The Museum of Mysteries

  When I finish, I face Erec. “Walk stealthily around to where the horsemen wait. Stay upwind. Once you are close enough to smell them, combine the liquids into one jar. I’ve also prepared this soaked cloth for you to breathe through, so you will not be affected. Even so, be careful. Once you’ve set the jar down, move away to a spot where you can watch without inhaling the fouled air. The wind will carry it their way. After they’ve succumbed and are asleep, come back to me.”

  “Is it a spell?” Erec asks.

  I smile, knowing that is what the uneducated call my mixtures. “Not at all. It’s a blessed balm. It works wonderfully on children to help them sleep, or on soldiers suffering from wounds to give them relief. But not for women with child because it can cause trouble with the babes.”

  “Do you know who these strangers may be?” he asks.

  “They come in another attempt to take my home. Sent by my loving half-brother, and his angry, deceitful wife. Go now, and do as I say.”

  In less than an hour Erec returns, slightly out of breath. “All are fast asleep.”

  I mount my horse and we circle to the front, past the sleeping armed men, and across the drawbridge to the gates, which are opened for my return.

  Another onslaught averted.

  But it will not be the last.

  Chapter 5

  I slipped out of the hallucination, surprised once again by both the journey and the return. The forest and the fortress had seemed so real. So had Erec. And the potion, and the sleeping armed men. I checked my watch. I’d been out about a half hour.

  I found the phone and saw that Nicodème had not called. I lay on the wet ground, the corked bottle beside me. The rain had ended, but the storm still lingered out over the sea. I stared at the footpath. What was it? A ninety-minute walk down to the water. Antoine and I had traversed less than a quarter of it before we’d been ambushed. If medics had driven up to Eze, then walked down to find him I would have passed them. If they’d walked up from the bottom of the path they wouldn’t have even arrived yet.

  So where did Antoine go?

  I thought about Nietzsche walking the footpath, planning a book that later became misconstrued, co-opted by Nazis who exploited and twisted his message. I’d read it and saw it for what it was, a meditation on the dangers of becoming overzealous about religion. I imagined that some who walked this path thought on the philosopher’s belief in a free, passionate, chaotic life-force. One unchecked by man or rules. I wondered how many of them experienced dreams so vivid they seemed real? I’d never spent much time focused on the occult but, as I sat there, staring at where Antoine had lain, looking at the glass bottle with god-knows what inside, I wondered what was happening.

  The phone hummed.

  Nicodème.

  “The hospital says the medics are on the way,” he told me.

  So Antoine either got up and walked away or someone helped him.

  “I need to find where he is,” I said.

  “Why don’t you come back here and we can—”

  “I don’t want to wait. The more time that passes the colder the trail gets.”

  At least that’s what experience had taught me.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll walk down to make sure he didn’t pass out along the path. If I don’t find him, I’ll take my car and head to the hospital, then ring you.”

  And that was what I did, seeing nothing of Antoine. Two hours later, I reached the hospital in Nice. He wasn’t in the waiting room, had not been admitted, nor was there anyone there matching his description. By the time I returned to Eze it was almost eight p.m. My feet and body ached and the sun was setting.

  “Maybe his wound wasn’t as serious as you thought,” Nicodème said as he filled a glass with water. “For now, I want you to sit. You need to have something to eat and drink.”

  “I need a bath and change of clothes.”

  He chuckled. “That you do.”

  “I’d also love some wine.”

  “First, water,” he said, with a fatherly concern.

  While I drank, he arranged a platter with cheese, olives, and a slab of pâté. He sliced a fresh baguette and tossed the bread in a wicker basket. After setting the food on the table he added plates, silverware, napkins, a pitcher of water, and finally a bottle of rosé. I reached for the wine and poured us both a glass. We ate and he questioned me in detail. I recapped the whole series of events, everything that had happened from the time I’d run from the shop chasing the thief. The only thing I omitted was the glass bottle in my pocket and the two visions. I’m not sure why I didn’t confess those too, but I’d learned to trust my instincts.

  And they told me to keep silent.

  “Antoine said the box belonged to his family. Is that right?”

  “I have no idea. I bought it at auction years ago, as he told you.”

  “What exactly is it?”

  “Supposedly when witches and sorcerers gathered for rites, dancing, or feasting they brought with them their individual herbs and potions, all carried in a Sabbat Box. Usually plain wood with some carvings, this one was more elegant, which may have signaled that its original owner was a person of means.”

  Like a leader’s half-sister, I thought to myself.

  “Some of the bottles contain herbal extracts,” he said. “Others flower and oils. Some are identified, others are not.”

  I recalled the three labels.

  Belladonna. Diospyros. Henbane.

  “The legend associated with this Sabbat Box suggests that, among those bottles, were three particular potions of note. My cousin, Jac L’Etoile, who runs the family perfume company, performed some chemical analysis on samples from some of the bottles. Ones that supposedly have some applicability to reincarnation. That’s what drew my interest.”

  I was intrigued. “What do you mean?”

  “Since ancient times, mystics and shamans have believed that the door to our past life memories lies in deep meditation. Over the centuries there have been a dozen or so memory tools that have become aids in reaching that state. Psychologists use hypnosis to achieve the same result, especially in patients whose phobias or psychoses defy other treatment. Past life memories can many times explain present day issues. A proven method that allows us to reach into past life memories would be invaluable. Think of the demand. Think of the wisdom, the lost knowledge, the treasures, the solutions to so many mysteries that could be recovered if such an aid to the past actually existed. A few years ago, a rumor surfaced that a perfume had been discovered that was just such a memory tool. My cousin, Robbie L’Etoile, was almost killed for it. My hope was that this Sabbat Box may contain another version of that same compound.”

  “So when you heard it was for sale, you bought it?”

  He nodded. “Then I immediately sent samples to Jac, in Paris, to see if the two formulas match.”

  “According to Antoine, the box you bought at auction was not supposed to go on sale. It was put up by mistake. He was trying to reclaim his family’s heritage. And apparently so was someone else.”

  “The auction house never provided me the name of the box’s owner, but I knew François Lussac was part owner in Du Lac Auctions. That’s where I bought the box. How is it possible his own items were sold there by mistake?”

  “Antoine didn’t know.”

  Nicodème stood and walked over to his bar, returning with a decanter of caramel-colored liquid.

  “That family’s cognac is some of the finest.”

  He poured us both a splash. “Do you believe what Antoine told you?”

  “I didn’t at first, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “There’s not much we can do,” he said. “The box is gone. The thief is gone. But I’m worried, Cassiopeia. What if the person who’s taken the box tries to use the oils, not realizing they could be toxic?”

  Something told me that the second thief knew more about the Sabbat Box than anyone. But I decided to humor my old friend. ??
?That’s certainly a possibility.”

  “It’s old and of some historical interest, and its connections to the aesthetic and arcane are fascinating. I want it back. Can you help me find it?”

  I’d like nothing better.

  For a half hour, we tossed around ideas. I also made a call to my château and asked for someone to bring me some shoes and clothes, providing a list so a bag could be packed. The time was approaching 9 p.m., but I decided to make a second call.

  To Harold Earl “Cotton” Malone.

  The love of my life.

  I was supposed to check in with him two hours ago. He’d probably already tried my cell phone, but who knows where that was now. We’d been together a few years, our initial meeting anything but pleasant. It had taken time and tribulations for us to become a couple, our relationship sometimes as rocky as the Philosopher’s Walk. But there was no one I trusted, or admired, more. No one I’d rather spend my time with.

  Or ask for advice.

  As a former Justice Department operative, Cotton was smart and capable. Fearless too. And, luckily, the same things seemed to fascinate us.

  Action, history, secrets, and conspiracies.

  I borrowed Nicodème’s phone and used FaceTime to connect. Cotton had retired out early and now lived in Copenhagen, about to leave tomorrow for the United States to visit his son. It was good to see his handsome face.

  I explained my day.

  “I’m not sure I should go now,” he said, concern in his tone.

  “I’m fine. I’m going to stay and find out what’s going on.” I pointed the phone’s camera at Nicodème. “Tell him I’m okay.”

  The two men knew one another, having met over a year ago, sharing an interest in books. Cotton owned a rare bookshop in Denmark and Nicodème had several times helped him acquire some collectible volumes.

  “I have my eye on her,” Nicodème said. “She’ll be okay.”

  I smiled at the fatherly tone. But I realized that the fact that my new protector was approaching eighty wasn’t lost on my all-too-practical boyfriend.

  “Humor me,” Cotton said. “Explain exactly what happened again. Even if you think you’re repeating yourself. Step by step. Something in this story doesn’t add up.”

  I had to be careful with what I withheld and how, since I knew he could read me. Keeping part of the story from him wasn’t something I liked doing, and we’d both learned our lesson on withholding secrets from one another. But I was still processing the dreams myself and didn’t, as yet, know how to explain them. Instead, I stuck to the string of events themselves and joined Nicodème in recounting the story. Several times he stopped us to go over a point, then we kept going. I saw on the screen where he was typing on a keyboard.

  “It seems the Lussac family is influential in French politics,” he pointed out. “Antoine is one of three brothers. Emile and Antoine run the vineyard. Denton is a French political operative who’s worked for various people. He’s got quite the reputation, and not all good. Here’s something interesting. Antoine and Emile have publicly denounced Denton for some of his more egregious scandals. There are several online articles that deal with the brothers. Denton is quite the character. Doesn’t seem to have many scruples. He does what he needs to do to win an election. But he gets results. Tell me about the bidding at the auction house.”

  Nicodème recounted the story, adding, “One of the issues with the Sabbat Box was that it was mismarked, dated only to the early 1800s in the catalog. That affected the price, to say the least. I knew better. Thankfully, that day’s sale was all mediocre objects from the Belle Époque that attracted almost no attention. I had few people bidding against me.”

  I stepped into the other room with the phone to say goodbye in private.

  “You take care of yourself,” Cotton said, his eyes seeming to connect with mine.

  “I could say the same to you.”

  “I’m just going to visit Gary.”

  “And I’m just here with an old friend checking on a few things.”

  Neither one of us was overly sentimental, but we both knew how the other felt.

  “I love you,” he said.

  I softened my voice, allowing myself the moment to miss him. “I love you too.”

  He winked before ending the call.

  I refocused my thoughts, stepping back into the shop to find Nicodème flipping through a booklet. “What’s that?”

  “The catalog from the sale of the Sabbat Box. I need to call Claude Mantte.”

  I didn’t know the name.

  “He’s the manager of the auction house.”

  “But it’s after nine-thirty at night.”

  “Claude is a friend, and I spend a lot of money with him. He won’t mind.”

  While Nicodème talked on the shop’s landline I used his computer to check my emails. Quite a few had piled up while I’d been occupied. The only ones I answered were from the foreman at my building site. As I was finishing up, a new one appeared from Cotton.

  Look at this. I knew that Denton Lussac sounded familiar.

  Cotton possessed an eidetic memory, which often came in handy. It also allowed him to never forget a word I ever said, which rarely led to anything good. I was about to click on the link he’d provided when Nicodème hung up the phone and said, “Something is really strange about this.”

  I waited for him to explain.

  “That Sabbat Box was indeed sold by mistake. Two people called the day of the sale, both claiming to be the owner. One was Denton Lussac. The other Antoine Lussac. Separately, both brothers claimed the box should have been removed because it was part of their father’s estate. But Claude just told me that the late Monsieur Lussac had brought the box in himself, over six months before he died, with instructions to sell it after his death. Both of the brothers were quite upset. Denton even threatened litigation. Which Claude was not worried about, considering the sale was legitimate. He just asked me, though, if I’d be willing to allow the brothers to buy it back from me. At a premium.”

  “I know what you said to that.”

  “As I told our thief, it belongs in the museum and that’s where I intend to keep it. Once you get it back, of course.”

  “Did Claude provide the brothers your name? Is that how Antoine found you?”

  Nicodème nodded. “Only recently. But here’s the strangest part, what I did not tell Claude. Before he died Monsieur Lussac himself wrote me, told me about the box, and that it would be for sale soon. He suggested it was something I might want to own. I wrote back and said I would look into it and asked why he thought I might want it. But he never answered that inquiry.”

  I was puzzled. “Why would Monsieur Lussac not just give you the box? Why go through an auction?”

  He shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  He stood and told me he was going to make tea and asked if I wanted some. I said I did. He left the room. I remembered the link Cotton had sent and clicked on it. It took me to a French news site featuring an article about the unpopular president of France, Yves Casimir, who was running against a strong challenger, Lydia St. Benedict. Most of it was unimportant information but toward the end of the article, there was a mention of Lydia St. Benedict’s staff, including her most trusted associates.

  And I saw it.

  There, among the names.

  Denton Lussac.

  * * *

  I prepared for bed.

  I’d stayed over before with Nicodème and loved the attic room. With the window open, a breeze easing in, nestled in the canopied bed, I always felt like I was sleeping in the sky. The room had been his daughter’s, still filled with a young woman’s books and accessories. A mini-shrine of sorts that I was sure Nicodème enjoyed preserving. I also loved the lemony scent, the result of a verbena and melissa oil diffuser.

  I stepped out of my filthy jeans and ruined shirt. The room came with a small bath which I used to clean up. I was promised a bag of clean clothes and shoes first thing i
n the morning, so I decided to sleep naked tonight.

  The glass bottle sat on the dresser, its stopper down tight. I brought it over to the nightstand and sat on the side of the bed, wrapped in a towel. Nicodème had warned me about the possible effects from the concoctions in the box, as had Antoine. But for some reason I wasn’t concerned. Nor was I frightened of the hallucinations. If that was what they were. In fact, I wanted more. Was that an addiction? Possibly.

  But I couldn’t resist.

  I removed the stopper.

  And sniffed.

  Then quickly re-corked the top.

  Chapter 6

  I smile.

  Erec tells me that a message has arrived. Sir Helians is less than an hour away.

  The men outside at the gates had awoken from their sleep, terrified, unsure what happened to them. They’d fled their post, riding off into the forest. I watched their retreat with relief. Now I’m filled with joy and I hurry to the kitchen to check on the preparations for the evening meal. All seems ready, so I retire to my bedchamber for the most important preparations.

  My lover is coming for what promises to be a fulfilling sojourn. It is important that he crave me. Want me. Even more important, he must be proud of himself once his desires are satisfied. That pride will ensure his continued protection of my home. I have a great knowledge of chymistry, an understanding of the natural world, but I do not possess an army of soldiers. And sometimes men with swords are needed.

  “Draw a bath,” I tell my maid, “and sprinkle in rose petals. I’ll also need the cream I prepared earlier, for after the bath.”

  My trip into the rain proved productive. I found the plants I was seeking. While the men slept outside the gates I had prepared the salve. Made special for my inner thighs, under my breasts, and behind my ears. All places Helians would surely explore.

  He will like the effects.

  As will I.

  * * *

  Helians arrives at the castle with a wound to his shin from an unexpected skirmish on the journey. I lead him to my workshop where I clean the flesh, then apply a healing salve. He winces at its properties, which burn, but that only means it’s working. I apply a bandage and he grabs me around the waist, sitting me on his lap. I inhale his scent of fire and smoke mixed with the waft of apples and pine.