LeMerle was watching me; I wondered at what point he would realize that all was lost for him; what he would do.
“Père Colombin is not what you think, my children. The man you see before you is a cruel impostor. No priest at all. A deceiver, whose true name is known to me.”
The collective gaze moved from the man to the woman, the floating woman to the man…The silence was terrible. Then LeMerle lifted his eyes toward me and I could see the challenge in his face far below.
Will it be war, then, Harpy?
No malice in the unspoken question, simply a bright look of anticipation, the gambler’s fever heightened to furnace intensity.
I nodded, almost imperceptibly, but I knew he understood.
Cue thunder. That was luck, Juliette; it could just as easily have been mine.
Did she expect me to run? I asked myself. Did she expect me to hide in the shadows? She should have known better. And yet it pleased me in some absurd way that my pupil should seek to outplay the master at his own game of deceit. She looked down at me, my lovely bird of prey, and we understood each other completely. In spite of myself, in spite of the danger, I played your game, eager to know how well I taught you.
The crowd was all faces, mouths open as if to receive honey from the sky. Above me, the storm was approaching fast; the rain had turned to a hail that rattled against the slates like dice. Although I was partly shielded by the roof above me, it was in poor condition, and I was uncomfortably aware that a single one of those hailstones might be enough to break my concentration and topple me from my perch. Was this what he hoped for? I’d expected him at least to deny my accusation, but he seemed to be waiting, almost as if he had something else planned…
The realization, when it struck me, almost cost me my footing. Of course! Even from my vantage point, with everything laid out below me, I had been misdirected, like the rest of them. I had been so busy watching LeMerle that I had hardly noticed Isabelle eclipsed in his shadow; only now as I scanned the little scene, did I understand his full intent. Isabelle herself was to be the fuse: what he wanted was not to light the flame himself, but to watch the bishop’s face as his niece sacrificed her own life, and who knows how many others, in a desperate attempt to beat the devil. She was poised to do it; a word might trigger her reaction. Now I understood the repeated sermons, the constant references to such martyred saints as Saints Agatha, Perpetua, Margaret of Alexandria, or holy miracle workers like Christina Mirabilis, who passed unhurt through flame to heavenly bliss.
I could see it in my mind; heavily robed and anointed with oil, she would leap into flame as quickly as summer stubble. I’d heard of it happening onstage, in the ballet, as a tulle skirt brushes the overheated glass of one of the footlights and fire jumps like an acrobat from one dancer to another, making lanterns of them all, torching their hair, vaulting ceiling-high in a trembling tower of fire and smoke. Whole troupes devoured in seconds, said LeMerle, who had once seen it happen-but-my God!-What a performance!
I could feel her eyes on me, now that I was awake to her gaze. I had to tread more carefully than ever; it was not enough to have interrupted LeMerle’s oratory or to have liberated the others from the dancing frenzy; it was not even enough to have thrown Père Colombin into doubt by endorsing the bishop’s claim against him. It was Isabelle I had to convince-only Isabelle. The question was: how much of the original Isabelle was left?
“There is no such saint as Marie-de-la-mer.” It was as if she had sensed my thoughts. Around her, the sisters awaited their cue, and LeMerle observed his pupil with the smile of a man with a hand of aces.
“As I told you before,” he said in a calm voice, “there is at least one deceiver here. Which is it to be? Whom do you trust? Who has never lied to you?”
Isabelle looked up at me, then back at LeMerle. “I trust you,” she said quietly, and put out her hand toward the brazier.
Her rope is too slack. I saw that at once. A moment ago I saw her change position and she swayed, gripping the invisible rope with her toes to stop it from swinging out of control. Where to now, my Harpy? Ten seconds and the place will be ablaze. A brave try, Juliette: but late, much too late. The pang I feel for you is real enough, but you chose this. I have to say I never imagined you’d really betray me, but a wise man anticipates every eventuality. You’ll fly from your perch in flames, my bird. A better end, perhaps, than to live, wings clipped, among barnyard geese.
“Vade retro, Satanas!”
Isabelle’s hand faltered an inch from the coals. Even then it might have been enough, but for a sudden draft from the open side door. Damn it, Antoine. I told you not to leave your post, whatever happened. In any case, the girl faltered, looked up in spite of herself, recognizing the language of ancient authority. That was a foul blow, Juliette; using my own weapons against me. But is it good enough? And, seeing your advantage, will you play or will you fold?
“The devil knows his Latin too,” I reminded Isabelle softly. I began to move, very slowly, toward the side door and the second brazier. A wise man always covers his bets, and if one fuse fails to light, it’s safer to have a second in reserve. But Antoine was standing at the side door, barring my exit with her huge body, and I saw that she too was watching the fake Virgin with a strange expression on her face.
“Listen to me, all of you.” The Winged One speaks again, and I can hear a hoarse note in her voice. “Père Colombin has lied to you. He has deceived and tricked you since the moment he arrived. Remember the curse of blood? That was only dye, red dye, that he slipped into the well to frighten you. And the Unholy Nun? That was-” She stopped then, realizing her mistake, and I grinned and began to recite the rite of exorcism.
“Praecipio tibi, quicumque es, spiritus immunde-”
“Look at his arm!” cried the fake Marie, in the voice of Juliette. “Make him show you the mark of the Virgin on his left arm!”
Timing, my dear: timing. If you’d thought of that at the start, you might have hurt me badly. But we’ve passed the time for signs and symbols; at this stage we need something more visceraclass="underline" something closer to the nerve.
“Name yourself,” I told her, smiling. “Name yourself, because I don’t think anyone here believes you’re the Mother of God.”
“He is Guy LeMerle, he’s a theater actor and a-”
“I said name yourself!” Once more, Isabelle’s hand began to creep toward the brazier. “In the name of the Father!”
“He’s doing this for revenge-”
“In the name of the Son!”
“Against the Bishop of Évreux!”
“In the name of the-” She was going to do it; her hand was an inch from the coals; her long sleeve had begun to smoke-
“The bishop, his father!”
That was such an unexpected blow that I actually staggered. All around me the sisters had frozen; Isabelle was staring at me; the bishop’s face was cheesy with shock. The liveried guards were beginning once more to push through the crowd, swords loosened at their belts. And still my Ailée went on. “Admit it, LeMerle,” she cried. “Isn’t he? Isn’t he?”
My God, I thought, she’s good. Wasted on these tame things, she should be setting stages alight in Paris theaters. I gave her a little bow to acknowledge it, then I turned to the bishop, who was watching me with a look of sick horror. “Well, Father,” I said, smiling. “Aren’t you?”
The storm was almost over our heads now. Through the gaps in the roof I could watch its approach, hell’s black circus striding across the flats. Below me the candles grew suddenly dim as a cold gust rushed in from beneath the doors. A sound arose from the crowd below, a throbbing like that of a rotten tooth. Eyes flicked from bishop to priest, from Virgin to bishop. My ankle began to wobble with the strain of standing still for so long, and I shifted slightly to ease it.