “I have no idea what you are talking about Mademoiselle. But if you are talking about what certain learned men call the magical arts, that could not be possible. The only kind of magic that exists is the power of God or the trickery of the devil.”
“Then what would you do if something demonic was killing people?” she countered.
He paused. “I suppose I would perform an exorcism.”
“Exactly! But of course, this kind of thing isn’t demonic. We’ll need something else to expose the killer.” Her voice sounded unnaturally loud to her ears. The air seemed to cackle with sudden coldness as if she had inadvertently muttered a spell at the same time.
The priest, however, did not seem to notice the abrupt drop in temperature. He simply gave her an expression of pity. “If you think the observatory has come under the grips of a demonic entity, I suppose I can come by this afternoon to cleanse the place with a few blessings. Meanwhile, I suggest you go back and lie down for a bit. You are probably not feeling quite yourself at the moment.”
Haidée involuntarily winced as her temples suddenly throbbed. The offer of an exorcism was kind, but from her education with Madame Zephyrine, she knew that such things were useless against anything that was the result of a human perpetrator. “Perhaps you are right, Father. Maybe I overexerted myself with the walk this morning.”
“Good girl,” said the priest approvingly. He patted her shoulder in a comforting manner. “The horror of the recent tragedy has probably caught up with you. You need some time to assimilate all that has happened.”
“Yes.”
“When your head is a bit clearer, you’ll realize that the deaths of Messieurs D’Aubigne and Legard probably are accidents. The prospect of death frightens us all, Mademoiselle, and we must all somehow try to cope with it. Each person has their own way with dealing with these mortal delimmas. But just remember that no matter the outcome, death isn’t the end. If we all ask for forgiveness, we will all be reunited in heaven with the Lord.”
Her head still pounded but she held her tongue from snapping out at the priest for his lecture. She didn’t need to be preached to about the afterlife when she was currently worried about life itself now. She wasn’t quite sure that anything, really, happened after death, but she didn’t feel like arguing with the Father on that point. Instead, she said her goodbyes and headed back to the observatory.