Read Online Immortal Muse by Stephen Leigh - Free Book Online

and all over the Île de la Cité, the factions were stirring.
    No one was in much of a mood for a gathering, but the Provost’s invitation was not to be turned down. Nicolas, for his part, appeared almost jolly at the thought. “You are all to remain inside,” Nicolas told the staff as they were preparing to leave. “Marianne, you and Telo are to bar the doors and don’t let anyone in you don’t know. We should return by midnight.” He called to Telo, now a strapping lad of seventeen, and pointed to the door that Marianne was holding open. “You’re to be the door guard tonight,” he said. “You’re to stay right here until we return. Do you understand?”
    Telo nodded. “Nicolas,” Perenelle asked, concerned, “are you expecting trouble tonight? Why these precautions?”
    Beneath his best cloak, Nicolas shrugged. His face was impassive behind the hedge of his beard. “I expect nothing,” he answered, “but it’s good to be prepared for anything in these days.”
    Perenelle frowned. She crouched down to hug Verdette good-bye, and looked at Élise over the girl’s head. “Make sure that Verdette stays out of trouble, and otherwise, do as Master Flamel has said. Let no one in that we don’t know. We’ll be back soon. Verdette, you’ll behave, won’t you? I want you to say your prayers especially well tonight, and go to bed early. I think it’s going to storm. You’ll do that, won’t you?”
    â€œYes, Maman,” Verdette said, her face so solemn as she nodded that Perenelle had to laugh.
    Nicolas had already left the house. Perenelle stood, patted Verdette on the head. “Say a special prayer for me,” she told the girl. She nodded to the servants, then followed Nicolas outside.
    The July heat had also gifted the entire city with the overripe smell of a midden. Her surcoat was long, and Perenelle gathered up the train over one elbow so that it didn’t become soiled during their walk. The central gutter of the rue Saint-Denis was clogged with offal and there had been no rain in over a week to wash away the effluvium—that would be another blessing if a storm came tonight. Overhead, the sky was already dark, the clouds masking the moon and stars. Perenelle found herself wishing that she’d read the cards earlier; there was a sense that something was to happen tonight. The street was strangely empty, only a few people venturing out. The closest shops were shuttered, their window ledges pulled in.
    Nicolas waited for her at the gate of their house; he crooked his arm to her as she approached—in public, he was always careful that their marriage appear entirely proper and happy. He even managed a smile as she took his arm, and he noticed that she glanced at the sky. “If the storm breaks while we’re at dinner,” he said, “we’ll borrow an oilcloth from the Provost. After all, he’s a draper.” His smile widened, as if he’d made a joke.
    Nicolas set off down the rue. He carried a staff in his free hand, though it wasn’t his formal cane, but an oak limb that she’d noticed in his laboratory a few days ago, the whorled knob of the top strangely dark, as if it had been in a fire.
    The uncapped end of the staff
clunked
dully on the cobbles of the rue. “So, Madame,” he asked, as if he were making conversation at the dinner, “how goes your work lately?”
    She hesitated. Since Nicolas had given Perenelle her own laboratory, he’d rarely asked about her progress. Despite his gift of the space, he seemed to believe that she could accomplish nothing and that her puttering about was nothing more than a silly female dalliance, whereas his own work was vital and all-important. He’d laughed when she’d declared, in the first days of her work, that she would seek to unlock the Great Work: the Philosopher’s