she saw they were bricked with bones. Wedged between them were skulls with sightless eyes. And everywhere the cold smell of decay.
She swallowed. “What is this place?”
“A private catacomb. Very old.”
Only bones, she told herself, and pressed the edge of her cloak over her nose and mouth. For several minutes they walked in silence, the lantern light bobbing, the bones gleaming close and white and then sinking into shadow. When she felt she could stand it no more, she choked out, “How much farther?”
“Nearly there.”
It was true that the tunnel seemed finally to be widening. Ahead, she thought she heard faint voices, though it could have been the strange breeze shifting among the bones.
And then the man—and the lantern—disappeared.
“Where are you?” she cried. She took a step forward and bumped into him.
He shouted, “Open up!”
A door creaked wide. Dim light illuminated a set of dry stone steps. “Straight up, through the gallery—you’ll see him there.”
* * *
She found herself in a long room, both its walls and floor made of pale gray stone. Above her, the wooden ceiling was covered with painted diamonds in greens and faded reds. Here and there, still-bright silver stars shone out, and in the corners, carved wooden angels, their paint long gone, peered down at her.
In the air hung the heavy fug of magic.
A bolt slid back and a door opened in the hall’s far end. And there was Chandon, striding toward her, his heels clacking on the ancient floor. His face was serious, as if he’d just been told something he did not wish to hear.
“I’m dreadfully sorry about the bones,” he called to her. “They can feel extraordinarily grabby. And forgive me for our encounter in the street. How rude I must have seemed! You saw how they watch me—I did not want to come to your house and endanger you further.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” she said warmly. “I’m so happy to see you!” She would never have predicted it, but simply being with her friend reassured her. It had been true even during their time at Versailles, when he’d been, of necessity, very secretive. Only now did she understand why: around him she did not have to pretend magic was nothing. “Tell me, what is this place?”
“Pardon! The king’s announcement has so rattled me I’ve forgotten whatever manners I might once have had. Besides, without my invitation you won’t be able to pass through the wards.” He threw open his arms. “Bienvenue à Bellefleur, my ancestral home! The oldest part of it was once a monastic house associated with the church of Saint-Julien. This room was the refectory. Imagine if you will long tables, hooded monks bent over their gruel … how terribly medieval it must have been!” He raised an amused eyebrow. “My ancestors pulled down the monastery and used the stones to build our house. But the refectory remained standing because of the tunnel. It makes a helpful entrance or exit when kings are persecuting magicians.” Any momentary mirth vanished from Chandon’s face. “As kings are wont to do.”
“Then why have you come back to Paris?” she wondered. “When you might have stayed away?”
“My parents were reluctant to let me come. They fear we will be blamed for everything. A house burns because the thatched roof is too dry? Magicians. A well goes foul? Magicians. A child dies?” His hazel eyes were grave. “But I said to them: must we give up and hide until this is … over?”
Hiding seemed less risky than speaking out. “Why, what do you have in mind?”
“We must plot, bien sûr! I invited all the magicians I know but most were too afraid to come. One had his house set on fire, so naturally he declined. The rest prefer to hide behind their moats rather than come to Paris to help find a cure.”
She imagined an inoculation, like for smallpox. “For what?”
“Revolution.” He chuckled at her startled expression. “A jest, nothing more! Come, let’s join the others.” A hand on her elbow, he steered her through a stone archway into a long, dimly lit gallery, part of the house proper. On the gallery’s walls hung portrait after portrait. Some were painted on wooden boards, clearly hundreds of years old. Men in costly cloaks and hats, ringed hands resting on the pommels of their swords. Women in velvet and brocade, their jewels gleaming. Their proud faces gave nothing away.
Chandon brushed a speck of dust off a portrait’s frame. “My ancestors are all handsome and clever-looking, don’t