The Collector of Dying Breaths Page 17

  “It’s a crazy coincidence that you’re here today,” she said and watched his face. Did he remember they’d met on this very date when she was seventeen years old?

  “There are no coincidences.” He smiled.

  “It’s troublesome that both you and my brother got to know Malachai. I can’t seem to escape him and his belief system.”

  “Well, I’d tie it back to Jung myself. I was already quite familiar with the theory before I met your good doctor.”

  “So if it’s not a coincidence, then you chose today on purpose?”

  “You ask questions you don’t need to ask. You always have. You never have faith.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “I’m here. Do you really need to ask why?” He pulled something out of his pocket. “But this should answer your concerns.”

  Jac looked down at the long thin package wrapped in silver paper with a silver satin ribbon. With fingers that shook just a little, she untied it and found a velvet jeweler’s box. Gingerly, she opened it.

  Inside were two battered silver disks hanging on a silken cord. Each was shaped like a rose petal and studded with very small rubies that sparkled like drops of blood.

  The smaller of the petals hung over the larger.

  The first was engraved with the words: One Day.

  The second with: At A Time.

  “I had it made for you.”

  She turned to him and took a breath. She wanted to ask exactly what message he was trying to give her because she didn’t want to misinterpret anything. Instead she simply said: “It’s very beautiful.” She hoped she didn’t sound as moved as she was.

  He lifted the amulet out of the box and slipped it over her neck.

  She felt as if she were a warrior in a myth putting a mantle on. Preparing for battle. She told Griffin that.

  “What battle, Jac? I hope not with me.”

  “Maybe with you.” She laughed.

  And he laughed with her. “Seriously,” he said. “What battle?”

  “I don’t know actually. I’ve walked into something here at the château, and I’m not sure what it is or what to make of it.”

  Over a bottle of rosé, she told him about the house and the laboratory. About Serge and Melinoe and how Malachai seemed so keen that she should come that she’d almost not come.

  “Robbie told me a fair amount about the breaths and the bell coverings,” Griffin said, “but very little about the history or the people involved. We were so focused on the translations we didn’t get to the rest.”

  Jac heard the wistfulness in his voice. “You miss him too, don’t you?”

  “Yes. But it’s not as hard for anyone as it is for you. He was all the family you had, and now you’re alone.”

  She nodded. Yes, alone. She thought about it every morning when she woke up. Every night before she went to sleep. Once they had been a family—brother, sister, mother, father, grandparents—and now they were all gone. Only the people on the edges—cousins and aunts and uncles—were left. Yes, she was forging deeper relationships with them, but it wasn’t the same.

  “I’m alone, yes. But it’s not as difficult as I would have imagined,” she said, and then she told Griffin the secret that she hadn’t told anyone:

  “I’m not sure if he’s really gone.”

  “Of course he isn’t. You’ll never really lose him.”

  “No. That’s not what I mean. I actually feel him, Griffin. Some part of him hasn’t left. It is as if Robbie’s hovering. Sometimes I can even hear him talking to me. He’s waiting for something.”

  She could tell from the expression on his face that Griffin was worried about her now.

  “It’s very understandable that you’d feel he was still with you,” he said slowly.

  “I know what you think—at first I thought that too, that it was just my imagination creating a presence for me because I wasn’t ready to lose him. So I could have him with me and not have to say good-bye. When I let the people from the mortuary take his body away, I remembered how he used to talk about our mother’s death. That it was only a death of her body. Not her soul. Robbie believed in reincarnation so completely. He used to call the body an envelope for the soul.”

  The waiter came over and asked if they’d like to order lunch. The interruption brought her back to the reality around her with a start.

  “You okay with just the wine for a while longer?” Griffin asked.

  She nodded.

  He told the waiter they needed more time. Once he was gone, Griffin pulled Jac closer to him and touched her cheek with his fingers. She felt the familiar roughness. His skin was callused from spending half his life on digs. She shut her eyes as a knife of longing cut through her. Jac didn’t want to want him. But it seemed as if she were preprogrammed against her will to react to him.

  “What are you really doing here? Why did you bring me a gift?” She knew her voice sounded angry. She didn’t care. Half of her hated him for walking away from her all those years ago. For throwing out a life that they could have been sharing. Children that would have been theirs. And then a second knife went through her as she thought about the miscarriage she’d suffered eighteen months ago. A chance encounter with him after eleven years that had resulted in a pregnancy he’d never found out about. She’d been the one to push him away, on no uncertain terms, because they weren’t good for each other. Not in any lifetime.

  “I’m here because your brother asked me to help him solve a mystery and I agreed. Now you’ve taken up the same quest, and I know he’d want me to help you.”

  “So this is all about Robbie?”

  “No, not all of it.” He smiled. “And you know that.” Griffin drank more of his wine. “Jac, I need to tell you what happened after I left you in Paris and went back to New York. I tried everything I could to put what happened in perspective. I told myself it was an event out of time. That because we were searching for Robbie, our emotions were strained. But those were just rationalizations. Our coming together after so long was . . . Jac . . . it was a miracle. I had forgotten what it was like to be with someone so completely. To not hold back.”

  She sipped her wine. Kept her eyes down. Played with the silver petals hanging around her neck. She wanted to hear this, and yet she didn’t.

  “Why didn’t you fight harder in Paris for me to stay?” he asked.

  “Let’s not do this,” Jac said. “I appreciate that you are here now. I love my gift. I will gladly accept your help in translating the bell jars. But I don’t want to talk about the past. Or the future. I can’t.”

  “And you can’t tell me why?”

  “There’s nothing to tell. You’d said you weren’t sure your marriage was over. I didn’t want to fight your wife for you.”

  “Yes, I know that’s the reason you gave me. But there was more, wasn’t there?”

  Jac didn’t answer.

  “Robbie told me about the reincarnation memories you were having in Paris and that you thought we’d been together in two different lives and in both I died because of you.”

  “Robbie told you that?”

  Griffin nodded.

  Jac wanted to curse her brother for breaking her confidence, but she knew why he’d done it—he was so certain she was wrong and that she and Griffin belonged together.

  “I don’t know that they were reincarnation memories. That’s what Robbie and Malachai believed.”

  “But you believe they might be—enough so that you’re afraid that you’ve been bad for me before and would be again?”

  “It sounds ludicrous when I hear it out loud.” And it did. Maybe even more so now that almost two years had passed since they’d been together in Paris.

  “But it’s why you pushed me to go. To save me from you?”

  “What difference does it make now?
” she asked.

  “I went back to New York not knowing you’d sacrificed so much for me. I think that makes a difference.”

  “I can’t see how.”

  Griffin leaned forward and kissed her. She tasted the wine on his lips. She smelled his cologne. She heard the barkeep popping a cork. Somewhere in the distance two men were talking. One second she was completely conscious of every sound and taste and smell, and then it all disappeared. Jac was aware only of the embrace. Of her life narrowing down to the pressure on her lips. Of the complete rightness of this kiss and at the same time the wonder of it.

  She was remembering what she’d thought she’d forgotten. The way he held her when he kissed her, with his hands on either side of her face. The specific pressure of his lips moving on hers. The two-ness of them was woven into the fabric of who she was. This memory of him was so deep, she always had felt if she pulled the string of it and followed it, she’d wind up—where? The feeling of his palms on her cheeks, of his breath inside of her, of his hair brushing her face. It felt familiar in another way too. This was how the other women she’d been in the past had known him.

  When he pulled back, she had to force her mind to make sense of where she was. Had to remind herself nothing had changed. She was still his poison.

  “I’m not married anymore,” he said as if he were reading her mind. “And the only thing that you can do to harm me is to push me away again.”

  She was shaking her head. She couldn’t go through this again. She’d wanted this man her whole life, but she was so frightened by the old visions, she couldn’t bring herself to act on her true feelings.

  “I believe in ghosts too, Jac. I believe in the unknown. I’ve slept in the pyramids and am sure that there are things mankind used to know that we have lost. I believe in dimensions beyond this one. In secrets the universe has yet to give up. That there may be life in other galaxies. Not because of magic but because of deep science. But I can’t accept that two people who feel the way we do for each other can be toxic for each other. I’ve studied reincarnation for years. I’ve read ancient Greek treatises on metempsychosis and what Pythagoras wrote about the transmigration of the soul. I want to believe it—yet I remain on the fence. What I am convinced of, though, is this: even if there is reincarnation and we are absolutely reborn over and over in new bodies, our karma is not a prison. We are not doomed to repeat the past. We are invited to change our fate and repair past damages and write a new script. There is no logic to your scenario, Jac. What purpose would there be to coming back if we had no choice but to live a predetermined path? You can’t believe that even if we were together before and hurt each other, that means we’re destined to hurt each other again.”

  “But we have. You almost died because of me in Paris.”

  “I almost died because a criminal with a gun shot at you and I pushed you out of the way and was hurt. Jac, please.” He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her toward him so she was twisted around, facing him again. “You can’t throw us away because of something you don’t even believe yourself.”

  “I don’t want to . . .”

  “But?”

  She shrugged. She tried to think. The wine, the physical closeness of him, the surreal circumstances of him being here . . . everything was suddenly very complicated.

  “How about we try it my way?” Griffin said. “Let me help you translate the formulas—if they even are formulas—and get to the end of what Robbie started. Then, when we’re done, we’ll figure out what’s next. Okay? Can you just give us that much of a chance? A little more time before you doom us forever?”

  She was looking at him, into his eyes, seeing the one face that was the only face she ever wanted to see. That he was here again was almost a miracle. While she was trying to figure it all out, he kissed her again.

  She started to pull away, but he stopped her.

  “I won’t let you go. Not this time. Not until you give me a chance to prove how wrong you are. Besides, without me it’s going to take you weeks, months, to find someone to do the translations. Especially because unless you agree, I’m not going to give you the work I’ve already done. I’m not going to tell you what I’ve already figured out. You might be able to let me go . . . but can you let the knowledge go?” he asked. And then, he smiled because he already knew the answer.

  Chapter 22

  MARCH 20, 1573

  BARBIZON, FRANCE

  It was exactly twenty-six years ago today, and I’d been at the Medici court for fourteen years.

  “Come with me to Cloux. The king is so ill, René.” Catherine arrived in my laboratory in the early morning. She looked as if she hadn’t slept at all. “I’ve just had word that things have taken a turn for the worse.” She tried to hold back her tears, but her eyes filled and overflowed.

  Of all the people at the court, the king had been the first who was kind to her when she’d arrived from Italy, welcoming her and making her feel like a daughter. He’d also protected her through the barren years when many at court wanted the marriage annulled so a more fertile bride could be brought in. Francis stayed loyal, and she’d never forgotten.

  By the time King Francis took to his deathbed, my princess had given birth to her first son and heir, Francis, and a daughter. Catherine gave my perfume credit for breaking the spell that had been cast upon her, and I was always careful to point out that it was not a spell that had needed to be broken. She had just needed more time with Henry, I told her. And the sleeping potion in the cream I’d made for Henry to give to Diane de Poitiers had done the trick.

  But spells? Magic? Not at all, I insisted, for the specter of Ruggieri was never far from my thoughts. I didn’t want him back at court. There were enough rivals waiting in the wings, new perfumers who brought Catherine gifts all the time, trying to gain favor. I had my shop and my savings and a small hoard of precious gems, silver and gold, but every position at the court was precarious. I had been in France with Catherine for fourteen years and had seen how easy it was to fall out of favor. Not even for doing anything wrong. Sometimes simply because someone more interesting or novel had arrived.

  “I want you to try to capture his breath,” Catherine said softly. “If this process you’re working on is really possible, I think we should have the king’s breath, shouldn’t we?”

  We arrived at the king’s summer residence at Cloux by nightfall and went right to the king’s chamber. Surrounded by dour-looking men of the court, His Royal Highness appeared to be sleeping peacefully. I asked to speak to his doctor on the princess’s behalf, and he told me about the elixirs they were giving the king. I had brought a Santa Maria Novella formula with me, but what they were giving Francis was almost identical.

  I was able to reassure the princess that the king was not suffering. The mixture was made from poppy seeds, I told her. There was no finer drug for those in pain and distressed. But my mistress was still distraught.

  “I am losing the only father I’ve ever known,” she said to me as we sat vigil at his beside.

  In all the years since Serapino had taught me his process of capturing exhalations I had not been able to improve on his methods. It was difficult to guess which breath was to be a mortal’s last, so it was necessary to catch one after the other when the end was near. That in itself was complicated, but usually you can hear the time when it comes. Breathing becomes labored, and a sound like a drum filled with seeds rattles in the chest.

  Over the next seventy-two hours, Catherine and I remained by the king’s side. Occasionally she fell asleep only to wake with a start, remembering where she was and why. She begged me to wake her if it seemed the end was close. But when it came, I didn’t have to; she was holding his hand and whispering to him.

  The doctors allowed me to capture breath after breath. Each time I filled all twenty-five bottles I had brought with me, one of the pages rinsed them out, and I ref
illed them all.

  Three times we went through the filling process until at last the king took his final breath and died. I looked at the woman who sat beside me, trembling and weeping. In that moment, she had gone from being my princess to my queen.

  Ruggieri, the astrologer, came to my mind. More than a decade had passed since that night, a month before her marriage, when homesick for Florence, Catherine had arranged for a dinner of some of us who had known her the longest—Ruggieri and I and some of her other confidants. There were thirty or so around the table in the cavernous dining room. Despite her wealth, she didn’t treat us any differently because of our rank or station. She was but a fourteen-year-old girl. We were her friends who she could speak to in Italian. We were home to her.

  It was that night, sitting next to her, whispering to her like a lover, that the ugly sorcerer told her he knew her future and asked her if she wanted to know what the years would bring. Of course, Catherine was eager. Ruggieri rolled out his charts inked on vellum, and Catherine stopped eating and drinking to examine them.

  She put her hand on Ruggieri’s hand and leaned closer to him. The sight of them conspiratorially whispering annoyed me. Her intelligent eyes scanned the star maps as he spoke. And then her pale cheeks flushed.

  Getting up from my seat, I circled the table, stopping to talk to this person and that, and then made my way toward Catherine so it appeared I wasn’t seeking her out—in case anyone noticed.

  Standing slightly to the right of her chair, in the shadows of an alcove, I strained to hear the conversation, but the room was too full of noise and chatter. I had no choice then but to approach directly.

  “You look like someone who’s just been given a surprise,” I said to her. And then looked at Ruggieri. “Have you cast a spell over her future, magician? What are you promising her?”

  Even then he was proud and defiant and so sure of himself. “I haven’t had to cast a spell—it’s all written out. Even though she is marrying a second son, our duchessina is going to be the queen of France one day. It’s in the stars.”