holes in his skull. He slid a long knife from his belt and fingered the blade.
'Now, suppose you tell me the truth, or shall we make a game of it? A game that I think I shall rather enjoy, although I can't promise that you will.'
Early Morning after the 2nd Night
of the Full Moon, September 1211
Pearl - A pearl denotes a tear. It is for grieving and mourning, and thus a pearl ring must never be given as a wedding gift. Yet, above all, it is an emblem of female beauty, of chastity, of sex, of the moon, and of the sea-born goddesses.
It grows in beauty like a mortal woman if it is worn against her skin, for it feeds upon her heat, grows lustrous on her passion.
Mortals believe that at certain times the oyster shell opens itself to the sky and drops of heavenly dew fall into it and impregnate the virgin oyster and from this union 'twixt the earthly and the divine are pearls conceived. In like manner, so they say, the virgin womb of Mary conceived the Holy Child. Thus the pearl brings fertility, for it is conceived of water and the moon, and is wombed within a shell as it grows.
But if a thunderstorm should rage, the oyster closes its shell and scuttles away in fear, and the pearl is aborted and drowns.
The Mandrake's Tale
The Bridge of Sleep
She is standing in a large, empty hall. It is night and the room seems to extend far back into the darkness as if it has no walls. The floor is cold under foot, but smooth, very smooth, almost as if she is walking on glass. There is something in her hand, heavy, but weighted evenly as she balances it in her fingers. She is breathing hard. Her blood pounds in her ears, like a drip echoing in a deep well. She is shaking with anger, a blind fury. She knows not at whom the rage is directed. She only knows she wants to rip, to tear, to smash, and yet she had already done that, but it isn't enough, not nearly enough.
She senses a movement in the darkness ahead of her. Someone is coming towards her. She raises her arm to defend herself. She hears a cry.
'Not here, I beg you. Do not desecrate this holy place with my blood. I am not worthy.'
A shaft of moonlight falls upon the disembodied head of an old man. His pate shines in the light and his beard flows in a silver cascade from his hollow cheeks. She draws back with a gasp, crossing herself as the head floats towards her out of the darkness. Then, as it comes closer, she sees the outline of a body hung in simple black robes.
The monk holds up his hands, as if in surrender. 'I will come with you outside. You may do what you wish with me there. I will not resist you. But I beg you, do not spill my blood in here, not here. I have cared for this place all my life, I could not bear to think my death had violated what I have always striven to keep holy.'
A cloud drifts in front of the moon, and the light slowly dims. The old man moves towards her, then passes her as if to lead her outside. He shuffles ahead of her up the smooth marble floor. Then, without warning, he stumbles and falls, sprawling across something lying in his path. Painfully he pushes himself into a kneeling position, rocking backwards on his heels. He moans softly, crossing himself again and again. 'God have mercy. Mea culpa, mea culpa. . .'
She walks towards him, her footsteps echoing. He glances up, his arm raised to shield his head as if he thinks she is going to strike him. Then, as she stands there staring at the bundle on the ground, he turns on her, his voice raised in anger and grief.
'What have you done? God have mercy on you, what sacrilege have you committed in this holy place?'
She kneels beside the old monk. A body lies on the cold, hard floor. She can distinguish little in the dark, except that the body isn't moving. As she bends to peer closer the moon emerges from behind the clouds again and a beam of cold silver light illuminates the figure.
A man is lying on his back, a pool of blood darkening on the white floor at his side. But she can see no