The air was chilly despite the clear sky and the bright sun. Haidée felt as cold as the air. She did not think that anything could warm her back up—not the sun, not a meal, not even a barrel of poppy wine. The only good that gave her was a strangely clear head and bad visions she dismissed as nightmares.
She was out, walking down the path towards the village. She wanted to be out. She wanted to move out, but that was impossible. The Cormorant was filled with vacationers—there was no room for any more, even for one who was desperate for getting out of the stifling, death-like atmosphere of the observatory.
If it weren’t so cold at night, she mused, she would move outside and sleep under the stars.
The marten had followed her out after breakfast, but the little creature took its own, mysterious path, occasionally disappearing into a bush or up a tree before coming back to Haidée to watch her brood.
She remembered the first time that she had a sip of poppy wine. It had been three months ago at the end of a run of one of Signe’s more successful plays and before they had started rehearsals for the play that would become more than a flop—the play that would be reviled by the public because of its closeness to certain recent events.
Haidée had been tired, more exhausted than usual. The glass of red wine had not helped. The flowers that had been heaped into her dressing room by adoring admirers—or rather men hoping to get lucky—had been getting on her nerves. A fellow actor had knocked on her dressing room door offering a bottle of “the latest fashionable vintage” to celebrate the end of the run.
She had wanted to slam the door on the man’s face. She wanted to be left alone to ponder what was becoming of her life—would she always be in this fast paced whirl, keeping up the hectic long hours of the theatre and still be able to keep up appearances? But instead, she had been polite and had accepted a glass of new wine to appear sociable.
It had gone down far more sweetly than she had expected. But the effect of the drug was almost instantaneous. The world had sharpened and her abilities, which she had tried to suppress through most of her adulthood, simmered just underneath her skin. Despite the effects, this put her in a jovial mood and she had found herself saying yes to going to the post-play party.
But afterwards, the poppy wine took its toll. There were the nightmares and the morning of nausea. Later, she had taken the drug only sparingly—until recently.
Soon enough, her walk took her past the church and the cemetery. At this point, the marten abandoned her, climbing over the stone wall that separated the dead from the living. That thought made Haidée shudder and she turned her gaze away and concentrated instead on the dull roofs of the village buildings.
Just before the main street, she saw two men leaning on the side of one of the houses, talking. One of the men wore a tri-cornered hat. The other wore an ill-fitting coat.
Renaud spotted her first. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. When she came within hearing range, he said, “I thought you were still sleeping. Or at least resting from what happened yesterday.”
“I didn’t want to stay inside today,” she replied. “Besides, the sun is out. That gives me the illusion that there is some good in the world.”
“There is always good in the world,” said Davenport with a sad smile. “You just have to look very hard to find it. Unfortunately, it can be buried under the dreck and morass the rest of the world produces.”
Haidée was pensive. “Some consider the theatre nonsense. They think actors and actresses are part of the dregs of society, parasites because they earn their living by entertaining.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” said Renaud as he took her arm in his. “People in your profession do an essential job—to entertain. Without entertainment, the world would be a very dull place indeed.”
“I agree,” said Davenport. “I, for one, would go mad if I couldn’t escape from what the real world had to offer without theatres, games, novels, and the like.”
Haidée made no move to extricate herself from Renaud. His arms seemed solid and warm, bringing her out of her morose mood. “I suppose so,” she finally said. “Although that argument generally falls upon deaf ears with those who want to close any sort of entertainment down.”
“Oh, I doubt those people would be able to shut everything down,” Renaud commented. “The public wants entertainment. A few objectors can’t stand against that.”
The three of them headed down the main street, ambling at a fairly slow pace. There were few clouds out and the air smelled clean. Haidée wished that the previous days she had spent on Mont Saint Filan had been just as idyllic. But then, if that were so, she would have been strolling on the street alone while Davenport and Renaud were back at the observatory.
“Father DeLorme took Roland’s body in preparation for the funeral, didn’t he?” asked Davenport. “I stayed home yesterday because of the weather. And I didn’t think that anyone would need me at the library then.”
“The doctor was summoned first,” said Renaud. “By the amount of time he spent examining Roland, I don’t think he checked for anything aside for the pulse. Everard was going to meet with DeLorme anyway so he and Villiers went out to fetch him.”
“Father DeLorme came by with several helpers,” added Haidée. She shivered. “He said that the coffin they had with them was their last spare one. He said something about making more. Does he think that more people are going to die?”
Renaud was grim. “Perhaps, if we don’t find out who’s responsible soon.”
Davenport tilted back his tri-cornered hat and looked up at the sky. He sounded vague when he said, “If the one responsible made Roland look like he passed from natural causes, he might become bolder because he fooled everybody.”
“He didn’t fool us,” Haidée cut in. “There were markings on his back, just like the others. No one noticed it because they didn’t bother to look under his shirt. Why, Father DeLorme and his men just put Roland’s body into the coffin without a second glance.”
The observatory librarian just shook his head. “They wouldn’t have done anything else, otherwise. Laurent Roland didn’t have any relatives. He didn’t have anybody who would care how his death would be treated—only the other astronomers. And you must admit, they aren’t the most friendly of people.”
“We still don’t know why whoever is responsible is doing this,” said Renaud. “Why the astronomers? What’s so special about them?”
Haidée pondered that question as they walked past a house with flower boxes at the window sill. There were no flowers in those boxes—just dirt and dead leaves.
“There are usually only a few reasons why someone would want to perform death magic,” she finally said.
Renaud looked at her in interest. “Only a few?”
“If you wanted something, using one of the more benign powers is easier,” she replied. “Necromancers deal with the dead because they either want the life force of another person to maintain youth, the powers of another sorcerer to augment their abilities, or to raise the dead.”
Davenport furrowed his brows, puzzled. “But why would anyone want any of those things on this island? None of that would confer any particular advantage whatsoever. People here live simple lives.”
Haidée sighed at his naïve view. “Well, some people don’t want simple.”