The bishop advanced, too angry for caution or curiosity. He was a tall man, taller even than LeMerle, and from my perch he looked more like a bird, a black crane perhaps, or a heron, as he marched up the steps toward the pulpitum with his robes flapping behind him. The smoke from the brazier stung my eyes, and there was rain dripping on my neck, but I had to see this confrontation. I had to be sure-I had to know that there was no other way than the one I had chosen-before I made my move.
I heard their voices below me, only slightly distorted by the shape of the bell tower. LeMerle’s clear tones, and those of the bishop, hoarse with disbelief and righteous anger, calling out instructions to his guards, which they could not obey without cutting a swath through a crowd of ecstatic nuns.
I could not yet make my move. LeMerle was still too close to the brazier, and if cornered, he might light the fuse and set the terrible sequence into motion. Had I left it too late? Was I to watch helpless as LeMerle carried out his revenge?
Then, as if in answer to my prayer, the bishop mounted the pulpitum and in the same moment, miraculously, LeMerle stepped away from the brazier. Now was the time, I thought, now-and, with a quick cantrip to ensure my safe footing and a whispered prayer to Saint Francis of the Birds, I took the rope in both hands and flung it out into the smoky air.
Mon père. I’m touched.“ I used my other vocal register so that the sound would not carry. ”After last time, I’d hardly anticipated such a warm welcome.“
Behind me, Isabelle was watching, white to the lips. Perette had failed me-a pity, though hardly of the essence-but now came the real test. Would Isabelle play her part to the end? Had I broken her, or would she declare herself against me? I have to admit the uncertainty excited me somewhat; besides, I thought, my escape route was safe with Antoine to keep it clear. At this stage I could risk a little self-indulgence.
“I’ll see you burn for this!” Hardly original, but it fitted the script. “I’ll finish you once and for all!” You see how unwittingly he played my game; his emotions betrayed his every move, as any cardplayer could tell you. With murder in his silvery eyes he came striding up toward me like a great gilded crow; for a second I was sure he would try to strike me, but I was younger and quicker than he was, and he dared not risk his dignity for a missed blow. Even now I could see that he believed it to be nothing but a trick of breathtaking impudence; he was more concerned about Isabelle and the now-unwelcome presence of the archbishop to consider my deeper motives.
“This man is no priest!” he said, turning to address the sisters in a voice that shook with rage. “He is an impostor! A trickster, a common stage actor-”
Less of that, Father. I’ll have you know I was years ahead of my time. “Is that likely?” I said with a smile. “Is it not more believable that this-this mitered abomination-is the real impostor?” Their voices told me they believed it, though there were a few cries of dissent among the many. “Certainly, there is one Deceiver in this hall,” I said. “And who is to say where? False priest, false bishop. Or are we all false? Can any of you say in all honesty that you have stayed true to yourself? Tell me, Father”-here I addressed the bishop in an undertone-“how true were you? How much more worthy to wear that robe than an actor-or a lecher-or an ape?”
He lunged at me then, as I knew he would; laughing, I evaded the blow. But it was a feint; instead of going for me, he made a grab for the silver cross I had forgotten on the side of the pulpitum, and brandished it with a cry of triumph.
His triumph was brief, however. At once and with a cry of pain, he dropped the cross and looked at his hand, where even now white blisters were beginning to rise like fresh dough.
It was a simple trick; placed so close to the brazier, the metal had become too hot to handle; but logic had long since abandoned my susceptible sisters, and the cry went up from the first row, spreading to the back in a matter of seconds.
“The cross! He cannot touch the cross!”
“That’s ridiculous!” shouted the bishop over the noise. “This man is an impostor!” But the crowd was pushing forward, straining in the pews; the guards were still too far away to be of use, and Monseigneur looked about to use his fists when he thought better of it and lowered his hands, teeth clenched.
“Very wise,” I told him, beginning to smile. “Lay a hand on me-lay even a finger-and all hell breaks loose.”
The rope caught at the first try. I felt the lead connect with the scaffolding opposite with a dull smacking sound. I tugged gently at the rope, but it held firm. Good. There was no time for further checks or precautions, and I secured the rope as well as I could to the rotten structure at my back. It was slacker than I usually like it, but I could not risk losing more time. I dropped my cloak from my shoulders, loosened the brown habit that concealed me, and stood on the narrow platform in my white shift. A swathe of blue cloth covered my all-too-recognizable hair. A moment of terror-it was too late, too much time had gone by, I would fall, I would fall-then the glacial cloak of the Winged One dropped over me, untouched by the passing years, and with it a kind of joy.
Head raised high, bare feet gripping the cord, arms slightly outstretched, l’Ailée stepped out proudly into the dark air.
I knew her at once. You don’t believe that? My first and best pupil-my only perfect achievement-of course I knew her. Even without her sequinned wings, veiled, and with a cloth tied over her hair I knew her grace, her assurance, her style. I was the first: seconds later others had seen her too. I knew a moment of pride-ay, that was my Ailée, all eyes drawn to her in envy and longing-even in my astonishment and growing understanding.
I should have known. That was her audacity. I wondered what had alerted her to my plan-pure instinct, perhaps, that malicious instinct of hers to thwart me at every turn and to lay low my pride-even doomed to failure as it was, it was still a brave attempt.
From this low angle I could see no rope supporting her. The muted candle glow made of her a figure of mist, a warm, hazy apparition that seemed to shine with an inner light. A distant rumble of thunder from across the sea served as her introductory drumroll.
From the frenzy came a voice: “Look! Above you! Look, I say!”
More faces turned to watch. More voices, clamorous at first, then falling to an awed hush as the white figure glided across the shadowy air, seemingly to hover right above their heads.
“Mère Marie!” wailed one voice from the depths of the congregation.
“The ghost of Germaine!”
“The Unholy Nun!”
The veiled figure paused for a moment in its passage over thin air and made the sign of the cross. Silence, awed silence, fell once more as she prepared to speak.
“My children.” My voice sounded terribly distant, the words resonating so far into the throat of the tower that they seemed barely recognizable. I could hear the beating of the rain against the wooden slats not five feet from my head and, somewhere across the water, a growl of thunder. “My children, do you not recognize me? I am Sainte Marie-dela-mer.” The voice I had chosen was deep and resonant, like those of the tragedians of my Paris days. A flutter went through the sisters like a breath of wind on the sea. “My poor, deluded children. You have been the victims of a cruel deception.”