"With pleasure," she said. "As always."

Part Four: The Lady

18.

Paris, France.

Look to the Lady, her grandmother had written. Well, Zoe had looked, and looked and looked and looked. She'd studied every square inch of these wretched tapestries until they felt imprinted on her eyeb.a.l.l.s, and she'd come up with nothing. So what had she missed? What was here that she couldn't see? Surely her grandmother had put the postcard in the envelope to bring her to this place, but what good did it do if she couldn't figure out what it all meant?

Look to the lady.

She circled the round, dimly lit room yet again to gaze up at the sixteenth-century wall hangings, vibrant as a spill of jewels. The Lady, her her Lady, starred in all of them, with her unicorn and a lion, but no griffin. Lady, starred in all of them, with her unicorn and a lion, but no griffin.

The tapestries were supposed to depict the world of the senses. In Taste Taste the Lady was taking candy from a dish held by a maidservant. In the Lady was taking candy from a dish held by a maidservant. In Smell Smell she was making a wreath of flowers. In she was making a wreath of flowers. In Touch Touch she was stroking the unicorn's horn, and in she was stroking the unicorn's horn, and in Hearing Hearing she was playing an organ. In she was playing an organ. In Sight Sight she held up a mirror and the unicorn knelt on the ground beside her with his front legs in her lap while he stared at his reflection. she held up a mirror and the unicorn knelt on the ground beside her with his front legs in her lap while he stared at his reflection.

Zoe stopped to look up at the final tapestry, the one on her grandmother's postcard. a mon seul desir a mon seul desir, to my sole desire. Here, the Lady stood in front of a tent with her maidservant beside her, holding an open casket. The Lady was putting the necklace she'd been wearing in the other tapestries into the casket.

But there was no altar of bones here, no altar of any kind. So what did it mean? d.a.m.n it, what was she supposed to see?

The women of our line have been Keepers to the altar of bones for so long, the beginning has been lost in the mists of time. The sacred duty of each Keeper is to guard from the world the knowledge of the secret pathway, for beyond the pathway is the altar, and within the altar is the fountain of life.

A ridiculous riddle, her grandmother had called it. Okay, it might be ridiculous, but it was also obtuse, even more obtuse than that other riddle written on the back of the postcard. Or rather she was obtuse, because if the answer had been woven into the tapestry, it was beyond her- A guard poked his head in the doorway, startling her. He tapped his wrist.w.a.tch and said, "Madame. Nous fermons en cinq minutes." "Madame. Nous fermons en cinq minutes."

Zoe started to nod at the man, when suddenly her eyes filled with tears. She wasn't ready to go, she wasn't done here. Until yesterday her grandmother had meant little more to her than a smiling face in an old photograph. Maybe it was only those shared mitochondrials, but in this place, standing before the tapestry in the postcard, Zoe felt connected to Katya Orlova on some deeper level. Connected, too, to those women named in the letter going back through the generations to the first Keeper. Her grandmother had said they were bound by blood, and Zoe was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up, she was letting those women down.

Look to the Lady, for her heart cherishes the secret, and the pathway to the secret is infinite.

The women of our line have been Keepers to the altar of bones for so long, the beginning has been lost in the mists of time.

So the altar of bones must be your legacy.

Only she was so stupid, she couldn't even figure out what the d.a.m.ned thing was, let alone how she would "keep" it.

Zoe looked one last time at a mon seul desir a mon seul desir, at the Lady putting her necklace into the casket.

The museum guide said this meant the Lady had renounced the pa.s.sions aroused by the other senses. After four hours of staring at the Lady's face, though, Zoe wasn't so sure. Pa.s.sion was life, and this was the face of a woman embracing life, not renouncing it. And if you began your journey through the senses with this tapestry, then the Lady could be taking the necklace out of the casket, not putting it in.

Maybe, Zoe thought, feeling punch-drunk with jet lag and museum torpor, she should write an article on this insightful discovery and submit it to some art magazine. She could call it "The Lady Is a Hedonist," and to support her thesis she could point to the expression on the unicorn's face, a smug smile if ever there was one, as if he'd just been fed an especially yummy bucket of oats. And then there was the lion-a strange-looking beast, but not a griffin, his mouth open wide in a big roar. Or maybe it was a belly laugh.

"All right, give it up, you guys," Zoe said, out loud because she was the only one left in the room. "What is this altar-of-bones thing, and where is it when it's at home?"

The lion laughed, the unicorn smiled, but the Lady only had eyes for her jewels.

ZOE WALKED OUT of the museum and into a whirl of lights and noise and people. It was dark, a cold drizzle misted the air, wetting the pavement and haloing the streetlamps. She turned up her face, let the rain wash over her. It didn't help. of the museum and into a whirl of lights and noise and people. It was dark, a cold drizzle misted the air, wetting the pavement and haloing the streetlamps. She turned up her face, let the rain wash over her. It didn't help.

She wanted to weep and curse, both at the same time. Here she was, wearing the same clothes she'd put on in San Francisco more hours ago than she cared to count, so tired her feet kept moving only because they knew they should. She needed a hotel room, and maybe some food, except she was too tired to eat.

She wasn't even sure where she was in relation to anything else. She'd told the cabdriver at the airport to drop her off at the Musee de Cluny, and after that it was a blur. She looked for a street sign and found one finally, embedded in the wall of a cream-stone apartment building with a gray dormer roof-Boulevard St.-Michel.

Which would be a useful bit of knowledge if she had a map, and if she knew where she wanted to go from here in the first place.

She turned around and nearly b.u.mped into an in-line skater with purple spikes in his hair who didn't even notice her as he whizzed by. The street was jammed with traffic-motorbikes, every one of them with a hole in its m.u.f.fler, and all those small European cars that honked for no reason and looked ridiculous, and so many voices, all of them speaking French. She didn't understand a single word and she didn't care.

The tapestry. She'd focused every brain cell in her head on it and gotten nothing. She really wasn't all that stupid, so that meant there'd been nothing to get.

Let it go for now. Let it go.

So many French voices, most of them happy, most of them young, and if she'd had a gun, she would've shot the lot of them. Her head ached so badly that if she didn't get some aspirin soon, it would explode. She looked for a drugstore and saw only bistros and restaurants and cafes.

Zoe searched through her limited high school French for the word for drugstore, but it hurt to think. She had a vague memory, though, that their pharmacies-yes, that's what it was, une pharmacie une pharmacie. And you were supposed to easily spot une pharmacie une pharmacie because of the universal symbol of a bright green neon cross they all had over their doors. because of the universal symbol of a bright green neon cross they all had over their doors.

She looked up and down the street for a green neon cross. No luck.

No, wait ... The rain had thickened and it was hard to see, but was that a wedge of green light across from the museum and down a side street?

Zoe dashed through the stalled traffic to make it across before the stoplight changed, weaving through Peugeots and Vespas, barely beating out a taxi driver with manic eyes who tried to run her down.

A huge McDonald's loomed in front of her, bursting with people. But down the narrow cobblestoned side street, it was deserted. The wedge of green light was still there, a pale luminous green, though, not the cross of a pharmacie pharmacie.

No, it was something else entirely.

Zoe's breath hitched. She had to be seeing things. She walked slowly toward it, wondering if her brain had finally shorted out on her.

The wedge of green light sliced through a small shop window and lit a wooden signboard swinging in the night wind. It seemed to be an antiques store. Or rather, more like a junk shop, or maybe a p.a.w.nbroker. That sign, though, that gently swinging wooden sign ... It was carved in the shape of a griffin.

And not just any griffin.It was an exact replica of the one on her grandmother's key.

ZOE RAISED HER hand, almost afraid to push at the narrow door with the sign in it that said hand, almost afraid to push at the narrow door with the sign in it that said OUVERT OUVERT. She could see no one inside, only a tall, green-shaded belle epoque streetlamp that had been placed directly in the bay window. As if the shop's owner had known all along she would leave the museum with a headache and go looking for the green neon cross of a pharmacy.

Zoe thought of all the stories she'd heard growing up about Russian sorcerers who could divine the future, and she shuddered.

But, no, she was being silly. If she'd been paying more attention when she first got here, not so out of it from jet lag, and if it hadn't been raining, she would have spotted the griffin signboard right off, as soon as she'd stepped out of the cab in front of the museum. This green light in the window was a coincidence, nothing more.

But however she'd come to be here, this was the place her grandmother had meant for her to find, Zoe was sure of it.

She pushed open the door.

A bell above the lintel jangled loudly and she paused, but the shop was deserted and no one came out of any back room to help her.

She looked around. The place was like something out of a d.i.c.kens novel. Floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with what could only be described as "stuff." Clocks-lots and lots of clocks-but also paintings, busts, flowerpots, lamps, candlesticks ... In one corner was a ship's figurehead, a bare-breasted floozy with a trident in her hand and a lascivious grin on her face.

"Bonjour," Zoe called out. But the shop remained quiet, except for the tick of the clocks. Zoe called out. But the shop remained quiet, except for the tick of the clocks.

She looked for something that might take her key, but the trouble was there were too many somethings: chests and jewelry boxes by the dozens, several bureaus, and even a couple of armoires.

Just then a blue velvet curtain half-hidden behind an ornate floor mirror flared open so dramatically Zoe expected nothing less than a vampire to step out from behind it.

Instead, an old man came into the shop. Only a few wisps of white hair dusted his pink scalp, and the teeth behind his smile probably spent the night in a gla.s.s on his bedside table. He'd been whittled down by time, yet he had quite the dapper air about him with his argyle sweater vest, polka-dot bow tie, and rimless bifocal gla.s.ses.

"Bonjour, monsieur," Zoe said. Zoe said.

"Bonsoir, madame," he said, neither rude nor friendly, but he couldn't help correcting her French. he said, neither rude nor friendly, but he couldn't help correcting her French.

Faced now with having to explain what she wanted in that language, Zoe's head had emptied of almost every word she knew, and there hadn't been all that many in there to begin with. "Parlez-vous anglais?" "Parlez-vous anglais?"

The man blew out a "No" between his lips, lifted his shoulders, spread his hands.

On impulse, Zoe asked him if he spoke Russian.

The man beamed, said in beautiful Russian, "How ever did you know? I've lived here so many years I might as well be French.... Well, Parisian-there is a distinction. But I was born ten years after the Bolshevik Revolution." He turned his head aside and spat. "In a reindeer herder's hut on the frozen tundra near what they now call Norilsk. You will not have heard of the place, and for that you should count your blessings."

Zoe kept her voice light, but her gaze didn't leave the old man's face. He had the darkest eyes she'd ever seen. More than black, they were opaque.

"Actually, I have heard of it, monsieur monsieur. My great-grandmother was ... well, maybe she wasn't born there like yourself. I really know so little about her. Just that she escaped from a Siberian prison camp called Norilsk, back in the 1930s. Her name was Lena Orlova and she had a daughter called Katya. Maybe you know the family?"

The old man's smile stayed in place, but Zoe thought the tiniest spark of a light had come on deep in those dark eyes. "Truly what a small and intimate planet it is we dwell on. I have a nephew who works in a bank in Chicago."

Zoe laughed. "I'm from San Francisco, but I get your point." She waved at a particularly cluttered stack of shelves that seemed to have a Russian theme going on. "I was wondering, though.... Ever since I first heard my great-grandmother's story I've wanted to go to Norilsk. To trace my roots, as we Americans like to say. Do you have some artifacts, antiques, or whatever, native to the region I could look at? Maybe buy."

"You do not want to go to Norilsk, trust me on this. She is the frozen armpit of the universe, never mind the season. Or, if you want to save that epithet for Mother Russia herself, then Norilsk is a puss-filled pimple on the frozen armpit of the universe.

"So," he went on before Zoe could get another word in. "Sadly, I've nothing from Siberia at the moment. Not even a necklace made of wolf's teeth, which is more common than you might think. Can I show you other things? A clock, perhaps? I have many clocks. Cuckoo, grandfather, turret, water, repeater, pendulum, marine-and every one keeps perfect time." He pulled out a pocket watch, flipped open the lid. "If you care to wait for twenty-one minutes and sixteen seconds, you will hear them all strike the hour simultaneously. It is a symphony, trust me. Stay, listen, your ears will thank you."

"Your clocks are beautiful." Zoe pulled the silver chain out from underneath her turtleneck and over her head. "But I was wondering if you have something in your shop that might be opened with this key."

The old man went very still. He started to reach up to touch the key, then let his hand fall back down at his side. He said, his voice barely above a whisper, "If you have that, then Katya Orlova is dead."

"So you did know my grandmother."

"I knew them both, Lena Orlova and her daughter, Katya. Her death, was it a kind one?"

Zoe's throat got tight, so that she ended up blurting it out more harshly than she'd meant to. "She was murdered."

"Ah." He bowed his head, shut his eyes. "It never ends."

"Were you very close friends?"

"Katya and I? No, not in that way. But I have been waiting many years for her to walk through my door again. Or for the one who comes after her."

Zoe had so many questions, she didn't know where to begin. "I'm sorry. I should have introduced myself. I'm Zoe. Zoe Dmitroff."

She held out her hand, and the old man bent over it in an old-fashioned bow. "And I am Boris. A good Russian name, no?"

He kept her hand while he stepped closer, to peer up into her face. "Yes, it is still as it should be. One Keeper pa.s.ses, but another is there to take her place. I saw it was so the minute you walked through the door. I only thought I should wait for you to produce the key. But I saw it."

He stared at her, but with faraway eyes, as if he were lost in another time. "But then I am of the toapotror toapotror. The magic people."

"The magic people?"

He sighed, letting go of her hand. "Do you not know? Well, the years pa.s.s by, and with them goes the knowledge of the old ways. We toapotror toapotror are a tribe of native Siberian families whose duty it is to help the Keeper preserve the altar of bones from the corruption of the world. Sadly, we are mostly all gone now, either dead or strewn to the four corners of the world." are a tribe of native Siberian families whose duty it is to help the Keeper preserve the altar of bones from the corruption of the world. Sadly, we are mostly all gone now, either dead or strewn to the four corners of the world."

His flat black eyes glimmered with his sudden smile. "But then the real magic has always resided within the altar, not in us."

"Yet it was the green light you put in your window that brought me here. I would never have found you otherwise. That was magic of sort, wasn't it?"

"Yes.... Yes, perhaps it was." He smiled again. "And I suppose it was magic of another sort at work that day I spotted Lena Orlova in a Hong Kong noodle shop. That two war-weary exiles from so far a place as Norilsk should both happen to take hungry at the same time, to walk into the same noodle shop in a city full of noodle shops-coincidence or magic, who indeed is to say? And I knew her the moment I laid eyes on her. How could I not? For although we were both only children when last I saw her, she had grown up to be the very image of the Lady. As you are."

Zoe's blood quickened. Look to the Lady ... Look to the Lady ... "What do you mean I'm her image?" "What do you mean I'm her image?"

He held up a finger. "You will see in a moment, but first ..."

He went to the front door, poked his head out, and looked up and down the street. He shut the door, hung out a FERME FERME sign, and turned the lock bolt. sign, and turned the lock bolt.

He turned back to her, his voice barely above a whisper. "Were you followed?"

"I don't know," Zoe said, feeling stupid now that the possibility hadn't even occurred to her.

The old man turned off the green-shaded lamp, peered out the window, then pulled down the shade. "We toapotror toapotror have served the Keeper for generations, since ever there was a Keeper, and we do so with loyal hearts. But sometimes it is dangerous. We learn to take precautions, even when we look like old fools for doing so." have served the Keeper for generations, since ever there was a Keeper, and we do so with loyal hearts. But sometimes it is dangerous. We learn to take precautions, even when we look like old fools for doing so."

He went back to the blue velvet curtain behind the mirror and pulled it open. "Come."

Zoe followed him through a narrow door into a small room. It looked, she thought, like a stage set for a seance. A round, cloth-draped table was surrounded by five hard-backed chairs. A tin-shaded lamp hung from the ceiling. The plaster walls were bare of paintings, the old peg wooden floor of any rugs.

The old man pulled out a chair. "Please ..."

Zoe sat.

"It will be a moment," he said, then left to go back into the front of the shop.

Zoe heard the sc.r.a.pe of wood against wood, the creak of a hinge, followed by a sneeze and "Merde!" "Merde!"

The curtain swirled open, and he came back into the room. "I'm afraid I've allowed things to get a bit dusty."

Zoe felt a jolt of pure excitement when she saw the wooden casket he carried so reverently in his outstretched hands. It was an exact replica of the casket in the tapestry. The one the unicorn lady had used to keep her jewels.

This one was large enough, though, to hold a good-size loaf of bread. It was banded with studded iron strips and had a domed lid. It also had two locks, one at each end.

The old man set the chest on the table in front of her. He whipped a cloth from his coat pocket and wiped away the dust. "We toapotror toapotror like to tell a story of how many, many years ago, so long ago the truth has been lost in the mists of time, there lived a people who practiced the ancient arts of sorcery, and whose shaman was possessed of a magic so powerful he could bring the dead back to life. One day this shaman took himself a wife, who was as fair as the first snowfall of winter. Alas, she could bear him only daughters, although each daughter she bore him was as beautiful as their mother." like to tell a story of how many, many years ago, so long ago the truth has been lost in the mists of time, there lived a people who practiced the ancient arts of sorcery, and whose shaman was possessed of a magic so powerful he could bring the dead back to life. One day this shaman took himself a wife, who was as fair as the first snowfall of winter. Alas, she could bear him only daughters, although each daughter she bore him was as beautiful as their mother."

"Did he care?" Zoe asked, her feminist hackles on the rise. "That she gave him only daughters?"