The Space Between (Outlander, #7.5)(8)
The afile powder had been waiting in his laboratory when he’d come back; no telling how many years it had sat there—the servants couldn’t recall. Mélisande’s brief note—Try this. It may be what the frog used—had not been dated, but there was a brief scrawl at the top of the sheet, saying, Rose Hall, Jamaica. If Fabienne retained any connections in the West Indies, perhaps …
“Some call them loa”—her wrinkled lips pursed as she kissed the word—“but those are the Africans. A Mystère is a spirit, one who is an intermediary between the Bondye and us. Bondye is le bon Dieu, of course,” she explained to him. “The African slaves speak very bad French. Give him another rat; he’s still hungry, and it scares the girls if I let him hunt in the house.”
Another two rats and the snake was beginning to look like a fat string of pearls he was showing an inclination to lie still, digesting. The tongue still flickered, tasting the air, but lazily now.
Rakoczy picked up the bag again, weighing the risks—but, after all, if news came from the Court of Miracles, his name would soon be known in any case.
“I wonder, Madame, as you know everyone in Paris”—he gave her a small bow, which she graciously returned—“are you acquainted with a certain man known as Ma?tre Raymond? Some call him the frog,” he added.
She blinked, then looked amused.
“You’re looking for the frog?”
“Yes. Is that funny?” He reached into the sack, fishing for a rat.
“Somewhat. I should perhaps not tell you, but since you are so accommodating”—she glanced complacently at the purse he had put beside her teabowl, a generous deposit on account—“Ma?tre Grenouille is looking for you.”
He stopped dead, hand clutching a furry body.
“What? You’ve seen him?”
She shook her head and, sniffing distastefully at her cold tea, rang the bell for her maid.
“No, but I’ve heard the same from two people.”
“Asking for me by name?” Rakoczy’s heart beat faster.
“Monsieur le Comte St. Germain. That is you?” She asked with no more than mild interest; false names were common in her business.
He nodded, mouth suddenly too dry to speak, and pulled the rat from the sack. It squirmed suddenly in his hand, and a piercing pain in his thumb made him hurl the rodent away.
“Sacrebleu! It bit me!”
The rat, dazed by impact, staggered drunkenly across the floor toward Leopold, whose tongue began to flicker faster. Fabienne, though, uttered a sound of disgust and threw a silver-backed hairbrush at the rat. Startled by the clatter, the rat leapt convulsively into the air, landed on and raced directly over the snake’s astonished head, disappearing through the door into the foyer, where—by the resultant scream—it evidently encountered the maid before making its ultimate escape into the street.
“Jésus Marie,” Madame Fabienne said, piously crossing herself. “A miraculous resurrection. Two weeks before Easter, too.”
* * *
It was a smooth passage; the shore of France came into sight just after dawn the next day. Joan saw it, a low smudge of dark green on the horizon, and felt a little thrill at the sight, in spite of her tiredness.
She hadn’t slept, though she’d reluctantly gone below after nightfall, there to wrap herself in her cloak and shawl, trying not to look at the young man with the shadow on his face. She’d lain all night, listening to the snores and groans of her fellow passengers, praying doggedly and wondering in despair whether prayer was all she could do.
She often wondered whether it was because of her name. She’d been proud of her name when she was small; it was a heroic name, a saint’s name, but also a warrior’s name. Her mother’d told her that, often and often. She didn’t think her mother had considered that the name might also be haunted.
Surely it didn’t happen to everyone named Joan, though, did it? She wished she knew another Joan to ask. Because if it did happen to them all, the others would be keeping it quiet, just as she did.
You didn’t go round telling people that you heard voices that weren’t there. Still less that you saw things that weren’t there, either. You just didn’t.
She’d heard of a seer, of course; everyone in the Highlands had. And nearly everyone she knew at least claimed to have seen the odd fetch or had a premonition that Angus MacWheen was dead when he didn’t come home that time last winter. The fact that Angus MacWheen was a filthy auld drunkard and so yellow and crazed that it was heads or tails whether he’d die on any particular day, let alone when it got cold enough that the loch froze, didn’t come into it.
But she’d never met a seer—there was the rub. How did you get into the way of it? Did you just tell folk, “Here’s a thing … I’m a seer,” and they’d nod and say, “Oh, aye, of course; what’s like to happen to me next Tuesday?” More important, though, how the devil—
“Ow!” She’d bitten her tongue fiercely as penance for the inadvertent blasphemy, and clapped a hand to her mouth.
“What is it?” said a concerned voice behind her. “Are ye hurt, Miss MacKimmie? Er … Sister Gregory, I mean?”
“Mm! No. No, I jutht … bit my tongue.” She turned to Michael Murray, gingerly touching the injured tongue to the roof of her mouth.