"It was described to me in Montcleve."
"Now that is made of the bone and the hair of Suzanne, or so my mother claimed it was, for Lasher, she said, had brought the hair to her after they cut it from Suzanne in prison, and the bone after she was burnt. And from this she had made the doll as Suzanne had told her to do, and she would hold it and call upon Suzanne.
"Now, I had this, and I had done as she had instructed me. But Suzanne didn't come to me! I heard nothing and felt nothing, and I wondered about all the things which my mother had believed.
"Then he came, as I told you. I felt him come in the darkness, I felt his caress."
"How so, caress?"
"Touching me as you have touched me. I lay in the darkness, and there were lips upon my breasts. Lips upon my lips. Between my legs he stroked me. I rose up, thinking, Ah well, this is a dream, a dream of when Antoine was still a man. But he was there! 'You have no need of Antoine,' he said to me. 'My beautiful Charlotte.' And then, you see, I put on the emerald. I put it on as she had told me to do."
"He told you that she was dead?"
"Aye, that she had fallen from the cathedral battlements, and that you had thrown the evil priest to his death. Ah, but he speaks most strangely. You cannot imagine how strange his words are. As if he had picked them up from all over the world the way he picks up bits and pieces of jewels and gold."
"Tell me," I said to her.
She thought. "I cannot," she said with a sigh. Then she tried it, and now I shall do my best to recount it. " 'I am here, Charlotte, I am Lasher, and I am here. The spirit of Deborah went up out of her body; it did not see me; it left the earth. Her enemies ran to the left and to the right and to the left in fear. See me, Charlotte, and hear me, for I exist to serve you, and only in serving you, do I exist.' " She gave another sigh. "But it is even stranger than that when he tells me a long tale. For I questioned him as to what happened to my mother and he said, 'I came and I drew together, and I lifted the tiles of the roofs and made them fly through the air. And I lifted the dirt from the ground and made it fly through the air.' "
"And what else does this spirit say as to his own nature?"
"Only that he always was. Before there were men and women, he was."
"Ah, and you believe this?"
"Why should I not believe it?"
I did not answer her, but in my soul I did not believe it, and I did not know why.
"How did he come to be near the stones of Donnelaith?" I asked her. "For that was where Suzanne first called him, was it not?"
"He was nowhere when she called him; he came into being at her call. That is to say, he has no knowledge of himself before that time. His knowledge of himself begins with her knowledge of him, and strengthens with mine."
"Ah, but you see this could be flattery," I said to her.
"You speak of him as if he were without feeling. That isn't so. I tell you I have heard him weep."
"Over what, pray tell?"
"The death of my mother. If she had allowed it, he could have destroyed all the citizenry of Montcleve. The innocent and the guilty would have been punished. But my mother could not imagine such a thing. My mother sought only her release when she threw herself from the battlements. Had she been stronger ... "
"And you are stronger."
"Using his powers for destruction is nothing."
"Aye, in that I think you are wise, I have to confess."
I puzzled over all of it, trying to memorize what was said which I believe I have done. And perhaps she understood, for next she said sadly to me:
"Ah, how can I allow you to leave this place when you know these things of him and of me?"
"So you would kill me?" I asked her.
She wept. She turned her head into the pillow. "Stay with me," she said. "My mother asked this of you, and you refused her. Stay with me. By you I could have strong children."
"I am your father. You are mad to ask this of me."
"What does it matter!" she declared. "All around us there is nothing but darkness and mystery. What does it matter?" And her voice filled me with sadness.
It seemed I too was weeping, but more quietly. I kissed her cheeks and soothed her. I told her what we had come to believe in the Talamasca, that, with or without God, we must be honest men and women, that we must be saints, for only as saints can we prevail. But she merely cried all the more sadly.
"All your life has been in vain," she said. "You have wasted it. You have forsworn pleasure and for nothing."
"Ah, but you miss the depths," I said. "For my reading and my study have been my pleasures, as surgery and study were the pleasures for my father, and these pleasures are lasting. I do not need the pleasure of the flesh. I never did. I do not need riches, and therefore I am free."
"Are you lying to me or to yourself? You are afraid of the flesh. The Talamasca offered safety to you as convents offer it to nuns. You have always done what is safe ... "
"Was it safe for me to go into Donnelaith, or safe for me to go to Montcleve?"
"No, you were brave in that, true. And brave I suppose to come here. But I speak not of that part of you but the private, secret part of you which might have known love and known passion and shrank from it for fear of it, disliking the very heat. You must realize that sin such as we have committed tonight can only strengthen us and cause us to grow more solitary and willful and cold toward
s others as if our secrets were shields."
"But my dearest," I said, "I do not want to be solitary and willful and cold towards others. I am that enough already when I go into the towns where witches are to be burnt. I want my soul to be in harmony with other souls. And this sin has made of me a monster in my eyes."
"And so what, then, Petyr?"
"I don't know," I said. "I don't know. But you are my daughter all right. You think about what you do, that much I give you. You ponder and you consider. But you do not suffer enough!"
"And why should I?" She gave the most innocent laugh. "Why should I!" she cried out, staring right into my face.
And unable to answer that question, sick to death of my guilt, and of this drunkenness, I fell into a deep sleep.
Before dawn I awakened.
The morning sky filled with great pink-tinged clouds, and the roar of the sea was a wondrous sound. Charlotte was nowhere about. I could see that the door to the outside world was shut, and I knew without testing it that it was bolted from the outside. As for the small windows in the walls on either side of me, they were not large enough to allow a child to escape. Slatted shutters covered them now, through which the breeze ran, singing; and the little room was filled with the fresh air of the sea.
Dazed I stared out at the brightening light. I wanted to be back in Amsterdam, though I felt tainted beyond reprieve. And as I tried to rouse myself, to ignore the sickness in my head and belly, I perceived a ghostly shape standing to the left of the open doors, in the shady corner of the room.
For a long time, I considered it, whether it was not some product of the drug I had imbibed, or indeed of the light and the shadow playing together; but it was not. A man it appeared to be, tall, and dark of hair, and gazing down upon me as I lay there, and wanting to speak or so it seemed.
"Lasher," I whispered aloud.
"Fool of a man that you should come here," said the being. But its lips did not move and I did not hear this voice through the ears. "Fool that you should seek to come between me and the witch whom I love, once again."
"And what did you do with my precious Deborah?"
"You know but you do not know."
I laughed. "Should I be honored that you pass judgment on me?" I sat up in my bed. "Show yourself more plainly," I said.