The Descent

TEN

Adair pulled an armchair next to the bed where Lanny lay. At the sight of her face, tranquil but motionless, he groaned with displeasure. He couldn’t help but be upset at the sight of her: though pink-cheeked and dewy-fleshed, she was so still, she could be mistaken for dead. And as unsettling as it was to see her like this, he found it more unsettling to leave her. He sat at her bedside with the tense, expectant air of a spouse in a hospital room. He stared at her for hours on end, watching her face in the hope of seeing a twitch or flutter of an eyelid, the first sign that she was on her way back. When his anxiety got to be too much to bear, he would remind himself that he could always revive her. It was within his power—theoretically. True, she’d be mad at him for bringing her back too soon, but if he claimed he’d acted in her best interest, she wouldn’t be able to stay mad at him. Still, he’d given her his word and could only hope that Lanore intended to keep her word, too, so he continued to be patient and wait.

Nonetheless, he still had misgivings about the mechanics of transportation to the underworld, the science of moving someone through planes of existence. It was as though he’d sent her off in a car that he’d cobbled together from spare parts without quite knowing how it would actually work. She might end up in a ditch on the side of the road with no way to ask for his help . . . except that she had the vial. The fact that it had washed up on the shore here gave Adair some hope, as though it had some special homing property with magical powers all its own.

Days passed, Adair parked in her bedroom like a worried dog waiting on its master’s return. He was shocked to realize only a few days had passed when it felt like an eternity.

He looked down on Lanore, laid out like his own Sleeping Beauty, fully clothed, her blond curls spread over the pillow like twisted ribbons, her pink lips moistly parted. He watched her bared sternum rise and fall. The edge of her bra was just visible under the neckline of her dress, tempting him to touch it, to finger the lace and the soft flesh under it. She was achingly molestable. If only they’d had sex before she’d left, he thought, this waiting might be easier to endure. He kicked himself for not bringing it up at the time, afraid of what she’d think of him. It made it all the harder to sit next to her now without imagining what it would be like to have his way with her. He was seized with the idea of taking his clothes off and lying next to her. If he could hold her body against his, he’d be able to half sate this intense need for her.

As he sat thinking slightly obscene thoughts, Adair realized Terry was beside him, appearing out of nowhere and twitchy as a snake about to strike. “No change? Is she still asleep?” she said with what he was sure was false solicitousness. He’d told Robin and Terry that Lanny had taken ill and was sleeping off her sickness. “You might as well come to bed. It won’t change things, you watching her like this . . .”

“Someone should be here when she wakes up.”

“We can leave the door open. We’ll hear if anything happens.” Robin had edged up on the other side and now was massaging Adair’s shoulder a little too desperately.

“No, you two go to bed. Maybe I’ll join you later.” It was a complete lie, as he had no intention of going to their bedroom tonight or, in all likelihood, any other night. He didn’t want them hovering at his elbow, waiting for him to betray so much as one lovesick look at Lanny.

Terry ran a hand over his shoulder, then his chest. “Come to bed,” she protested. “It’s been days and you’ve barely left this room. This is getting—weird.”

Robin tried, too, tugging his arm. “I want you. I’m horny,” she said plaintively, like a child asking for a glass of water.

The thought of having sex with the two of them was, frankly, mildly revolting. He had no appetite for anyone except Lanore. How could he go off and enjoy himself with these two while his love was submerged in the underworld and might need his help? Adair felt displeasure bubble up inside him, ready to explode.

“Not tonight. Don’t wait up for me,” he told them.

“Adair—”

“Enough! Leave me!” he bellowed, impatience crackling in the air between them. They scurried out quickly and he closed the door and then, after a moment’s consideration, braced a chair under the doorknob. He climbed into bed next to Lanny and lay on his side with his head resting on one arm, his topmost arm lying on her stomach. His head was even with hers and he noted the details of her face, the way her eyelashes fanned against her cheeks, the rim of her lips. He wished for her eyes to open as nothing he’d ever wished before.

Wake up, he thought. Be here with me. He wanted to gather her body in his arms and pull her to him, cradle her to his chest like a big, limp doll. The sight of her, corpse-like, had disturbed him so much that he needed the comfort of her touch, for reassurance that he hadn’t lost her completely. He remained pressed against her on the narrow bed, his face buried in her hair, and listened as the wind shook the glass in the window and howled as it soared to the roof, as angry as a woman scorned. Slowly he drifted off to a space in between sleep and wakefulness, hoping it would bring him all the closer to her.

VENICE, 1262

Adair crouched on the landing of the back stairway in the doge’s palace. He was a boy, fifteen, gawky and thin, a scarecrow in a nobleman’s finery. He hid in the shadows, listening for the footsteps of a guard that might be between him and the door to the alley. He heard nothing. The palace was quiet.

He had been living for a month in the household of the doge of Venice, Reniero Zeno. The doge was doing this as a courtesy to Adair’s father, a Magyar lord, the equivalent of a duke in Italy. It was a curious practice of noble families, this shuttling of family members around like pawns. Daughters barely out of swaddling clothes were betrothed and left with a family of strangers, growing up alongside their intended spouse like brother and sister. Sons were sent to serve in a powerful competitor’s court as a token of good faith, a hedge to keep one realm from attacking the other.

In Adair’s case, there was no betrothal or enmity: it was pure courtesy and nothing more. His father needed a place to send his youngest son away from the wagging tongues at Magyar court after his tutor, the crazy Prussian Henrik, was arrested for heresy. Bad enough the lord had a son who did not wish to rule, but to make the matter worse he was interested in science. He had been born curious about everything. Always asking too many questions, eager to take a thing apart to see how it was put together, and that included dead animals, live reptiles, pig and sheep fetuses cut out of the womb. The clergy at court were angered by his experiments, fearing they disrespected God.

Adair had found a new alchemy tutor since coming to Venice. Officially, he was studying medicine with Professore Scolari, the doge’s physician, known for his learned lectures on medicine and physiology. But Adair had been thrilled to find out that one of the bishops often seen in court, Bishop Rossi, was a devotee of alchemy, and managed to get Rossi to invite him to his private laboratory. It wasn’t entirely surprising that Rossi, a clergyman, had an interest in alchemy, as it was the fad of the day and nearly everyone practiced it—well, anyone with a lick of education and any intellectual curiosity at all. The pope himself was rumored to dabble.

Sure that the doge would not want his ward practicing alchemy—it had to be part of the bargain with Adair’s father, he was sure—Adair began sneaking off to the bishop’s palazzo. He wasn’t too nervous about being stopped along the way as he had nothing on him that would merit being brought up before the inquisitors. He had in his satchel only a few bottles, each containing drams of rare metals to share with the bishop as thanks for this hospitality and to signal that he was not a complete novice. He wanted to show the Venetian noble, whom he imagined to be well versed on the subject, that while he might come from the dark Magyar mountains, he was not backward and ignorant.

Nonetheless, Adair was careful on his journey, for he was alone and the city was notorious for its cutpurses and thieves. He listened carefully for any whispers or scrabbling of movement in the shadows and kept one hand on his sidearm at all times. After what seemed like entirely too long a journey along shimmering, black-faced canals, he came to the bishop’s palazzo, not far from the Rialto Bridge. A footman led him into the house and asked him to wait in the entry hall while he informed the bishop of Adair’s arrival.

Adair had just slipped out of his cloak when he caught a glimpse of movement overhead, and glanced up to see a beautiful young woman crossing the mezzanine. She wore a gown of ivory silk and her dark hair was pinned up with pearls. She looked as luminous as a ghost in the darkness. When she saw that he’d caught her staring down at him, she hurried away like a doe running for the cover of the forest.

Just then the bishop entered, and following the trajectory of Adair’s upward gaze, registered the source of his attention, as a knowing smile crossed his lips. “Young lord! I am so glad you are able to join me in the laboratory tonight.” He tossed back the voluminous satin sleeves of his robe to take Adair’s hand. With a forthrightness that Adair appreciated, the bishop added: “I see that you have noticed my goddaughter Elena.”

Adair nodded. “She would be hard to miss. Your goddaughter is very beautiful, sir.”

“She is indeed. Elena just arrived this week from Florence. Her father is an old friend of mine and wanted to get her out of the city for a while.” Rossi nodded to his young visitor, dropping his voice to a stage whisper. “A less than desirable young man has formed an attraction to her, her father says, and he hoped that some time apart will weaken her suitor’s ardor.”

“I see. . . . Is the attraction mutual?” Adair asked as he followed his host down a corridor and deeper into the palazzo.

“I blame it on Elena’s youth. At her age, when a boy turns her head, she is sure there will never be another. She has found her soul mate, the man she is meant to be with forever, and all that rubbish,” the bishop scoffed, and then abruptly changed the subject: “Come, my young lord. A fire has been building in the furnace for some time now and it should be of a sufficient temperature to begin our experiment.”

As the bishop prattled on, describing the recipe he wished to attempt, Adair quickly realized that Rossi had miscalculated from the start. They would need to begin by reducing mercury to its essence, a tricky and time-consuming process: it could be ruined in an instant and thus required constant watching, which meant they would spend the entire evening on this one step. Adair fidgeted as his host went through his preparations for the experiment. Between the bishop’s dithering and the obvious newness of the equipment, Adair came to the conclusion that Rossi was a rank novice. When Adair’s father had informed him that he was being sent away, the one hope Adair was able to salvage was that he’d find someone more experienced to tutor him in Venice, so that he might advance more rapidly. Since arriving in the city, however, he’d had no luck, and it seemed Rossi would be no help in this regard. Adair tried to mask his disappointment.

“The doge has told me a little bit about you,” the bishop said as he tapped out a tiny measure of quicksilver. He seemed to be intent on making small talk. “He says your family is one of the oldest and noblest in Hungary, and that your father is a duke and trusted adviser to your king—King Béla, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Did your father send you here to make an alliance of some kind with Zeno’s court? Are you on a diplomatic mission?”

Adair cleared a spot on the table to rest his elbows, pushing aside flasks and bottles. “I wouldn’t say that, your grace.”

“Oh—so, your family is expecting you to return before too long?”

He wasn’t sure where Rossi was going with this line of questioning, but Adair answered anyway. “I daresay they do not. And it’s not as though I’ll be missed. I have two brothers, both older than me, and my family looks to them to manage our estates and continue our line. I have no designs on my father’s title. He knows I wish to become a physician.”

“A physician!” the bishop said with forced cheer. “It’s commendable that you wish to minimize human suffering—though some might argue that a physician only serves to prolong a patient’s suffering—but I must say, it’s an odd choice of profession for a nobleman’s son.”

“Perhaps. But I have a passion to know things, especially to figure out how things work. I have been told that the human body is the most complex subject there is, and being one who likes a challenge, I decided to study medicine.”

The bishop frowned. “Isn’t one normally drawn to medicine in order to help his fellow man?”

Adair shrugged. “I decided to become a physician because I am seized by the mysteries of life. I cannot help but feel that we, the living, are allowed to see only half of what goes on around us. The world runs by a vast set of rules by which the tides turn, the seasons change, the sun rises and sets, plants grow and then wither, we live and die. There is a rhythm to all these things, a rhythm and pattern to life so complicated that we can’t begin to decipher it. Everything we see is bound by these rules, which are perfectly integrated one to the other, and they are all kept secret from man. I want the universe to share its secrets with me. I want to know who we are and how we came into being.”

Adair’s passionate soliloquy seemed to make the bishop see his guest for the first time—and he did not like what he saw. “Take care, young lord, for it seems to me that the half of the cosmos you wish to know is the realm of the Lord our God. We are not meant to know the ways of the Lord; we are only to accept his will. The church might deem your line of questioning to be quite blasphemous.”

Adair rankled at the warning. “I meant that in the context of the Lord, of course, for he certainly must be the source of these rules. And yet he moves in mysterious ways—ways I would like to understand better. For instance, what is the soul and where does it reside in us? Is it a physical piece of us, like the heart or the brain? I would think it cannot be, since the Bible tells us that the soul cannot die. So it must go on, persisting, after the body has ceased to function.”

“And if the Bible tells us so, it must be true. If you have questions about such matters, you should feel that you can ask them of me,” the bishop said with an air of smug superiority.

The bishop’s lack of intellectual curiosity made Adair respect him less, and he let himself get a little impatient with Rossi. “Then, you can tell me where the soul goes after death? We don’t see them here with us on earth, so they must go somewhere, yes?”

Rossi made no attempt to disguise his irritation. “The Bible has your answers, my young lord: souls go to heaven, hell, or purgatory. Those are the choices. There are no others.”

“And all I wish is proof of it.”

The bishop gawked at him in amazement, too surprised by his guest’s temerity to be outraged. “Proof? You want proof? There is no proof.”

Adair knew he was skirting a run-in with the inquisitors, but he couldn’t stop. “As men of science, it is our duty to look for proof, don’t you think? Otherwise, what is the use of all this?” He waved a hand at the bishop’s assortment of fancy tools and props.

“I am interested in knowledge the same as you, but my interest lies in learning more about the things that God set on this earth so that I might understand God’s ways,” the bishop retorted, his voice trembling with indignation. “The minerals, the waters, the things that can be touched, not matters of the spirit. That is a realm that can’t be seen. That is the realm of faith. The way you talk, sir, it is as though you have no faith at all. When you question faith, you question God, my young lord, and to question God is to play into the devil’s hands. Do you mean to court the devil, with such heretical talk?” Rossi asked, aghast. “Tell me it isn’t so.”

Adair was about to give the bishop a contemptuous reply when he thought the better of it. Rossi was a superstitious fool who would not change his ways, but there was no sense in antagonizing him. If Adair argued too strongly against religion—a direction in which he seemed more inclined every day—Rossi might bring it up to the doge. It would be more prudent to string the bishop along. Why, Rossi—having the doge’s ear—might even come in handy one day.

Adair pressed a hand to his sternum as he made a low bow. “Oh no, your grace, I believe that you misunderstand me, no doubt due to my poor grasp of your language. Rest assured, our aims are the same, to better understand the ways of our Lord. Indeed, I am impressed by your knowledge of the Bible. It is so much stronger than that of my family’s priests.” Adair, still bowing, looked up to see how his words were being received by the bishop, and by the expression on the Italian’s face, Adair could tell that Rossi didn’t doubt him in the least. “Doubtless there is much I can learn from you, in religious matters as well as in the practice of alchemy. Perhaps I can prevail upon you to be my spiritual adviser while I am in Venice?”

His request had the desired effect on Rossi: flattered, the bishop preened like a swan. “Oh, my boy, I would be only too happy to be your adviser. Your spiritual guide, as well as your friend.” The bishop clasped one of Adair’s hands in both of his and gave it an affectionate shake before the two men continued in their work.

Once the mercury reduction was under way in earnest, conversation petered out. As Adair sat with the older man in the dungeon room, breathing in the noxious air and sweating like the devil from the heat, he considered his position once again. Salvaging his relationship with Rossi had been an astute move: the bishop would’ve said something to the doge, undoubtedly, and Adair thought of his father and how mad he would be if his son were arrested for the very thing they’d tried to avoid by sending him to Venice.

He left the bishop’s palazzo in the hour before dawn, his host fallen asleep in a chair by the sweltering fireplace. With Adair’s attention elsewhere, the reduction was ruined, seized up solid into a tiny rock smaller than a baby’s fist. Good for nothing now. Adair left it on the worktable and slipped out of the sleeping household to make his way back to the doge’s palazzo.

In the weeks that followed, Adair noticed that whenever he went to see the bishop, usually late in the evening after one of Professore Scolari’s lectures, Elena would be waiting for him, laced into one of her beautiful silk gowns, her hair pinned and her skin bathed in lavender-scented oils. Adair noticed that the bishop always managed to be detained each time he arrived, and wondered if his delay wasn’t intentional in order to give his ward a few minutes alone with the Hungarian nobleman. Adair couldn’t help but wonder why the bishop would encourage these unchaperoned exchanges with his goddaughter. After all, he was a foreigner; surely Elena’s family would prefer to see her wed to an Italian lord and not whisked off to a kingdom far away, where it was possible they’d never hear from her again.

In any case, Adair had no intention of returning to Magyar territory if he could help it, and without property of his own, he certainly could not take a wife. Besides, he was tiring of Rossi’s company—the bishop warming to his new role as Adair’s spiritual adviser and taken to repeating his favorite sermons during their sessions in the laboratory—and didn’t want to complicate matters with Elena when her godfather clearly had ulterior motives in having them spend time getting to know each other.

That evening, as he traveled through cobbled alleys in the dark, he realized he must make this plain to Elena, if not Rossi. He practiced what he would say to her: Do not set your sights on me, because I have no interest in acquiring a wife, not now, not ever. Huddled inside his great cloak, with his face hidden under the brim of his hat, he marched briskly through the square to the bishop’s handsome palazzo, summoning the courage to set Elena straight.

Telling her to her face would be another matter, however.

He had no sooner surrendered his cloak and hat to a servant than Elena hustled down the staircase, her timing so perfect it was as though someone had rung a bell to let her know he was there. She was more radiant than usual tonight, in a pale yellow gown that set off her dark hair, and his throat caught at the sight of her. He bowed low to her, heat rising to his cheeks. As always her beauty brought out something awkward in him, made him clumsy and thick-tongued. His mother had always kept her sons from spending time with the ladies at court, and frowned on too much familiarity with serving girls as well. As a result, even though Adair and Elena were close in age, he felt that she had an advantage over him when it came to dealing with the opposite gender.

“Good evening, Elena,” he said cautiously. “How have you been since we last saw each other?”

Her dark eyes latched onto his as she described how she’d passed the time: going to mass in the morning, afternoons spent working on an embroidery project with the old nurse for company, dinners at the bishop’s table hearing about his day. Her days never changed. How boring it must be for her, he thought, shut up in her godfather’s bachelor household with no girls her own age with whom to gossip and play. Did Rossi let her go to balls or dances? What had she done to cause her family to send her away to Venice, he wondered? There was something about the girl’s and the bishop’s behavior that made him think there was more to the story. Or perhaps they’d sent her in the hope that she’d make a better match under the bishop’s guidance?

She placed a hand on his forearm to get his attention, and Adair imagined he felt the heat of her tiny hand through the layers of his clothing. “Tell me . . . don’t you wish to visit with me one evening, instead of my godfather? I think I would be much better company. You might read to me from your favorite poems. I would like that very much,” she said.

“Why certainly, Elena, if your godfather would permit it,” Adair replied. Though he knew he shouldn’t encourage her, he felt pity for the girl. At his positive response, her pretty face lit up and she dropped her gloveless hand on his, so their skin touched for the first time. She might as well have set his hand on fire. After a momentary dizziness, he recalled his earlier decision—to never take a wife and be married instead to science—and opened his mouth to speak. It would be caddish to mislead her.

“Elena, there is something I must tell you, however—”

Her dark eyes widened at his words. “Oh no. You are already betrothed! Is that what you were going to say?” She clutched his arm, this time digging her fingers into his sleeve.

“No, Elena. It’s not that, not at all.” The emotion in her voice caught him off guard. With Elena, his head clouded. She was a thing of both extraordinary liveliness and tempting softness, from the glossy dark curls on her head to the organdy tucked along the neckline of her gown. The scent of warm lavender oil rose from her bare throat. She was a beautiful little present, wrapped in silk and lace.

“Then there is no problem if you were to kiss me.” She smiled at her own daring. She lifted her chin and closed her eyes, clearly expecting him to take up her offer. He tingled with fear and desire. He had little experience kissing in passion aside from a few experiments with his cousins back in Hungary. The few whores he had known did not expect, or even particularly want, to be kissed. He tried to put these thoughts out of his mind as he looked at Elena. Why not kiss the girl? They were alone, no chaperones hovering at their side. The bishop’s footsteps echoed down the hall, but he was still a distance away.

The seconds ticking by, Adair closed his eyes and kissed her. Her softness yielded to him. He felt as though Elena wanted him—perhaps even more than he wanted her—and the idea of being desired stirred him. He leaned into her, pulling her tighter, and she responded, her mouth opening for him. And just as he felt he could pour himself into her until they became one, a hand fell on his shoulder. It was the bishop.

Adair sprang back, his heart leaping, but there was no enraged outcry from his host, no shove propelling him away from the young woman. Adair expected Rossi to lose his temper and accuse Adair of taking advantage of his hospitality, but no—Bishop Rossi was smiling. He clapped Adair on the back. “My boy, don’t be embarrassed on my account. It is only natural to have such feelings for a young lady as beautiful as my goddaughter.” Why, he practically beamed with happiness, and Elena, for her part, stood behind her godfather, blushing so furiously that her cheeks were like two perfect red apples.

In the laboratory that evening, the bishop’s mind seemed to wander, and so Adair took command of the experiment, measuring ingredients onto tiny silver salvers and tending the furnace while the bishop continued to wax eloquently about his ward. “Have I told you about her family, back in Florence? It’s very old, a fine family. It goes all the way back to the duchy’s beginnings. Her family has had their estate in the valley for as long as anyone can remember.” Adair listened but didn’t respond; the girl’s pedigree meant nothing to him since he had no intention of lengthening her family tree.

“And Elena is such a clever girl. She knows a little French, and Latin, of course, for mass. But she has other talents, too. . . . She dances like an angel, and sings beautifully. I always have her sing at my dinner parties for my guests and—why, we must have you over for one soon. We shall make you the guest of honor. Would you like that?” the bishop asked excitedly, as though the thought—after weeks of Adair’s company—had only just occurred to him.

“Certainly,” Adair replied, but only to end Rossi’s chattering. Even Elena’s kiss and snowy-white décolleté were fading from memory, unable to compete with the allure of the laboratory.

“Excellent! I will speak to my housekeeper to make the arrangements,” the bishop said, and beamed. Rossi clearly had no interest in their experiment that night; he was on a mission of a different kind. The old cleric studied Adair with an appraising eye. “She is a very lovely girl, wouldn’t you say? She’s considered one of the most beautiful girls in Florence, you know.”

She certainly spent enough of her father’s money on gowns and jewels, Adair thought. He put down the tiny pair of pincers he was using to count out crystals of salts of alum. “If that’s the case, why has she been sent here to live with you? If she is one of the most eligible girls in Florence, shouldn’t she be betrothed already?”

The bishop colored, having been caught. He leaned back into his chair, fussing with the billowing sleeves of his tunic to deflect scrutiny. “Well, if you wish to hear the whole story, she’s the youngest of three sisters, and neither of the other two has yet been betrothed, you understand. Elena’s father has his hands full right now finding suitable young men for the older two. And though it pains me to make any comparisons between the sisters, Elena is the fairest of the three. My friend needed to send her away until the other girls’ matches could be made, her beauty being something of a distraction. . . .” The bishop gave a craggy smile, showing his yellowed teeth, and there was something about the way his eyes settled on Adair, watching carefully for his reaction, that Adair had to think there was more to the story than the old bishop was admitting.

They wrapped up the experiment that night—slightly more successful than the rest, but still a disappointment in Adair’s opinion—and on his walk back to the doge’s palazzo, Adair realized that he needed to find someone else with an interest in alchemy, so that he would continue to have access to another laboratory. It was plain that the bishop meant to arrange for Adair to marry his goddaughter, and Adair had already resolved that this was not going to happen. There was another reason that he wanted to quit Rossi, however, and that was because it was obvious that Adair was more skilled than the bishop, and Adair had no desire to waste his time with a dilettante. He wanted to work with someone better than himself. Henrik, his former tutor, had had his limitations, but he’d shown Adair how to use the instruments correctly and gotten him off to a good start. Adair’s skills in the laboratory were solid: he was a competent journeyman alchemist, but now he needed to study with someone with greater knowledge or risk wasting precious time floundering about on his own.

Adair knew that he couldn’t quit Rossi abruptly; he didn’t want to make an enemy of the man. In any case, he knew it would be difficult to find someone to take Rossi’s place. He’d have to find someone in Venice with a laboratory, and then he’d need to convince this person to share it. Without a laboratory, Adair couldn’t continue his studies in alchemy. Try as he might to think of someone to replace Bishop Rossi, Adair came up empty-handed. While he kept his ear to the ground for potential mentors, he began to reconnoiter in merchants’ alleys, the more obscure the better, looking for booksellers’ stalls where he could spend his spare hours searching for books of secrets that would allow him to teach himself while he still had access to the bishop’s laboratory.

There were few books of any kind for sale, let alone books of occult secrets. Most books of the time were religious in nature: Bibles, or excerpts of Scriptures and sermons. He began to feel as though he was picking through the same moldy tomes over and over, his quest destined for fruitlessness, until one day when he stumbled across a shop buried in the basement of a dingy building on a side street. The shop carried a sparse and odd assortment of merchandise. There were a few books, yes, but also bits of the arcane: a crystal ball, a skull inscribed with runes, a writing stylus made from polished bone. There were chests lined up behind a counter, and when Adair looked inside, he saw they were filled with all sorts of unidentifiable things, dark and dried until wizened to unrecognizability, but with smells that promised unknown properties, unknown delights. Adair’s heart raced as he poked about, each discovery more interesting than the last.

The proprietor came down the stairs into the narrow shop just as Adair was riffling through one of the wooden chests behind the counter, clearly shocked by the young nobleman’s presence. With this trade being dangerous business under the scrutiny of the church, he probably knew all his customers well and so he would be greatly surprised to see a stranger visiting him—and a nobleman at that.

“You’ve nothing to fear from me,” Adair said to put the man at ease, though his words seemed to have little effect. He recognized there was a dance to be done when it came to wares such as these, if the shopkeeper wished to be spared a visit by the inquisitors. This was Venice after all, and citizens were encouraged to tattle on their neighbors. There were even letter boxes at the doge’s palazzo for that express purpose.

The proprietor was an older man, bald with great wiry white whiskers, and over his tunic he wore a much-battered leather apron. He bowed his head in a show of deference. “Good day, my lord. To what do I owe the honor of your visit to my shop? Perhaps you came here on the recommendation of one of your lordship’s friends?” the shopkeeper asked, watching Adair closely for a reaction. “If you would be so good as to tell me the name, that would clear the matter up.”

Adair had no name to give and saw no sense in lying. “No, good fellow, I have no such recommendation to vouchsafe me. I was walking by your establishment and what I saw from the doorway intrigued me.” He gestured to the dusty shelves. “I’ve seen similar items before, you see. I come from another kingdom far away . . .”

The shopkeeper nodded. “I thought as much, from your accent.”

“Such objects are not as uncommon in my homeland as they are in Venice. I thought perhaps I might add to my collection, and came in to get a better look at your wares.”

“Your collection, you say?” the shopkeeper said, now curious. “And is there anything in particular you might be looking for?”

Adair leapt at this opening like a cat onto a mouse. “Why yes: I am looking to purchase a book of secrets. Have you heard of such a thing?”

The shopkeeper’s face clouded. “I’ve heard of them, yes . . .”

“Has one ever come into your possession?” Adair pressed.

The old man was obviously made uncomfortable by the subject and pursed his lips until his mouth almost disappeared in the thicket of his whiskers. “I have seen one or two, but never have had one to sell. These tend to be the property of collectors, such as yourself, and rarely are made available to purchase. It happens sometimes when a practitioner passes away, if the book is found among his things. But more commonly, the book is burned”—the shopkeeper glanced quickly again at Adair—“by the family, so as to hide the loved one’s interest in the occult.”

“Such a waste of knowledge,” Adair said, shaking his head.

“Indeed,” the shopkeeper agreed. But there was a fresh gleam in his eye now that they had an understanding. “But knowing of your interest, my lord, I shall keep an ear out should any such item find its way on the market. And in the unlikely event that one of these books should come into my possession, how might I get in contact with you?”

“You might send word to me.” He took the quill from the ink pot on the man’s desk and scribbled his name and address on a scrap of rough paper. He blew on the wet ink before handing it to the shopkeeper.

The man squinted at the writing before exclaiming in surprise, “But this address is for the doge’s palazzo!”

“Yes,” Adair said, his cheeks singed with embarrassment. “It is. I am a ward of the doge.”

The shopkeeper peered at him curiously. “I doubt you are a fool, sir, so I can only surmise that you find great sport in playing with fire.”

Adair thought about it and answered honestly. “Such is my interest in the topic, sir. I would risk everything in its pursuit.”

Before the new cycle of the moon, Adair received word from the bookseller, a cryptic note delivered by a kitchen boy that said he should come to the shop at his earliest convenience, but to come alone—as though Adair needed a reminder that such interests were best kept concealed. He went to the shop late in the afternoon on his way to a medical lecture at Professore Scolari’s.

The shopkeeper threw a bolt across the door after Adair entered, and led him to his residence on the upper level. It was a very modest dwelling, from what Adair could see, and very dim. There was only one window, which made for privacy. The shopkeeper gestured for Adair to sit at the table and went off through a doorway, and within a few minutes came back with a parcel in his hands.

“This book only recently came into my possession. It is one of the finest examples of its kind that I have ever seen,” he said as he put it on the table and peeled back the deerskin wrapping. The book’s cover was such a brilliant blue that it cut through the room’s murkiness and commanded Adair’s attention. He held his breath as he picked it up, opened it carefully, and began inspecting the pages. It was so beautifully and precisely constructed that it had to be the work of a monk. The pages were parchment and adorned with bits of gold leaf inserted here and there. There were illustrations, too—magic circles, runes, and all manner of pictures Adair couldn’t make sense of it without further study. It smelled of candle wax and incense, and whispered of late hours in a scriptorium as its creator worked in secret, after his brothers had turned in for the night. Someone had risked his life and possibly his soul to make this book.

Adair’s hands closed around the book. “I must have it. What is your price?”

At this, the shopkeeper’s face puckered as though he’d bitten a lemon. “So, this is the tricky part, your lordship, which I beg to explain to you. There is another gentleman who is interested in the book as well. He is a longtime customer of mine. I dare not anger him by refusing him.”

“Then why did you bring me here if you have no intention of selling it to me?” Adair demanded. He felt his blood boil in his brain.

“It’s not that I have no intention to sell it to you. I wish that it were possible. I will speak to the other man, but I cannot see him stepping aside. He is a rabid collector, you understand. It’s just that I . . . I knew you would like the opportunity to see it, as you’ve surely never seen a book of its kind before,” he said, trying to assuage Adair’s anger. “I was acting in what I judged to be your interest, my lord.”

Youthful desire seemed to short-circuit Adair’s ability to reason. “I’ve dealt with crafty merchants before: you are obviously hoping to drive up the price by having us both make you an offer on this book,” Adair said impatiently, his grip tightening around the volume. “Very well, let me cut to the chase: I will pay double whatever your other customer offers. You have but to name your price and I will pay it.” His offer was reckless and he knew it. He had only so much money at his disposal.

The merchant’s face glowed pale in the dimness of the shop. “You’re very generous, my young lord, but I can’t accept your proposition. I beg you, let me speak to my other customer—”

“Consider this a deposit.” Adair dug his money purse from a pocket and slapped it on the table before the shopkeeper, who let his gaze rest on the plump sack for a long, silent moment.

Adair began wrapping the book in its deerskin cover, anxious to escape with his prize while the bookseller was distracted. “And need I remind you in whose house I am a guest? The man who rules the principality, the doge of Venice. Don’t be a fool. It would only take one word from me for you to end up in the dungeons . . .” he said, his bravado betrayed by a slight quaking to his voice.

At those unfortunate words, the bookseller’s servile demeanor changed. He gave a long, irritated sigh and stiffened underneath his leather apron. “Ah, my lord . . . I wish our discourse had not deteriorated so quickly. I’d hoped you would not besiege me thus with idle threats that would only harm us both. Getting the law involved in our private transaction would get both of us in terrible trouble. And which of us is the more serious heretic? I may be a peddler of the occult, but you are the sinner who wishes to give over his soul to the devil, or so the inquisitors will see it. So while I doubt that you would make good on your threat, I prefer not to do business with men who would treat me thus.”

Though he sensed it would do no good, Adair decided to press his bluff. “I will not be made a fool of, or cheated. You summoned me here and dangled your wares before me. I’ve offered you good golden ducats at a more than fair price. If you wish to avoid any unpleasantness, I suggest you act like a merchant and sell the book to the first customer who offers to buy it, and that is I. I consider our business concluded.” He tucked the package under his arm and tried to brush by the shopkeeper, but the man put out his hand, catching Adair in his chest.

“I’m sorry, my lord, but I cannot let you have the book. Take back your coins and leave the—”

Adair’s dagger was drawn before the shopkeeper could finish his sentence. Because Adair was flustered, his hand was unsteady and he was not as precise as he would’ve preferred: he only meant to send the man back a step or two, but ended up driving the tip of the blade into the man’s chest. The leather apron saved the shopkeeper from serious harm, but he staggered to his knees, clutching the wound. In the moment of confusion, Adair darted out of the shop, his treasure hidden under his cloak.

With such a rare and damning book, Adair knew he had to take special precautions to keep it from being discovered. While he appreciated the book’s beautiful construction, its peacock linen cover was something of a drawback as it made the book stand out no matter where you placed it. When he tried to hide it among his other books, the bright cover invariably drew the eye, and then of course the hand was sure to follow. It pained him to tuck it beneath floorboards or behind a loose rock in the wall, but there was no way to leave it out in the open. It was too conspicuous. He was careful to move it between hiding places in his bedchamber: it was the doge’s palazzo after all, with more servants than the population of entire villages, and people were in and out at all hours, tidying up the room when he was not around. He stayed up late at night to read the book in secret by candlelight. Each page revealed whole new areas of alchemical thought and practice for him, for which he was amazed, and grateful. It was as though he was given all the sweet water he could drink after a prolonged and painful drought. Adair took the example of the monk who created this book and copied out his favorite recipes on rough paper in his native language so that he would have a spare copy in case something happened to the original.

He was returning late one night to the palazzo from a lecture at the home of his tutor of medicine, Professore Scolari, when he became aware that he was being followed. He was in a lonely alley at the time with only a quarter moon overhead for light. The alley had been so quiet that he had felt certain there was no one else with him, and sure enough, when he turned to confront his assailant, there was nothing there but blackness.

Then, without warning, a man Adair had never before laid eyes on stepped out of the inky emptiness. Adair could not believe his eyes: it was as though the man had been hiding inside a black cloud that completely obscured his presence. He was older and imposing, tall and broad as a church door. He had piercing gray eyes and a thick mustache, his long black hair streaked with silver. He wore a cloak of burgundy velvet trimmed in ermine, fine enough for a king to wear.

The conjurer pointed a finger at Adair. “Stand right where you are, you devil’s stripling. You will not pass. I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

Adair stepped back, his hand on his sword. “How can that be when I don’t know you, sir?”

The man continued to glare at him. “Don’t feign ignorance; you’re not that good an actor. The book, sir. You took it from a friend of mine. You have frequented a shop near the Plaza Saint Benedict, have you not? You know the shopkeeper, Anselmo?”

“I didn’t take it from your friend, I bought it. He was more than fairly compensated. I would be careful, sir, for I am a ward of the doge—”

“I know all about your place in the doge’s household,” the conjurer said with a sneer. “And we both know he would cast you out and return you to your heathen family’s estate if he found out about your extracurricular interests. And I also know that the doge currently has at least a dozen such young men living under his roof, too many to keep track of. Zeno probably wouldn’t even be able to identify your body—if you were to come to such an unfortunate end.” The stranger was right: he had seen through Adair’s bluff. “Don’t worry, boy—I’m no assassin. I’m only here to take what’s rightfully mine. Do you know what I am?”

There was little question that this old man was a mage, a practitioner of some skill and ability, and angry with Adair for being so presumptuous as to buy (or, rather, steal) the book out from underneath him. He’d come to settle the score. Adair sheathed his sword quickly and made a low bow. “My sincere apologies, sir. I meant you no disrespect. The shopkeeper had summoned me to his store, had he not? I thought the man was merely trying to force an exorbitant sum from me with the pretense of having another buyer. I will return the book to you without argument if you return the sum I paid your friend Anselmo.”

The large man relaxed, shifting his weight to his back leg, his hand dropping from his sword. “I’m glad you’re being so reasonable,” he said with some caution.

“Obviously, I do not presently have the book with me. Let me deliver the book myself to your house tomorrow evening,” Adair said.

The old man narrowed his eyes. “Is this a trick? You want me to tell you where I live so you can send the doge’s men to arrest me? How do I know I can trust you, after what you did to Anselmo?”

Adair bowed low again in a show of deference. “By the fact that you were able to follow me unseen within your ingenious black cloud, I can tell you are a man of considerable expertise in the magical arts, whereas I am a novice and have only begun in my scholarship. You would do me a great honor if you would allow me to set this matter right between us, sir.”

“That black cloud is nothing, a minor trick. You’d do well to remember that imbalance in our powers; I would not hesitate to bring the worst punishment imaginable down upon you should you betray me.” The old man thought, rubbing his grizzled chin. “All right, since you plead so prettily, I’ll let you bring the book to me. But I warn you: I’ll be watching your every move through the soothsayer’s bowl and if you cross me, it will go very badly for you. Do you understand?” He watched Adair nod. “Come to the Plaza Saint Vincent tomorrow at midnight. You’ll know which house is mine.”

Adair bowed a third time, and when he rose, the man and the black cloud had disappeared.

PRESENT DAY

Adair woke with a start and had to shake his head hard to clear visions of the dark Venetian alley from his mind and remember that he was safe in his fortress off the coast of Sardegna. He looked down at Lanore—she was still asleep, oblivious to his alarm—and then blinked and peered around the darkened room, half expecting to see the conjurer step out of the inky blackness.

Adair hadn’t thought of Cosimo Moretti, the old conjurer, for centuries. He’d actively suppressed thoughts of Cosimo (and his demise) for a very long time and could see no reason why he should think of him—even worse, dream of him—now. Adair couldn’t help but think it had something to do with the spell he’d cast over Lanore or the Venetian book with its peacock-blue cover that she had returned to him.

Adair rose from the bed, readjusted his twisted clothing, and went downstairs to his study, tiptoeing through the silent house. He didn’t want to risk waking the girls, so he didn’t turn on a light until he reached his study. The book fairly glowed from across the room, from where it sat on his desk.

He pressed a hand to the cover, quite filthy by now, with centuries of grime effacing the blue linen, and he could practically feel magic emanate from it like a pulse. Cosimo’s magic; he’d felt the same jangly vibrations in Cosimo’s presence, just as he assumed others felt something similar when they were near him. Once a person made contact with the other world, it left its mark on him. It had made Adair into something like a portal, with the hidden, magical world a heartbeat away.