In his life he had loved one woman: Frankie. There had been other women, of course, and he had usually felt great fondness toward them. But as he looked at the woman who was now lying in his arms, staring up at him with eyes like bright water, he realized that of all the women he had known, he had adored-truly adored-only one.
He could be consumed by this woman. He could lose himself in her, lose his identity. The intensity of what he was feeling was overpowering. He might burn up in the boiling, spinning heat. But he did not care. How many people ever got to experience what he was experiencing at this moment?
He kissed her eyes, her nose, her lips, cupped her face in his hands. He stroked her fingers one by one. As he entered her, he immediately slipped inside her so deeply. Where did her flesh end? Where did his begin?
He sensed a purr coming from deep within her throat. Her fingers tapped against his shoulders. And then he felt her grip tighten and her nails cut sharply into the skin of his back. As he lost control he felt her shudder underneath him and he was gripped by a primitive sense of triumph. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her so tightly that she made a muffled sound of protest and laughter.
Pushing him away from her, she coaxed him onto his stomach. As she lowered herself on top of him, he could feel her breasts soft against his back. Her arms were resting on his; their fingers intertwined.
For a long while they stayed like this, not moving. Against the sensitive skin of his neck he felt her breath as it left her mouth gently. Her breathing slowed. She was asleep.
If only they could stay like this. In this safe room, inside this warm bed. The clocks stopped. No tragedy. No danger.
She stirred and made a soft whimpering sound. Her arm reached past him to the bedside table, and she turned the alarm clock toward her in order to see the time.
"It's very late."
"Or very early." He smiled and suddenly turned over and flipped her onto her back.
She gave a small shriek and laughed, clasping her hands to his shoulders. Propping himself up on one elbow, he pushed the heavy hair from her forehead.
She will age well, he thought, looking down at the lovely face underneath his hand. The intelligence in her eyes will remain undimin-ished; the beautiful bone structure as fine. The laughter and wisdom and quicksilver playfulness will not fade, nor that strange, wonderful luminosity that envelops her very being.
"Minnaloushe."
She smiled at him. Her smile was the smile of a woman who had made love and was now feeling satisfied and intensely feminine. She rolled her head on the pillow, pressing her face into the soft down, and stretched.
"Minnaloushe… will you tell me what happened?"
She stilled the movement of her body and he felt her muscles tense.
She turned her head toward him and he saw the sheen of her eyes. For a long moment there was quiet between them.
Then she said, "I will tell you everything."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
"Why did Morrighan murder that boy?"
Minnaloushe had moved to the far side of the bed. She was hugging herself, the line of her shoulders taut. The empty stretch of bed between them seemed to signify a mental, not just a physical, divide.
He tried to make his voice sound less accusing. "Why, Minnaloushe?"
"Morrighan was worried Robbie might betray her. That once I knew, I would stop building the memory palace."
"Knew what? And why is that bloody palace important enough to kill for?"
"It is the ultimate prize, Gabriel. Within its walls lies enlightenment. Behind its doors lies knowledge of the great secrets. People have killed for far less…
"My mother's death." Minnaloushe was nodding. Bright tears stood in her eyes. "That's where it all began…"
When Jacqueline Monk died at the age of fifty-three, her brain was a tangle of protein plaques interspersed with soft spots where the tissue had simply given way. She was still a beautiful woman but Alzheimer's had erased her memory and her personality. The sight of her two daughters standing at her bedside was the last impression she had before her breath finally left her body, but the image of the weeping girls made little imprint on her emotions. She did not know who they were.
The Tibetan Book of the Dead tells that the last thought at the moment of death determines the character of the next life. Looking into her mother's lost eyes, sixteen-year-old Minnaloushe Monk felt her heart break. Her mother's final thoughts… what could they be?
For the young girl, whose interest in mysticism was already highly developed, her mother's loss of memory was profoundly traumatic. Memory, Minnaloushe came to believe, was what set man apart from all other living things in creation. Without memory you have no sense of self. Without memory you cannot remember the road you've traveled-can gain nothing from the present life. Even at such a young age, she began to study the concept of memory with a driving hunger.
As time went by, her studies took on an even wider spiritual significance. Not only memory, but knowledge itself, was now the object. Perfect knowledge, which could lead to direct contact with God.
Gnosis.
It is twenty years ago. Minnaloushe Monk is seventeen years old. Outside the window, it is night. Lamplight pools on the pages of the book she is reading.
The founding of Gnosticism, or religion of knowledge, is widely credited to the miracle worker Simon Magus, who was branded the "father of all heresies" by his enemies. Gnosticism became a reviled practice, considered a dangerous, heretical sect in orthodox Christian circles. But even before the birth of Christ, Gnostic ideas had already surfaced in the Egyptian mystery cults and in Buddhism, Taoism and Zoroastrianism. The idea that man may gain insight into the secrets of God by striving for ultimate knowledge is an old belief.
A movement at the door draws her attention away from the book. Morrighan has entered the room. Minnaloushe watches her sister walk over to the CD player, and a few seconds later, the sound of violin notes fill the air. "Andante Cantabile." Tchaikovsky's String Quartet no. 1, opus 11. It was their mother's favorite piece.
Minnaloushe watches warily as Morrighan lowers herself into an armchair. She is always wary where Morrighan is concerned, has long since given up on the idea that the two of them could be close. How sad, she thinks, looking at Morrighan's face-the elegant cheekbones, the black hair smoothed into a sleek French twist-to look at your sister and know that you have absolutely nothing in common with her.
But tonight Morrighan seems unsure of herself. In fact- Minnaloushe surprises herself with the word-she looks vulnerable. Maybe because today is the first anniversary of their mother's death. Earlier, when they had taken flowers to the grave, she had noticed tears in Morrighan's eyes.
"You're leaving for school tomorrow?" Morrighan nods at the volumes stacked up on the desk.
"Yes." Minnaloushe quietly closes the book in front of her. Let Morrighan think she was busy with schoolwork.
"I'll drive you."
"No need. I'll take the train."
"Please. I want to."
Curious… and unexpected. But Minnaloushe nods. "Thanks."
For a while they are quiet. Then Morrighan leans forward and says the words that change the relationship between the sisters forever.
"Minnaloushe, I have a secret to tell you."
If the death of Jacqueline Monk represented a turning point in the life of her younger daughter, it was only fair to say it had a similarly powerful impact on her eldest. At the time, black-haired Morrighan Monk was seventeen years old. For five years she had belonged to a secret society of teenaged girls: a pseudo wicca coven where the members talked about goddess, lapis, magic, boys and MTV with equal enthusiasm. Morrighan's revelation that she was descended from the great wizard John Dee conferred on her special status in the group and gave the young woman a strong sense of identity.