"No, no Catherine. It was I. It is your interests I have at heart. I am your oldest friend."

"Were, you mean. You have always wanted me to stay small and safe. Within your reach. When have you failed to warn me against becoming great? Remember the first Black Ma.s.s I did for La Montespan? It gave her the King-and founded my fortune. It was you who tried to hold me back-from glory."

"Madame, I beg you. Preserve yourself. Preserve us," I broke in.

"And now speaks the devotee of featherbeds and linen sheets, fine wines and easy lovers. You were never destined for greatness. I was a fool to have taken you in out of the snow."

"Madame, I saw you in the flames."

"But when did you see me in the flames? Tomorrow, next year, or perhaps a decade from now? Your visions are flawed-they show too much and too little all at once. For all you know, I won't be burned for this great undertaking at all, but for something entirely different. Why should I fight my fate? No, I embrace it, and my eternal fame."

"But, Madame, the pictures can be changed. Take a new path. G.o.d does not only give us fate but free will; there is a choice-"

"Bah! What is this drivel? No wonder the demon wouldn't have you. You live in books, Mademoiselle, and not in life. G.o.d, indeed! And now you are an expert in theology, as well as everything else! No, I will press on with this great deed, and I will have-"

"Death, Madame."

"No, you little fool. Respect." The sorceress stood at her full height, head thrown back, her nostrils flared and eyes glowing. The word resonated in the stillness.

"'Respect'?" broke in La Trianon. "For that you risk us all?"

La Voisin smiled conspiratorially and waved her hand as if to dismiss our doubts. "Come, come, there's a fortune in it as well." Once again she sounded like her old self, a practical, mocking housewife turning a penny on soap or candles bought at a bargain. "Times are hard-I have ten mouths to feed. Do you think I can feed a family on air? On philosophy? On good intentions? No, I'll look after them-and you, too. The milord waits for me when this is done. La Montespan's money will smooth my exile-"

"You mean, you will flee when we cannot?" La Trianon's voice was horrified at the betrayal.

"Please, I think of it as retirement. They will send their hounds after me when I flee and never notice you, crouching in the burrow. But the foreign king and his great n.o.bles will protect me. Then the police will give up. The Dauphin, that great, stupid mound of lard, will reign, and the investigation will end. Politics will change. No, I will not burn for this. And besides, once I'm retired abroad, there will be plenty of time to change the image." She looked pleased with herself. Then she looked at me and shook her head. "Once again," she said, "the little marquise has made a hash of things."

"Then there is nothing more I can say to persuade you?" La Trianon's voice was plaintive.

"Nothing. Go home, go to bed. Your nerves are overwrought. You were never one to have the strength of mind to plan great enterprises. And you, Mademoiselle-go home to your opium and your soft featherbed with that useless gambler and quit bothering me with your visions. Now out, both of you. I have plans to make." She opened the door of her cabinet and shooed us out as one would chase away chickens. Then she shut the door behind us and remained alone in her cabinet.

"You didn't convince her," whispered old Montvoisin, pulling at my sleeve from his hiding place outside the door of her cabinet.

"No," I answered. La Trianon looked annoyed at the crumpled little man and sailed out to the great parlor to wait for me.

"Then we are lost. My daughter, my grandson. I haven't a sou of ready cash. She has locked up everything for fear we will betray her to the police and flee. Betray her? How could I think of it? But flee, yes I would. With my child, to a safe place in the country. My wife is a madwoman who will destroy us. Are you sure you don't have money? One hundred livres? I'll borrow it from you-I have unset jewels as security. Emeralds, diamonds. They're worth more than the cash, I a.s.sure you." Something about him, his pitifulness, made my skin crawl.

"I haven't that amount now, but I'll see if I have it when I go home. I'm not as prosperous as I used to be-" I had to get away from his whining. Anything, just to get him to let go of my sleeve.

"You will? Oh, bless you, bless you. Come to the house tomorrow. Sunday morning-she'll be at Ma.s.s. She'll never know." I pried his dirty old claws off me and fled to the carriage with La Trianon.

"Oof, you were so late, Madame. Your...er...husband was going to send us after you. But we told him you usually know what you are doing." Sylvie had finished undoing my corset and was now brushing my black gown before putting it away. D'Urbec lounged on the bed, pretending not to listen, while he read Tacitus by the light of a candle.

"Oh, Sylvie, I have such a headache! It was horrid. I saw Madame being burned alive, as clear as clear. We went to warn her, La Trianon and I, but she said, 'nonsense' and shooed us out. And that horrid old Antoine, he held me by the sleeve so I couldn't leave. He wants a hundred livres to leave her and take his daughter and grandson into the provinces to hide. I told him I'd think about it just to get rid of him, and he s...o...b..red on my dress, kissing my hand in grat.i.tude."

"Well, no wonder you washed your hands so when you got home."

"So," spoke up Florent, putting down his book and rising from the bed, "you persist in claiming you see visions? Genevieve, Genevieve, give up that dreadful opium. If you're not afraid of death, at least stop and think: it will steal your mind long before it takes your life." He stood beside me, put his hands on my shoulders, and stared directly into my face. His eyes were pleading. "Remember whom you would leave behind. If you can't think of yourself, think of me."

"Florent, I'm trying-for your sake, for mine." He looked dubious.

"These headaches of yours, they get worse all the time...and you see things, you act frantic-"

"Florent, I had to fool even myself. I've been having the formula made weaker each time I replenish my stock. I'm down to a quarter strength now. In a month, perhaps, I'll be free of it. But the headaches-cutting back just spreads out the pain, so I can bear it."

His face was tender, concerned. "Why didn't you tell me? Why did you try to bear it all yourself, in secret? Why didn't you ask me to help you?"

"I...I was afraid you'd quit loving me if you knew how much I was taking-I knew you hated it. La Reynie, he mocked me for it. A genteel vice, he called it. He took it away and nearly killed me-that's...that's how..." I was overwhelmed with shame at the memory of how quickly La Reynie had broken me. Florent put his arms around me.

"And so now you think I'm La Reynie? What an insult," he said, but his voice was kind, and the warmth of his body comforted me. I put my arms around his neck and rested my head on his wide shoulder.

"Florent, I love you so much. I wish I were perfect, just for your sake. I'm trying..." He kissed me gently, as if to tell me that words weren't necessary.

"You are perfect, for me," he said softly.

"Good night, Monsieur, Madame," said Sylvie, and the door closed as Florent blew out the candle.

The next morning Florent rose and dressed early, as the sound of Sunday bells rolled across the city. It was March 12, 1679.

"Florent," I called lazily from the bed. "Ma.s.s? I thought twice a year was enough for you."

"Not Ma.s.s, business," he answered. "I have a few things in my rooms, and some errands for my valet." Somehow, I didn't believe him. Still, it was not my habit to question his odd business. Sometimes he burned letters to ashes after receiving them. And he had a curious bra.s.s wheel with two rows of moving letters that he sometimes set on the desk when he was writing. The less I know, I thought, the less I can tell. But as he approached the head of the stairs, I heard Sylvie call to him in an odd, deep voice:

"Stay, mortal, Astaroth has plans for you."

"Oh, bother," I heard him respond. "Just a moment, you tiresome old devil. I'm in a hurry."

"You will be in even more of a hurry, once Astaroth has advised you." I was annoyed. It was all very well for Florent to hurry off without breakfast, but I wanted some, and Astaroth might just be too sn.o.bbish to bring it up.

That, of course, turned out to be exactly the problem, so I summoned Gilles and went downstairs in my robe to see what was in the kitchen cupboard. No b.u.t.ter. Yesterday's bread. Half a cheese turning moldy. A dried sausage. A pot of preserves with a suspicious-looking sc.u.m across the top. I sc.r.a.ped off the sc.u.m, scooped out a dollop of the preserves, and cut a piece of the bread.

"The coffee, Madame. I'll grind it." Gilles looked mournful.

"And no milk? Very well, then, I'll have it Turkish style."

"Astaroth is a great trial," said Gilles.

"You'd better check the cistern, too," announced Mustapha from his seat on the kitchen bench. "Astaroth doesn't haul water, either." I lifted the lid on the kitchen cistern and peered down into its green depths.

"There's plenty-" But even as I spoke, I could see an image coming, all slippery and dark, in the water.

"Madame, I have the dipper-"

"Shh, Gilles. Look at her face. It's another image," Mustapha whispered.