Frances took a sip of coffee. As she lowered the cup, there was a hint of a smirk on her lips. “This may be my first time on this planet, but I still know a thing or two about men. You really think that gorgeous boy is planning to hang out on the Upper West Side with a lady who’s old enough to be his aunt?”
“What else is he going to do?” Haven asked.
“Oh, I’m sure he has a few ideas.” Frances paused for another taste of coffee. “But right now I’m more interested in your plans. What exactly do you have in mind? Do you have any idea where your friend might be?”
“No, but I know where to start looking,” Haven said. “The guy Beau came here to meet seemed to know details about a life we all shared in fourteenth-century Florence. I figure I might stand a chance of identifying the person who took Beau if I can find out more about our life back in Italy.”
“How are you going to do that?”
Haven hesitated. If she told Frances what she knew about the Ouroboros Society, she’d be putting her in terrible danger. “There’s a woman here who claims to see into other people’s past lives. I’m going to pay her a visit today.”
“That sounds like it ought to be interesting,” Frances said.
“Yeah, and I haven’t even told you the best part yet,” Haven said. “Apparently the woman works out of a spa.”
“A spa?”
“That’s what Iain says. She does a lot of her consultations at some fancy ladies’ spa that only the super wealthy can afford.”
“You don’t mean the one down on Morton Street, do you?”
“That’s it!” Haven exclaimed. “How do you know about it?”
“Well, I’m hardly strapped for cash,” Frances said with a modest chuckle. “I went there a few times when I was in college. I haven’t been back lately. The crowd there is rather cliquish. But I’m happy to go with you today if you feel like some company.”
“Thanks,” Haven demurred. “But that won’t be necessary.”
“You may want me there,” Frances insisted. “There’s something odd about the place. You’ll see what I mean. It’s . . . unusual.”
“Why should that bother me? My whole life is unusual,” Haven said.
Frances laughed. “It is, isn’t it, you lucky girl. Oh, that reminds me! I have something for you.” She jumped up from the couch. “I’d have given it to you last night, but Iain was there, and I thought you might want to take a look at it alone first.” Haven watched Frances digging through a drawer of the desk that sat in one corner of the room. Finally, the woman held up a scrap of paper triumphantly. “A workman found this when they were renovating Constance’s room. It was hidden under a floorboard. . . .”
Haven recognized the note, though its heavy white paper had long since turned yellow.
Keep this to remind you. You’re not who you think you are. When he comes to you, you must find us. Don’t dare trust yourself. Telephone LE4-8987.
“Weird, right?” Frances said. “Do you know anything about it?”
“I had a dream about this note last night. I saw a girl give it to Constance.”
“Do you think she was being warned about Ethan?” Frances had a nose for gossip.
“I have no idea,” Haven said, grabbing a clean cup off the table. “I’ll take Iain some coffee and see what he knows. Maybe Constance told him about it.”
“MORNING, GORGEOUS,” IAIN said when Haven threw open the door to their room. She’d hoped to find him in bed, with his hair rumpled and his pajama top half buttoned. Instead he was already dressed and scrolling through messages on his phone.
“I brought you breakfast in bed,” Haven said, setting down the tray she’d filled with toast, bagels, coffee, and jams. “You’re going out?”
“Yes.” Iain grabbed a sesame bagel and ripped it apart. “Thanks, Haven. You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve missed these things.”
“Where are you going?” She had to wait until he’d swallowed a mouthful of bread.
“To see what I can do to find Beau.”
“But . . .” She wanted to argue that it wasn’t what they had agreed. But the look in Iain’s eyes said he wasn’t about to listen to reason.
“You can’t expect me to come to New York and do nothing, Haven. I know I can’t talk you out of visiting the Pythia, so please don’t talk me out of trying to help.”
“But—”
“No more buts. Come here.”
Once she was close enough, he grabbed her arm and pulled her down on his lap. “We’ll both be careful,” he said, just before his lips met hers. By the time they parted, Haven had forgotten both her worries and her mission.
“So what else did you bring me?” Iain asked, plucking the yellowing note from Haven’s hand.
“Oh! Right! God, I almost forgot. Frances found it. I’m pretty sure it belonged to Constance. Did she ever mention it to Ethan?”
Iain seemed to read the note three or four times before looking back up at her. “No, I don’t remember her saying anything. Do you know who sent this to Constance?”
“A waitress in a restaurant delivered it to her. I think I saw the incident last night in a dream. What do you think it means, ‘You’re not who you think you are’?”
Iain shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“Iain, is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Like what?” he responded cryptically.
“If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked!”
“Okay, don’t go all Southern spitfire on me. I think the note means that you need to be very, very cautious while we’re here.”
“I still don’t understand. Why would these people want me to call them when I met you?”
Iain frowned as he returned the piece of paper to Haven. “You think it’s me they were talking about?”
“Who else would it be?”
“Can’t you see, Haven? The note must be referring to Adam.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The street entrance to the baths was unmarked. All Frances and Haven found was a faded blue door with a hand-painted address. Beyond it lay a set of stairs that led downward. The air grew hotter and more humid with each step they took. At the bottom, deep below the New York streets, they entered a tiny white room where a receptionist was stationed behind a desk. She was extremely attractive, though she’d done her best to disguise the fact. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight ponytail, and the lab coat she wore was large enough to make her look lumpy.
A sign on the wall politely refused all visitors under the age of eighteen. Once Haven had shown her ID, Frances handed the secretary her credit card without waiting to be presented with a bill. Anyone who knew how to find the baths didn’t care what they cost, she’d explained to Haven in the cab downtown. Once the transaction was complete, the woman stood up and led the way to the dressing room.
Haven had expected to find a sumptuous setting with pristine white tiles and gilded fixtures. Instead, she entered a cavernous room that looked as though it had been carved out of Manhattan’s bedrock. Benches that were little more than slabs of granite were the chamber’s only furniture. The woman in the lab coat placed two wire baskets on one of the benches. Inside the baskets were simple white cotton robes.
“Please leave all of your personal belongings in the baskets,” she instructed. “I will take them when you’re finished. You’ll find the baths through the door on your right.” After that one brief announcement, the receptionist left Haven and Frances alone to change.
With her skimpy robe covering far less than she’d anticipated, Haven opened the door to the baths and was enveloped by a cloud of hot air. She and Frances followed a long corridor until they arrived at a pool surrounded by tall marble columns and wooden lounge chairs. Steam issued from the pool’s murky green waters, and the air stank of something like sulfur. The light was weak. There was barely enough of it to make sense of the scene. Ghostly figures floated through the mist. A glistening naked body rose from the pool
and lay facedown on a nearby lounge chair.
“They say the water comes from an underground river,” Frances whispered.
“That must be one nasty river,” Haven remarked. “It looks more like runoff from a sewer to me.”
“The green stuff in the water is supposed to be good for you. But it’s whatever they put in the air down here that makes you feel nice and relaxed.”
“There’s something in the air?” Haven asked.
“Take a good whiff,” Frances said. “That’s not steam you smell. I have no idea what it is, but I’ve heard that people have hallucinations sometimes. A girl I knew in high school had a ten-minute conversation with a wall sconce. She thought it was God.”
“How long have these baths been here?” Haven wondered. They looked old enough to have been built by the Romans.
“I don’t know,” Frances admitted. “But my grandmother used to talk about them. She claimed they were the only thing that helped her rheumatism. She also told me that back in the old days rich New York girls would be given the address of this place for their eighteenth birthdays. Do you think Constance ever dropped in for a shvitz?”
“What’s a shvitz?” Haven asked.
Frances shook her head sadly. “You need to spend more time in New York. You’re not getting enough culture in Italy. Now where’s this woman you’re looking for?”
Haven began to circle the perimeter of the pool. There were clusters of white-robed women wherever she looked. “Her name is Phoebe. She’s old. I’m not sure what she looks like, but I doubt she’s alone.”
“Is that the lady?” Frances asked. In a dark corner of the room, a tall, thin figure sat upright on one of the chairs, a towel draped over her head. All Haven could see of the woman was her moving lips. Two other women leaned toward her, trying to catch every word that was uttered.
“Could be,” Haven said. “I’ll check it out. You go relax. Have a swim or something. I’ll find you when I’m done.”
“I don’t know.” Frances hesitated. “I promised Iain I wouldn’t let you go off by yourself.”
“She’s just an old woman,” Haven said with a huff. “What could possibly happen?”
She didn’t wait for an answer and left Frances standing alone by the pool. She chose a lounge chair not far from the Pythia and lay down with her eyes closed and her ears open.
“You were a queen, and you were murdered by your very own husband,” Haven heard the old woman say. Her voice was deep and mellifluous and somehow familiar. “He had changed the world to be by your side, but when you gave him a daughter instead of a son, he turned against you. He may not have killed you with his own two hands, but he might as well have. He accused you of witchcraft, infidelity, and incest, and he had your head removed for the crimes he concocted.”
“This doesn’t sound like a very nice life,” the woman whined.
“Not all of our lives are nice,” the Pythia responded wearily. “But your life changed the course of history. And your daughter was one of the most powerful women the world has ever known.”
“My daughter?” the woman whined again. “Not me?”
“I’ve got it!” The woman’s friend gasped. “Oh Joan, you must have been Anne Boleyn!”
“Who’s that?” the first woman asked.
“You know, that wife of Henry VIII. He chopped off her head so he could marry someone else. Have you ever had any headaches or neck pains that you couldn’t explain?”
“Now that you mention it, yes!” The first woman could barely contain herself. “I do have migraines sometimes! And I’ve always been terrified of axes!”
“Well, there you go!” her friend exclaimed. “Now you know why! And don’t forget your terrible taste in men. That last husband of yours would have murdered you too, if he’d had the chance.”
The first woman turned back to the Pythia, her enthusiasm renewed. “Can you please tell me more?” she pleaded. “What else do you see? Did I really have affairs? Were they as exciting as they sound?”
“I see nothing now,” the Pythia said. “My energy is spent. You must go.”
“Oh no! Please! You see I’m having a little get-together this weekend, and I was hoping to invite Miranda Bennett, and she won’t even talk to people who don’t have the right pedigree. . . .”
Phoebe held up her hand. “Stop. Come again in two days, and I will attempt to see more.”
“Oh, thank you!” the first woman gushed. “This has been so fascinating.”
“Go,” Phoebe urged them once more.
The two women wandered off arm in arm, whispering in each other’s ears. Once they had disappeared in the mist, Haven rose and approached the Pythia.
“How much of what you told them was true?” Haven asked.
The woman glanced up at Haven. Half hidden beneath the towel, her face appeared old and frail, but her hazel eyes were dancing. “You’re very bold,” she noted without seeming offended. “Didn’t one of your mothers teach you that it’s not polite to eavesdrop?”
“I’m sorry,” Haven said. “I just got the sense that you were telling them what they wanted to hear so they’d go away.”
“Yes, I doubt Ms. Mortimer would be interested to know that she’s been ignorant and useless in every life she’s led. I imagine the only notable thing she’s done is perfect the art of divorcing rich men. But these people all want to hear that they changed the course of history. If I told them the truth, they would just keep pestering me until I gave them the lies they were looking for.”
“So she wasn’t Anne Boleyn.”
“Goodness no!” the Pythia exclaimed. “I knew Anne Boleyn. She would have my head if she knew what I’ve done. Fortunately for both of us, Anne never came back to earth. She had enough of this planet the first time around. Now. What can I do for you?”
“You can tell me the truth,” Haven said. “I need to know more about one of my previous lives, and I was hoping you might be able to help me.”
“No.” The Pythia shook her head. “I can’t help you. I am expecting another client in just a few moments.”
“If you can’t help me now, maybe I could make an appointment with you? The sooner the better, if possible. A friend of mine is missing. He came to New York to meet someone we both knew in another existence. I have to find a way to travel back to the fourteenth century. It’s a matter of life and death. . . .”
“It is always a matter of life and death, Miss Moore,” the old woman told her.
Haven froze. “You know me?”
“Yes. And Mr. Morrow as well. You were reckless to come here. Do you know where you are? Do you know who these people are?”
Haven glanced back at the pool and felt eyes regarding her through the steam. How long had they been watching her? What did they want? Haven’s fear only grew when she realized she didn’t know what was scaring her. It was the blind terror of a trapped animal. The panic of a beast that’s been dragged out of hiding. Haven frantically searched for Frances, who was nowhere to be found.
“Relax, my dear. They aren’t going to hurt you,” the Pythia told Haven. “Some of them have even been waiting for you to return. But I’m afraid I can’t help you. It has been expressly forbidden, and the walls here have ears.”
“Forbidden by whom?” Haven demanded.
“I know that I don’t need to tell you that,” the Pythia said.
Haven turned and bolted for the dressing room.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The dressing room was deserted. There was no attendant. No Frances. No wire basket with Haven’s belongings. She stood there in the cavernous space, considering her options. She couldn’t leave the spa in her cotton robe. She’d freeze to death before she had a chance to catch a cab, and she couldn’t pay the fare if she caught one. Haven was stuck.
She poked her head into the lobby and saw no one at all. Tiptoeing out, Haven picked up the receiver on the phone that sat on the receptionist’s desk. There was no dial tone, just the soft whistle of
wind. Returning to the dressing room, she checked under the stall doors in the bathroom, desperate to find Frances—or anyone else who might help her collect her things and escape. Finally, she took a seat on a bench in the far corner of the room, hoping to stay out of sight until she could decide what her next step should be.
The women inside the spa—were they all members of the Ouroboros Society? How did they know who she was? Which of them had been waiting for her? Iain had been right to worry, she now realized. They should never have come back to New York. The Morrow money, Beau’s disappearance—they both must have been part of a plot to lure her here. How long would it be before Adam came to claim her? She caught sight of her own reflection in a mirror across the room and immediately looked away. Huddled on the bench, pale and practically naked, her black curls shooting in every direction, Haven barely recognized herself—the mirror showed a girl she’d never wanted to be.
The door to the lobby swung open, and a great gust of steam was sucked out the exit. A tall figure in a dark, knee-length overcoat appeared at the opposite end of the dressing room. Haven didn’t wait to see his face. She silently rose from her bench and crept into one of the bathroom stalls, where she perched on top of the toilet, praying under her breath.
She heard the sound of footsteps on the granite floor. They came to a halt in the middle of the room.
“Haven.” The name echoed. “I’m afraid I saw you just now. Would you mind coming out?”
It could have been mistaken for a polite request, but Haven knew she had no choice but to obey. She stood up and adjusted her robe, wishing it covered more than the bare minimum. Then she opened the door and marched out into the dressing room like a condemned woman greeting her fate.
Haven hadn’t forgotten how handsome he was—how dark and debonair. He still had the same aura of power about him, as though he could snap his fingers and turn the world off. But he looked younger than Haven remembered, no more than twenty. He was dressed for the winter weather in a perfectly cut cashmere coat. His hands were clad in black leather gloves and a charcoal scarf was tied around his neck. It was nothing more than a costume, she realized. He needed no protection from the cold.