“It’s a book of spells,” explained Reine-Marie. “Incantations. Recipes for elixirs. Instructions on how to call up spirits.”
“Demons?” asked Harriet.
Gabri made a hissing sound, to shut her up. In case the very word would summon them.
Reine-Marie was about to answer when Ruth cut in: “No. Well, not necessarily.” She lifted her eyes from the book to Reine-Marie. “Have you looked inside?”
“Just to make sure it’s the real thing.”
“And?”
“It is.”
Ruth exhaled and shook her head. “So, it’s true then.”
As much as Armand wanted to stay and listen, there were other questions he had.
He took Billy aside and said, “Can we talk?”
“Oui. Where?”
A few minutes later they were in the Gamaches’ kitchen. Armand had cut slices from a fresh miche from Sarah’s Boulangerie, and made egg salad and tomato sandwiches, while Billy poured them each a glass of lemonade.
“Pink?” he asked, raising it.
It was a shade unknown in nature.
“The girls,” said Armand.
“Your granddaughters haven’t been down for a while,” said Billy, accepting the sandwich and sitting at the old pine table.
“Okay,” said Armand. “I can’t lie. Reine-Marie likes it.”
It was so clear that it was actually Armand who liked the pink lemonade that Billy laughed.
He took a large bite of the sandwich, the bread soft and chewy and the crust crisp. The egg salad had an unexpected hint of curry.
“What do you know about that room?” Armand asked.
Billy raised his brows. “Nothing. Why do you think I would?”
“Because of the letter.”
“Pierre Stone knew about the room,” said Billy. “But I didn’t. You think if I did I wouldn’t have broken through years ago? And certainly when Myrna and I started living together?”
Armand believed him. He saw no reason for Billy Williams to lie.
Though the room had been bricked up for a hundred and sixty years, the items hadn’t been there for that long. That was obvious.
Someone had gone through a great deal of trouble to place those items there. And that same someone, Armand was sure, wanted them to be found.
“How long ago did you say you got that letter?”
“Must be five weeks. I have the envelope at home. I can show you.”
“Yes, I’d like to see it.”
“What’re you thinking, Armand?”
“I’m more feeling than thinking.”
Billy smiled. “And what are you feeling?”
“That this isn’t just a joke. Someone who goes through this much trouble has been planning it for a while. That painting must’ve taken a long time to do. That book, the grimoire? Reine-Marie has been looking for it for years, but it shows up here?”
Was it placed there specifically for her? He hoped not. He thought not.
“I want to know why.”
“And who,” said Billy.
“And how. If the room was bricked up, how could those things have gotten up there?”
Billy heaved a sigh and put down his sandwich. “I don’t know. I do know those bricks sealing up the opening haven’t been moved since they were laid.”
“So there must be another way in. Through the roof, or the floor.”
“Oui.” Billy got up.
“Where’re you going?”
“To look.”
“That’ll wait. I want to talk to you about the letter.” Billy sat down again. “What do you really think of it?”
“I can’t see that the letter is the strangest thing about today.”
Armand smiled. “Agreed, but it is where all this started. With Pierre Stone.” He looked down at the paper, now sitting on the table. “I wonder if whoever sent it to you, or to your old house, wanted you to go looking for the hidden room.”
“But we didn’t. I showed it to Ruth, but we just dismissed it. It wasn’t until Fiona mentioned the room yesterday that we thought to look. But there is something strange about the letter.”
“What?”
“I don’t think Pierre Stone wrote it.”
“Go on.”
“Pierre was a skilled craftsman, but I doubt he got beyond third grade, if that. He’d have been literate enough to be able to read plans, but this—” Billy tapped the old paper and shook his head. “This was written by an educated person.”
Billy had hit on something that had niggled at Armand since reading the letter, but he hadn’t quite put it together. It didn’t seem like the sort of letter a stonemason a century and a half ago, living in the countryside, would write.
“He might’ve had someone else write it,” said Armand, wanting to explore all the corners. “Though it seems unlikely. This is a very personal letter, describing something clearly meant to be private, even secret. Why did you show it to Ruth?”
“She knows the history of Three Pines better than anyone. I thought if there was a hidden room, she might know about it. Might know the story. The room might’ve already been found and it was all in the past. Behind us.”
But it was not. Something was in front of them. Approaching. Or already there.
“I can’t believe we found a grimoire,” said Reine-Marie, still clutching it. “The only one I’ve heard of belonged to a woman in Montréal three hundred years ago. But it was lost, probably destroyed by the church.”
“Anne Lamarque,” said Ruth.
“You know her?” Very little about Ruth surprised Reine-Marie, but this did.
“We never met,” said Ruth.
Harriet laughed. Then, seeing the serious look on Ruth’s face, she stopped. And looked at Gabri, who did not seem surprised.
“She’d be very old,” he whispered to Harriet. “Pickled.”
“Who’s this Anne Lamarque?” asked Myrna.
“A witch,” said Ruth.
“Oh, God,” moaned Gabri. “Of course she is.”
“You think it belonged to her?” asked Myrna. “Is that possible? What’s it doing here?”
Reine-Marie opened the grimoire and carefully, carefully turned the first few pages. There were notations in the margins. Drawings of plants. What looked like recipes.
“No name,” she said. “But that can’t be a surprise. A grimoire would be proof of witchcraft. The Catholic Church in New France frowned on that.”
It was an intentional and monumental understatement. Bishop Laval, a Jesuit and head of the church in the New World, had hunted down and punished anyone even suspected of witchery.
No. No one would be foolish enough to put their name on a grimoire.
“Can you get me a knife?” Reine-Marie asked.
When Myrna did, Reine-Marie used it to carefully pry up the lining of the inside cover. And there it was, as clear as the day it was written three hundred and fifty years earlier, unfaded by light and time. Unseen. Until now.
Anne Lamarque, 1672.
About the same time The Paston Treasure, the real one, had been painted.
Fiona popped her head back up into the loft and invited Harriet to have lunch with them.
“Sam really wants you to come. I haven’t told him about what we found. I’m waiting for you. We’re in the bistro. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Harriet was torn, though in truth it was not much of a tear. While she wanted to find out more about a book that had belonged to a witch, of all things, the fact was, that was history. And Harriet was looking to the future. Her future. If the immediate days ahead included Sam, well, history could wait. It wasn’t going anywhere. But she was.
“Sounds good.”
The rain was coming down heavier now and had brought with it a chill. It was only early June, and it was possible, rare but possible, to still get snow. The day had the sort of damp chill that settled even into young bones.