"You've read it?" I said.

"Indeed, sir. With a heavy heart I did as instructed."

"It was to be opened in the event of her death," I said, feeling a little betrayed by the shake of emotion in my voice.

"That's right, sir. Upon receipt of the letter I placed it in a dresser, hoping never to see it again, if I'm honest with you."

I fixed him with a stare. "Tell me the truth, did you read it before she died? Because if you did, then you could have done something about it."

Ruddock gave a slightly sad, airy smile. "Could I? I rather think not, Mr. Dorian. Soldiers write such letters before battle, sir. The mere fact of them contemplating their own mortality does not a postponement make."

He'd read it, I could tell. He'd read it before she died.

I frowned, unfolded the paper and began to read Elise's words for myself.

Ruddock, Forgive the lack of pleasantries but I'm afraid I have reconciled my feelings toward you, and they are this: I don't much like you. I'm sorry about this, and I appreciate you may consider it a rather rude thing to announce, but if you're reading this then either you have ignored my instruction or I am dead and in either case neither of us should be concerned with matters of etiquette.

Now, notwithstanding the fact of my feelings toward you, I appreciate your attempts to make recompense for your actions, and I have been touched by your loyalty. It is for this reason that I would ask you to show this letter to my beloved Arno Dorian, himself an a.s.sa.s.sin, and trust that he will take it as my testimonial to your changed ways. However, since I very much doubt the word of a deceased Templar will be enough to ingratiate yourself with the Brotherhood, I have something else for you, too.

Arno, I would ask that you pa.s.s the letters I am about to discuss to Monsieur Ruddock, in order that he may use them to curry favor with the a.s.sa.s.sins in the hope of being accepted back in the Creed. Monsieur Ruddock will be aware that this deed ill.u.s.trates my trust in him and my faith that the task will be completed sooner rather than later, and for this reason will require no monitoring whatsoever.

Arno, the remainder of my letter is for you. I pray I will return from my confrontation with Germain and can retrieve this letter from Ruddock, tear it up and not think of its contents again. But if you're reading it, it means, firstly, that my trust in Ruddock has been repaid, and secondly that I am dead.

There is much I have to tell you from beyond the grave, and to this end, I bequeath to you my journals, the most recent of which you will find in my satchel, the preceding ones being kept in a cache with the letters of which I speak. If, when inspecting the trunk, you reach the sad conclusion that I had not been treasuring letters you sent to me, please know that the reason why may be found with the pages of my journals. You will also find a necklace, given to me by Jennifer Scott.

The next page was missing.

"Where's the rest?" I demanded to know.

Ruddock held out calm-down hands. "Ah, well now. The second page includes a special message regarding the location of the letters the mademoiselle says may prove my redemption. And, well, um, forgive the seeming rudeness, but it strikes me that if I give you this letter I have no 'bargaining chip' as it were, and no guarantee that you won't simply take the letters and use them to further your own standing within the Brotherhood."

I looked at him, gesturing with the letter. "Elise asks me to trust you and I ask you do the same in return for me. You have my word of honor that the letters will be yours."

"Then that is enough for me." He bowed and handed me the second page of the letter. I read it through until I reached the end.

. . . now, of course, I lie at the Cimetiere des Innocents, and I am with my parents, close to those I love.

Who I love most of all, though, Arno, is you. I hope you understand how much I love you. And I hope you love me too. And for allowing me the honor of knowing such a fulfilling emotion, I thank you.

Your beloved,

Elise

"Does she say where the letters are?" asked Ruddock hopefully.

"She does," I told him, "And where is that, sir?"

I looked at him, saw him through Elise's eyes and could see that there were some things too important to be left to newly won trust.

"You've read it; you already know."

"She called it Le Palais de la Misere. And that means something to you, does it?"

"Yes, thank you, Ruddock, it means something. I know where to go. Please, leave your current address with me. I shall be in touch as soon as I have recovered the letters. Know that to thank you for what you have done, I shall be endorsing any effort you make to win favor with the a.s.sa.s.sins."

He drew himself up little, squared his shoulders.

"For that I thank you . . . Brother."

12 SEPTEMBER 1794.

i There was a young man on a cart in the road. He sat with one leg up and his arms folded, squinting at me beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat, mottled by sunlight that found its way through a canopy of leafy branches overhead. He was waiting-waiting, it turned out, for me.

"Are you Arno Dorian, monsieur?" he said, sitting up.

"I am."

His eyes darted. "Do you wear a hidden blade?"

"You think me an a.s.sa.s.sin?"

"Are you?"

With a snick it was out, glinting in the sunlight. Just as quickly I retracted it.

The boy nodded. "My name is Jacques. Elise was a friend to me, a good mistress to my wife, Helene, and the close confidante of . . . a man who also lives with us."

"An Italian man?" I said, testing him.

"No, sir." The young man grinned. "An Englishman who goes by the name of Mr. Weatherall."

I smiled at him. "I think you'd better take me to him, don't you?"

On his cart, Jacques led the way, and we took a path that led us along one side of a river. On the other bank was a stretch of manicured lawn that led up to a wing of the Maison Royale, and I looked at it with a mixture of sadness and bemus.e.m.e.nt-sadness because the mere sight of it reminded me of her. Bemus.e.m.e.nt because it was nothing like I had imagined from the Satanic picture she had painted in her letters all those years ago.

We continued, as though we were skirting the school, which I supposed we were. Elise had mentioned a lodge.

Sure enough, we came upon a large-based, low building in a clearing, with a couple of ramshackle outbuildings not far away. Standing on step of a porch was an older man on crutches.

The crutches were new, of course, but I half recognized the gray beard from having seen him around the chteau when I was growing up. He had been someone who belonged to Elise's "other" life, her Francois and Julie life. Not someone I had ever concerned myself with then. Nor him with me.

And yet, of course, I write this entry having read Elise's journals, and can now appreciate the position he held in her life, and again I marvel at how little I really knew of her; again I mourn the chance to have discovered the "real" Elise, the Elise free of secrets to keep and a destiny to fulfill. I sometimes think that with all of that on her shoulders, we were doomed from the start, she and I.

"h.e.l.lo, son," he growled at me from the porch. "It's been a long time. Look at you. I hardly recognize you."

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Weatherall," I said, dismounting and tethering my horse. I approached him, and had I known then what I know now, I would have greeted him the French way, with an embrace, and we would have shared the solidarity of bereavement, we who were the two men closest to Elise. But I didn't; he was merely a face from the past.

Inside the lodge the decor was simple, the furniture spartan. Mr. Weatherall leaned on his crutches and ushered me to a table, requesting coffee from a girl I took to be Helene, at whom I smiled and received a curtsy in return.

Again, I paid her less mind than I would have done had I read the journals. I was just taking the first steps into Elise's other life, feeling like an interloper, like I shouldn't be there.

Jacques entered, too, doffing an imaginary cap, greeting Helene with a kiss. The atmosphere in the kitchen was bustling. Homely. No wonder Elise liked it here.

"Was I expected?" I said, with a nod at Jacques.

Mr. Weatherall settled before he nodded thoughtfully. "Elise wrote to say Arno Dorian might be collecting her trunk. A couple of days ago Madame Levene brought the news that she'd been killed."

I raised an eyebrow. "She wrote to you? And you didn't suspect there was anything wrong."

"Son, I may have wood beneath my armpits but don't go thinking I've got it in my head. What I suspected was that she was still angry with me, not that she was making plans."

"She was angry with you?"

"We'd had words. We parted on bad terms. The not-on-speaking-terms sort of terms."

"I see. I have been on the receiving end of a number of Elise's tempers myself. It's never very pleasant."

We looked at one another, smiles appearing. Mr. Weatherall tucked his chin into his chest as he nodded with bittersweet remembrance. "Oh yes, indeed. Quite a will on that one." He looked at me. "I expect that's what got her killed, is it?"

"What did you hear about it?"

"That the n.o.blewoman Elise de la Serre was somehow involved in an altercation with the renowned silversmith Francois Thomas Germain, and that swords were drawn and the pair of them fought a battle that ended in their mutual death at each other's hands. That about how you saw it, was it?"

I nodded. "She went after him. She could have exercised more caution."

He shook his head. "She never was one for exercising caution. She give him a good battle, did she?"

"She fought like a tiger, Mr. Weatherall, a true credit to her sparring partner."

The older man gave a short, mirthless laugh. "There was a time when I was sparring partner to Francois Thomas Germain as well, you know. Yes, you may make that face. The treacherous Germain honed his own skills on a wooden blade wielded by Freddie Weatherall. Back then, when it was unthinkable that a Templar might turn on a Templar."

"Unthinkable? Why? Were Templars less ambitious when you were younger? Was the process of backstabbing in the name of advancement less developed?"

"No." Mr. Weatherall smiled. "Just that we were younger, and that bit more idealistic when it came to our fellow man."

ii Perhaps we would have more to say to one another if we ever met again. As it was, we two men who were closest to Elise had precious little in common, and when the conversation had at last withered and dried like an autumn leaf, I asked to see the trunk.

He took me to it, and I carried it to the kitchen table, set it down, running my hands over the monogram EDLS, then opening it. Inside, just as she'd said, were the letters, her journals and the necklace.

"Something else," said Mr. Weatherall, and left, returning some moments later with a short sword. "Her first sword," he explained, adding it to the trunk with a disdainful look, as though I should have known instantly. As though I had a lot to learn about Elise.

Which of course, I did. And now I understand that, and realize that I may have appeared a little haughty during my visit, as though these people were not worthy of Elise, when in reality it was the other way around.

I went to fill my saddlebags with Elise's keepsakes, ready to transport them back to Versailles, stepping out into a clear and still moonlit night and going top my horse. I stood in the clearing, the buckle of a bag in my hand, when I smelled something. Something unmistakable. It was perfume.

iii Thinking we were on our way, my mare snorted and pawed at the ground but I steadied her, patting her neck and sniffing the air at the same time. I licked a finger, held it up and verified the wind was coming from behind me. I searched the perimeter of the clearing. Perhaps it was one of the girls from school who had made her way down here for some reason. Perhaps it was Jacques's mother . . .

Or perhaps I recognized the scent of the perfume and knew exactly who it was.

I came upon him hiding behind a tree, his white hair almost luminous in the moon.

"What are you doing here?" I asked him. Ruddock.

He pulled a face. "Ah, well, you see, I . . . well, you could say I was just wanting to safeguard my prize."

I shook my head with irritation. "So you don't trust me, after all?"

"Well, do you trust me? Did Elise trust me? Do any of us trust each other, we who live our lives in secret societies?"

"Come on," I said, "inside."

iv "Who's this?"

The occupants of the lodge, having turned in for bed just moments ago, reappeared: Helene in a nightdress, Jacques in just his breeches, Mr. Weatherall still fully dressed.

"His name is Ruddock."

I don't think I've ever seen such a remarkable transformation as the one that came over Weatherall then. His face colored, a look of fury crossing it as his glare descended on Ruddock.

"Mr. Ruddock plans to collect his letters, then be on his way," I continued.

"You didn't tell me they were going to him," said Weatherall with a growl.

I cast him a look, thinking that I was growing tired of Weatherall, and that the sooner my business was concluded, the better.

"There is bad blood between the two of you, I take it."

Mr. Weatherall merely glowered; Ruddock simpered.

"Elise vouched for him," I told Weatherall. "He is by all accounts a changed man, and has been forgiven for past misdemeanors."

"Please," Ruddock implored me, his eyes darting, clearly unnerved by the thunder that rolled across the face of Weatherall, "just hand me the letters and I will go."

"I'll get you your letters, if that's what you want," said Weatherall, moving over to the trunk, "but believe you me, if it wasn't Elise's wish, you'd be picking them out your throat."

"I loved her too in my own way," protested Ruddock. "She saved my life twice."

By the trunk Weatherall paused. "Saved your life twice, did she?"

Ruddock wrung his hands. "She did. She saved me from the hangman's noose and from the Carrolls before that."