Read Online The Whispering of Bones by Judith Rock - Free Book Online

witch.” He’d rarely been able to deflect Damiot from anything he wanted to know. Or already, somehow, did know.
    â€œThe college
is
much like a village,” Damiot said, smiling. “And you must know that it’s bad luck to keep things from the village witch.”
    â€œIf I tell you, will you put a spell on my Saint Thomas book so it won’t open? All right, the rector told me last summer that there’s been too much gossip in the college about things I’ve done. He cautioned me to call no more attention to myself. You’re not the only one who knows something about what I’ve done with La Reynie, and the rector wants no more talk about that.”
    The ironic eyebrow went up again. “For his own sake, I would imagine, as well as yours. Which is administratively understandable. But unfortunate, because from what I’ve heard—and seen—you’re quite good at finding killers.”
    â€œHowever,” Charles responded, “that talent is not in demand in the Society of Jesus. And, it seems, neither are scholastics who make themselves conspicuous. So La Reynie is on his own. And he’d better catch the man,” he added darkly.
    They had reached the refectory, where cloaked Jesuits were going to and from the frugal college breakfast of bread, cheese, and watered wine, taken standing and in silence. But near the bottom of the stairs to the door, a small group of Jesuits was talking quietly. Père Joseph Jouvancy, the rhetoric professor whom Charles had worked with last year, stood with three college administrators: Père Montville, Père Donat, the rector’s third in command, and Père Le Boeuf, the dour college provisioner. Maître Louis Richaud, an unpopular, sour-faced scholastic at the same stage of training as Charles, hovered nearby, trying to listen without seeming to.
    Père Jouvancy’s face lit with welcome when he saw Charles. As he gestured to him, Montville turned also. “Ah,
maître
,” Montville began, but Jouvancy was already in full spate.
    â€œMy
dear
Maître du Luc!” the little rhetoric professor cried, beaming at Charles. “We do miss you sorely in the rhetoric class. The boys as much as I.”
    â€œNot more than I miss being there,
mon père
. The saintly church fathers are not nearly such good company.”
    â€œAs my saintly self, you mean?” Jouvancy grinned at Charles. “I’m already planning next summer’s ballet and I am
so
thankful that you’ll be working with me! I’m calling it The Ballet of Seasons! And with the leaves so lovely just now, I’ve been thinking that Autumn should wear—”
    â€œMon père!”
Donat, a dull-witted stickler for every slightest rule and formality, glared at Jouvancy. “Remember, I beg you, what we are discussing here!”
    â€œHmmm?” Jouvancy glanced at him. “Yes, we’re discussing the ballet. Now,
maître
, as I was saying—”
    Damiot, who had drifted unobtrusively in Charles’s wake and was listening, choked with stifled laughter. Montville rolled his eyes and stepped closer to Charles.
    â€œBonjour, maître,”
Montville greeted him loudly, drowning Jouvancy’s words. Red-faced, portly, and usually in high good humor, Montville was uncharacteristically sober and impatient. Lowering his voice, he said to Charles, “The rector asked me to tell you that he and I have already been to the infirmary, and Père Dainville is much the same.” He looked warningly at Donat, who had edged around his bulk and was staring malevolently at Charles, whom he seemed to dislike this morning even more than usual. “The rector also reminds you,” Montville said in Charles’s ear, “to speak as little as possible of what happened yesterday. The less gossip here about the poor murdered man, the better.” He tilted his head very slightly toward Donat and the