The Space Between (Outlander, #7.5)(31)

One more finger, and the old nun’s black eyes bored into his. “And three: had she felt it necessary to leave suddenly and without informing us, where would she go? To you, Monsieur Murray. She knows no one else in Paris, does she?”

“I—well, no, not really.” He was flustered, almost stammering, confusion and a burgeoning alarm for Joan making it difficult to think.

“But you have not seen her since you brought us the chalice and paten—and I thank you and your cousin with the deepest sentiments of gratitude, monsieur—which would be yesterday afternoon?”

“No.” He shook his head, trying to clear it. “No, Mother.”

Mother Hildegarde nodded, her lips nearly invisible, pressed together amid the lines of her face.

“Did she say anything to you on that occasion? Anything that might assist us in discovering her?”

“I—well …” Jesus, should he tell her what Joan had said about the voices she heard? It couldn’t have anything to do with this, surely, and it wasna his secret to share. On the other hand, Joan had said she meant to tell Mother Hildegarde about them …

“You’d better tell me, my son.” The reverend mother’s voice was somewhere between resignation and command. “I see she told you something.”

“Well, she did, then, Mother,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face in distraction. “But I canna see how it has anything to do—she hears voices,” he blurted, seeing Mother Hildegarde’s eyes narrow dangerously.

The eyes went round.

“She what?”

“Voices,” he said helplessly. “They come and say things to her. She thinks maybe they’re angels, but she doesn’t know. And she can see when folk are going to die. Sometimes,” he added dubiously. “I don’t know whether she can always say.”

“Par le sang sacré de Jésus Christ,” the old nun said, sitting up straight as an oak sapling. “Why did she not—well, never mind about that. Does anyone else know this?”

He shook his head. “She was afraid to tell anyone. That’s why—well, one reason why—she came to the convent. She thought you might believe her.”

“I might,” Mother Hildegarde said dryly. She shook her head rapidly, making her veil flap. “Nom de Dieu! Why did her mother not tell me this?”

“Her mother?” Michael said stupidly.

“Yes! She brought me a letter from her mother, very kind, asking after my health and recommending Joan to me—but surely her mother would have known!”

“I don’t think she—wait.” He remembered Joan fishing out the carefully folded note from her pocket. “The letter she brought—it was from Claire Fraser. That’s the one you mean?”

“Of course!”

He took a deep breath, a dozen disconnected pieces falling suddenly into a pattern. He cleared his throat and raised a tentative finger.

“One, Mother: Claire Fraser is the wife of Joan’s stepfather. But she’s not Joan’s mother.”

The sharp black eyes blinked once.

“And two: my cousin Jared tells me that Claire Fraser was known as a—a White Lady, when she lived in Paris many years ago.”

Mother Hildegarde clicked her tongue angrily.

“She was no such thing. Stuff! But it is true that there was a common rumor to that effect,” she admitted grudgingly. She drummed her fingers on the desk; they were knobbed with age but surprisingly nimble, and he remembered that Mother Hildegarde was a musician.

“Mother …”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know if it has anything to do—do you know of a man called the Comte St. Germain?”

The old nun was already the color of parchment; at this, she went white as bone and her fingers gripped the edge of the desk.

“I do,” she said. “Tell me—and quickly—what he has to do with Sister Gregory.”

* * *

Joan gave the very solid door one last kick, for form’s sake, then turned and collapsed with her back against it, panting. The room was huge, extending across the entire top floor of the house, though pillars and joists here and there showed where walls had been knocked down. It smelled peculiar and looked even more peculiar.

“Blessed Michael, protect me,” she whispered to herself, reverting to the Gaelic in her agitation. There was a very fancy bed in one corner, piled with feather pillows and bolsters, with writhing corner posts and heavy swags and curtains of cloth embroidered in what looked like gold and silver thread. Did the comte—he’d told her his name, or at least his title, when she asked—haul young women up here for wicked ends on a regular basis? For surely he hadn’t set up this establishment solely in anticipation of her arrival—the area near the bed was equipped with all kinds of solid, shiny furniture with marble tops and alarming gilt feet that looked like they’d come off some kind of beast or bird with great curving claws.

He’d told her in the most matter-of-fact way that he was a sorcerer, too, and not to touch anything. She crossed herself and averted her gaze from the table with the nastiest-looking feet; maybe he’d charmed the furniture, and it came to life and walked round after dark. The thought made her move hastily off to the farther end of the room, rosary clutched tight in one hand.