I glanced at my watch.
4:08 p.m.
Two hours had passed since the attack.
That shocked me.
Two hours we’d lain here in the rain and no one had come by?
I tried to wake Antoine, but he would not rouse. No way I could carry him back up to the village or down to ground level. I had no choice but to head for help. I pocketed the vial, then stood, fighting the dizziness, my legs trembling. I moved as fast as I could back up to town. Fifteen minutes later I banged the iron hand knocker on the door to the shop.
Nicodème answered.
“Cassiopeia. Finally. I’ve been so worried about you.” He stared at my bedraggled appearance. “Are you all right? What happened?”
“I’m not hurt badly, but telling you about that has to wait. There’s someone who is unconscious and injured.”
I described Antoine’s injuries and where I’d left him, then said, “He’s the thief.”
Nicodème immediately made a phone call to the local emergency service and in rapid French described the situation and the victim’s location.
“The medics will be sent,” he said, as he hung up. “Now what about you?”
I was barefoot, soaking wet, and muddy. My clothes clung to me like a soaked towel. “I need to get back to him.”
“Are you capable?” he asked.
“My feet are sore. My head hurts. And I have a bump the size of an egg, but I’ll live.”
I didn’t mention the glass vial in my pocket. Not yet, anyway. A little voice in my head told me to hold that knowledge for now. I gingerly touched the top of my head and grimaced. That bastard’s boot caught me hard.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine. But if you have them, I’ll take two pain killers.”
He shuffled across the shop to a bathroom, opened a cabinet, and found a couple of pills which I swallowed without water.
“Can you tell me exactly what happened?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you everything, but I need to go back and make sure they come for Antoine.”
Then I realized he didn’t know.
“Peter Hildick-Smith was an alias.”
The revelation didn’t appear to shock him. “I’ll come with you. You’re in no state to handle things alone.”
I shook my head. “Someone dangerous is out there and I don’t want to worry about you too. I’ll be back as soon as the medics take him.”
I stared down at my feet. I needed shoes. “You don’t happen to have a pair I could wear, do you?”
“Sylvie’s still got some clothes here,” he said referring to his daughter who lived just down the hill in Nice. She was married, with two children. She and her husband owned a wonderful restaurant by the sea I’d frequented often.
“That might work,” I said.
He left and returned with a pair of espadrilles a minute later. “These are all that was there.”
He handed them to me.
“They’ll work,” I said, wincing as I forced my feet into them. At least they were a half size bigger or I never would have been able to wear them. My soles screamed in pain, but there was no time to give in to the discomfort. “I’ll come back as soon—”
“Do you have a phone?”
“It’s gone.”
He disappeared for a few seconds, returning with a phone. “Take mine. Call on my landline, if you need me.”
I pocketed the cell and left the shop, following the same route I’d taken before, winding through the cobbled streets to the viewing platform, then climbing over the railing. The rain had eased to more of a drizzle. Luckily the day was unseasonably warm, the air comfortable even with the wet. I reached the area where I’d twice been ambushed. Antoine was gone. Had the medics already arrived and taken him off? If so, that had been fast. Had someone else come along and helped him down the trail? I found the phone and called Nicodème, explaining what I’d discovered and asked him to check with the local hospital and find out if they had him. He told me he’d be back to me shortly.
I stood there and surveyed the scene. What a day. My clothes were ruined, including an expensive silk Armani shirt and a pair of Louis Vuitton shoes. I’d dressed to meet Nicodème for lunch, not chase a man through the rain and fight in the mud. I still had the one bottle from the Sabbat Box in my pocket, which I slipped out and examined. On its bottom, on a faded parchment label was the word Henbane.
What it meant I had no idea.
The dream in the great hall, then at the banquet lingered in my mind. I’d never experienced anything like that before. What had Antoine said? The fumes have some kind of hallucinogenic properties. I experienced a wild vision when I made the mistake of taking a sniff. Was there a corollary between the bottle and vision?
One way to find out.
I sat against an out-of-the-way tree in case my theory proved correct. I popped the cork free and brought the bottle to my nose. The scent seemed unusually fresh and sweet. Was it orange? Or lime? Hard to tell.
I recorked the bottle.
Then I saw trees.
And—
* * *
The forest looms heavy with rain.
A canopy of leaves provides some shelter, but I do not stop to seek protection. I love rain. It cleanses me. Makes me feel connected with both the earth and the sky, like nature’s release, as pleasurable and spontaneous as the joy between a man and a woman.
I tighten the reins and drive my mare at a trot through the dripping branches. My hair and cloak are soaked. But it’s necessary. I’ve come to gather plants needed for my box. I do not like for its contents to draw low. Nothing can be mixed without the proper ingredients and, sometimes, to gather those, it’s necessary to get wet. The day is fading and I must hurry back and prepare for the evening.
A visitor is on the way.
Sir Helians.
Four weeks have passed since we last lay together.
He is extraordinary in so many ways, and the thought of welcoming him back to my bed, along with the rhythmic movement from the horse’s gallop, sends waves of pleasure up through me, reminding me of what I’ve been missing.
I see a horse approaching from ahead. I slow and spot my servant. He yanks his reins, stopping before me.
“There’s trouble up ahead, mistress,” Erec says. “A dozen men are waiting for you at the fortress gates, and none are from Sir Helians’ party.”
I’m
alarmed. But the harassment is not unexpected. Six factors have long been working against me. I’m only Arturius’ half-sister. I was also once his lover, though we did not know of our relation at the time. I gave birth to his son. His wife hates me. Many have labeled me a witch. And witch hunts are growing in popularity.
“Ride ahead,” I tell Erec, “and tell my lady to ready the oils and unguents, then find two empty jars. Bring my Sabbat Box and the jars to the road that winds around the back of the fortress, where they’ll not be expecting me.”
He nods and rides away at a fast pace. He’s a good servant, in my charge for many years. Utterly trustworthy.
Or as trustworthy as anyone could be.
By the time I reach the place of assignation, Erec is there with my box at the ready. I dismount and open it with the key I wear on a chain around my neck. Inside are bottles of dried herbs, leaves, barks, flowers, and oils that, when mixed properly, accomplish feats that, to the uninformed, appear to be magic. But they are simply the power of plants. Chymistry, the Sorcerer would say. The natural result when differing substances combine and change into something new. The skill comes from knowing how to combine them.
A skill I’ve mastered.
I know of many compounds. Some help the sick. A few inflame men. Others give women relief during childbirth or rid them of an unwanted pregnancy. A few open a portal to the past or allow me to gleam the future. The power of the plants seems boundless. But also frightening. Some people claim I’m a shapeshifter, a seductress, a monster, a wonder, sometimes even a ghost. One term has come to sum up all of their accusations into a single indictment.
Witch.
I learned about plants from the Sorcerer. He showed me how to find them in the woods, how to dry and prepare them, how to mix them in the right amounts. The one I now combine will make the men awaiting me grow tired and sleep, which will allow me the opportunity to re-enter the safety of the fortress without incident.
I know why these men have come.
But Sir Helians will arrive soon and I must be ready.
I slip my horse’s dry caparison from the saddle bag and lay it on the wet ground under a giant oak. From my box I measure out the needed herbs and oils. I pour some of the mixture into one jar, the rest into the other.