Mireille and Elisa and the White King
Part 1
Cambridge, England, April 4, 1797
As Mireille sat in the library at Cambridge with the poet William Blake, studying the alchemical papers of Sir Isaac Newton, a messenger arrived. "Sorry to disturb you, miss," he said, "but a letter's arrived for you. It's marked 'most urgent.'"
Mireille turned pale and her hands shook as she took the letter. An urgent letter, arriving today, on her twenty-second birthday? It could not be a coincidence. Her voice breaking, she said, "Thank you," and paid the messenger. She became even more alarmed when she saw the handwriting was that of her dear friend Elisa Bonaparte. She hoped nothing was wrong with Elisa. Turning to Blake, she said, "I'm sorry, I must go and read this. It's from Elisa Bonaparte."
Blake raised his sandy-haired head from the paper he was studying and looked at her with his deep brown eyes. "Take all the time you need. I hope it isn't bad news."
"That's what I'm hoping, too. I will return as soon as I can. Have you figured out that equation yet?" She tapped her quill against a particularly difficult equation in Newton's papers. So far Blake had not been able to solve it, and even Mireille, with her mathematical mind, had had no more success than he.
"Not yet. But perhaps I will while you're reading your letter. Please, take your time. But, remember, we're going to celebrate your birthday after we've finished for the day."
"Do you still want to, even if it's bad news?"
"Certainly, unless whatever is in that letter upsets you too much. I'd hate to see that happen, though. Wordsworth has come all the way from London to celebrate with us."
"I know, I would hate to disappoint him. Well, I hope the news isn't too bad, then." But she had her doubts. This Game they were all involved in was too dangerous for that.
Mireille left the book-lined library and stepped into the corridor. She would have liked to go outside and sit under the trees, which were just beginning to leaf out, to read her letter, but when she looked out the window, she saw it was raining, so she sat down on a bench in the corridor, hoping she would not be disturbed. With her palms sweating in spite of the relative cool of the day, she broke the seal and read:
"Marseille, 8 Germinal, Year V."
Mireille scowled as soon as she read the date. Elisa insisted on using the French Revolutionary calendar, even though she knew Mireille disliked it. Here in England, where they used the calendar she had grown up with, she had no use for it at all. She asked herself why she disliked it so much. After all, with her mathematical ability, she had no trouble figuring out the date: March 28, 1797, exactly a week ago. Today, her own birthday, was the 15th of Germinal. She shook her head. April 4 was so significant for her role in the Game, as the Black Queen, since it added up the the magical number 8. The 15th of Germinal didn't mean a thing. But it had to be more than just the meaning of the date. She finally decided that her dislike of the new calendar probably came from the fact that Marat had been one of the deputies in the Convention who developed it. She had killed him before the new calendar came into use, but still, it had been partially Marat's creation. Tears sprang into her eyes the way they always did when she thought of that horrific night, almost four years ago, when she had stabbed Marat in his bathtub to avenge the death of her beloved cousin Valentine at his hands. But she quickly wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. She must not waste time crying over what she had done four years ago, when Elisa had urgent news to tell her now. Mireille continued:
"My dear Mireille,
"I hope this letter finds you well. I timed it to coincide with your birthday, and I hope it does. How is your research with Mr. Blake going? Have you been able to figure out Newton's equations? Is it true he was able to make the Philosopher's Stone? And how is his research related to the Montglane Service? Don't tell me now. Save it for when I see you. I'm sure it is too dangerous to put into a letter, even in code.
"Yes, Mireille, I'm hoping to see you very soon. All my dreams have come true at last, and Napoleon has given his permission for me to marry my beloved Felix Baciocchi. I would love more than anything for you to come to the wedding! We will have a civil ceremony in Marseille on the 12th Floréal,"-the first of May, Mireille translated-"which will probably be too soon for you to attend, since I know how busy you are in Cambridge. And it's a very uninteresting ceremony, anyway, just the two of us and our families standing before a justice of the peace in his office. But the good news is that Napoleon has allowed us to have a real wedding, in a church, on the 27th Prairial,"-the 15th of June-"at my family's villa in Mombello in Lombardy. Don't you agree that it's not a real wedding unless it's done in a church? I'm sure you do. Napoleon disagrees and calls me old-fashioned, and says my mind has been corrupted by the nuns of St.-Cyr, but still, he's allowing us to go through with it. That will give you plenty of time to make your plans. Mombello is a lovely place, on the shores of Lake Maggiore. You will love it! It's not Tuscany, of course, but it's probably the closest to it I'll ever get, unless the pieces' prophecy is right, and I know you believe those things more than I do."
Mireille looked up from the letter for a moment, remembering how the pieces of the Montglane Service-the legendary chess set once owned by Charlemagne-had spoken to her and Elisa in a trance when they'd rescued them from bandits in Marseille almost four years ago. The two pawns Mireille had been holding had argued back and forth about her killing of Marat, the White Pawn calling her a murderer and the Black Pawn saying she had done a brave thing and saved thousands of innocent lives. Elisa had been holding the Black Rook, which had told her her destiny lay in Tuscany, but she would be in great danger there. Elisa had doubted the pieces were truly speaking to them, and dismissed it as a dream. But Mireille was not so sure. Having spent more time than Elisa with the Montglane Service, she knew the terrible power it held, and she could believe that the pieces had the ability to speak to people, and even to see into the future, even though she didn't know how it worked, since, as far as she knew, they never spoke to anyone but her and Elisa. She continued with the letter:
"But, wouldn't you know it, Pauline had to cast a damper on my happiness." Pauline was Elisa's beautiful, flirtatious sister, three years younger than Elisa. The two sisters had never been close, Mireille knew. "She insisted on making it a double wedding. She's marrying an officer named Victor Leclerc, who's not handsome at all, and even shorter than Napoleon. That would mean nothing, of course, if Pauline loved him. But I happen to know she doesn't care two straws for him. All the time they've been engaged, which is not long, she's forced me to write love letters to other men for her, since she's such a poor writer. Remember she asked you to do that when you were staying with us in Marseille, even though she was only thirteen at the time? She's gotten worse and worse over the years. No doubt she'll cuckold him on their wedding night. I'm sure she's doing this because she doesn't want me to be alone at the center of attention. But I know you care for Pauline because she reminds you of your cousin Valentine, so I'm sure you'll be happy for her.
"Napoleon seems happy with his new wife. Why do I say new? They've been married over a year now. But I can't stand her, and neither can anyone else in the family. I'm sure I've told you about her before, but I'll repeat: she's a Creole widow from Martinique, six years older than Napoleon. Her first husband, Alexandre de Beauharnais, was guillotined during the Terror. Napoleon calls her Josephine and insists that everyone else do the same, but her real name is Rose. I've always found her haughty, and she puts on airs. She doesn't like us any more than we like her. Not to mention her two insufferable children, Eugène and Hortense. Eugène is sixteen and a junior officer, and follows Napoleon around like a shadow. I can't stand his constant hero-worship! Napoleon eats it up, of course. Hortense is fourteen, and I probably shouldn't dislike her as much as I do. She's quiet and studious, and she loves music. You'd probably like her very much. But there's something cold and distant about her, and you've never been cold and distant. It's obvious she's very unhappy about her mother's marriage to Napoleon, but she takes it out on his whole family, and doesn't want anything to do with us. She and Caroline go to Citoyenne Campan's boarding school, one of the most prestigious in France, as you know, and they absolutely hate each other. I think there's some blame to be placed on both sides. Caroline also comes across as terribly haughty, even though of course she loves you. She and Louis and Jerome all send their best wishes to you.
"Oh, how I wish Napoleon had married Désirée! But Josephine is rich and gave him an entry into high society, which he thought he needed now that he's a general. A merchant's daughter wouldn't have given him that. But poor Désirée was absolutely devastated when Napoleon deserted her. As much as I love Napoleon, I blame him very much for that. At least she's found a new suitor, General Bernadotte. I hope they will be happy together. And Joseph seems very happy in his marriage to Désirée's sister Julie. I don't know how he really feels about Napoleon taking his place as head of the family-after all, Joseph is the oldest and the place should be his-but he seems to be taking it well.
"Of course, there's one matter I've avoided mentioning so far, but you can guess what it is: poor Lucien. You don't realize how much you've hurt him. All over a silly misunderstanding! And, believe me, it was all a misunderstanding. I've told you that a thousand times already. Why won't you believe me? I was very angry with you at the time, I must admit, but I'm over it now. But Lucien continues to suffer, even though he won't admit it. He has a wife who loves him, but he will never love her as much as he loves you-yes, he still does-and she knows it. She is the sweetest person alive, though, and she wants to see you again. You met her on Corsica when she came to our theatricals, if you remember. She's very fragile, and I worry about her, especially if she has a child. Lucien is very protective of her, even though he doesn't love her. Mireille, I know it will be hard for you to see Lucien again. But don't let it keep you from coming to my wedding! It's the most important thing in the world to me, that you should be there."
Mireille paused in her reading of the letter, her eyes filled with tears, as she remembered what happened between her and Lucien Bonaparte. Her previous adventure with Elisa had ended in the bandits leaving for Corsica to dig up the White King of the Montglane Service-one of the most powerful pieces, and the most evil-from the place in the Bonapartes' garden where she had Elisa had buried it. She had no choice but to tell them where it was, or they would have made it public that she had killed Marat, and they would possibly have killed Lucien. After the bandits set out for Corsica, Lucien promised to follow them and rescue the White King. But things had gone disastrously wrong. Just as Lucien was about to set out, he received an order sending him to the town of Saint-Maximin, near Marseille, to be the head of its Jacobin Club. He had no choice but to accept the position, and so he lost all trace of the bandits and the White King. Mireille was upset to hear that, but that was not what turned her against Lucien. No, what made her very angry was a report she read in the newspaper, that Lucien had changed the town's name to Marathon, "in honor of Marat, the martyr of the Revolution." Mireille had been absolutely livid, of course, and wrote to Elisa, demanding an explanation. Lucien had always told her he hated Marat, and was proud of her for killing him. Had he been lying to her all along? She couldn't help but think so. This, from a man who'd told her he loved her!
Elisa had replied that Mireille had completely misunderstood, and Lucien had named the town in honor of the heroic Greeks at the Battle of Marathon, and it had been nothing to do with Marat. But Mireille couldn't accept that explanation. "Then why did the newspaper say it was in honor of Marat? Did Lucien actually call him a martyr of the Revolution? I want nothing to do with him, and you can tell him that!" she had written, in the code she and Elisa used in their letters, substituting the first letter with the letter eight places up the alphabet, the next letter with the one eight places down the alphabet, then going back to the letter eight places up the alphabet, and so on.
Elisa had replied, "Mireille, it must be a mistake in the newspaper. Believe me, Lucien is the last person in the world, besides yourself, who would be a supporter of Marat."
"Unless he's lying!" Mireille wrote furiously in her next letter. "I will have nothing to do with a man who called Marat a martyr. I have nothing to do with my uncle Jacques-Louis David, as you know, and it's the same with Lucien. And tell him I'm going to England to find Talleyrand."
Elisa's next letter was full of anger, and she told Mireille she had broken Lucien's heart, all because she believed a stupid report in a newspaper that had distorted events. She invited her to come back to Marseille so Lucien could explain things himself. But Mireille refused. She left for England with her baby son Charlot, and his protector Shahin, a Tuareg or "blue man of the desert," called so because of the indigo veil his people wore, which stained their skin blue. When she arrived, she had failed to find Talleyrand-her lover, if only for one night, and Charlot's father-and later learned he had left for America. Mireille thought of following him there, but she had met Blake and Wordsworth and learned from them that Sir Isaac Newton had come very close to solving the formula of the Montglane Service. Blake could help her with getting permission to examine Newton's papers in Cambridge, and he could even study them with her. Mireille was torn at first-in three directions, actually. She could stay in England, she could go to America after Talleyrand, or she could go to Russia, where she believed her beloved Abbess of Montglane, who had been like a mother to her and Valentine, was in great danger. After much thought, she decided to stay in England. At the moment she was trying to make up her mind, she received a letter from the Abbess, which made her believe the danger was not as great as she thought, at least not yet, and she would rather work on solving the formula in England instead of chasing after Talleyrand, when all she knew was that he was in America, but not exactly where. It could take her a long time to find him. And so she had taken Blake up on his offer, and they had spend the next three years in Cambridge, with brief visits to London, but were no closer to finding a solution to the formula. She hadn't realized at first what a vast amount of papers Newton had left behind.
But as soon as Lucien heard Mireille was going to England to look for Talleyrand, he thought she had loved Talleyrand all along and, even if he could explain to her that he was no supporter of Marat, she would never love him. So he had married Christine Boyer, the frail girl who had always loved him. Elisa, although she cared very much for Christine, was furious with Mireille for breaking her brother's heart. It put a terrible strain on their friendship for a few years. But, eventually, Elisa forgave her, and now they were corresponding just as they used to, as the best of friends. The turning point seemed to be Napoleon's abandoning Désirée Clary to marry Josephine. Elisa realized the two women she had hoped to be her sisters-in-law never would be.
Mireille wondered how she'd feel about seeing Lucien again. She wanted to believe Elisa's explanation, that it had all been a misunderstanding. But where did the report come from in the newspaper, that Lucien had called Marat a martyr? That had never been explained to her satisfaction. She was willing to hear what he had to say, though-something she would not have been, four years ago. And now, of course, he was married to another woman. Mireille wasn't sure how she felt about that, either. She knew Christine had loved him, of course, but it hurt to think that, if Lucien truly loved her as Elisa had said, he had married another woman so soon. Or had he never loved her at all? There were so many questions tumbling around in Mireille's mind.
To tell the truth, she didn't know how she felt about any man who told her he loved her. Ever since she killed Marat, there was something numb inside of her, something that kept her from truly loving anyone. No one understood how horrible she felt. Elisa was proud of her, and expected anyone would be, unless they were supporters of Marat, and those were increasingly few after Robespierre had gone to the guillotine. Shahin had tried to comfort her as best he could, but even he didn't understand. He kept telling her that he had killed men in battle, the first time when he was a boy even younger than she, and that he had felt bad at first, but he had learned to live with it, and he expected her to, as well. She had tried-oh, how she had tried!
She put every ounce of her being into her quest to solve the formula of the Montglane Service. But was it really to solve the formula, or to distract her mind from what she had done? Shahin had told her not to think about it any more. What she had done had been heroic-she had rid the world of a monster and saved thousands of innocent lives, including all the nuns of Montglane. On one level, she knew he was right. But she was so repelled by what she had done, she couldn't help how she felt. The truth was, she thought about it every day of her life. And she hated herself. This self-hatred was what was keeping her from truly loving anyone. After all, how could she love anyone when she hated herself? Every time she was about to get close to someone, her secret would rear its ugly head, and she knew that if she was going to be truly close to the other person, she had to let the person know what she had done. But what if they hated her for it? She always expected that people would hate her, if they knew the truth. Of course, Elisa and Shahin still loved her. But both had wanted her, at the very beginning, to kill Marat. She couldn't even be as close to her own son as she would like, she realized in disgust, because she knew he deserved someone better than a murderer for a mother. And she wondered if Charlot, with his second sight, knew what she had done, even though she never talked about it in front of him. Obviously, it didn't matter to him, if he knew. But he was her son, after all. What would someone think, who had not known her before? She was afraid to find out. And this fear was eating her up inside.
Mireille shook her head to rid herself of these thoughts, and continued with the letter. Up until now, the letter had not been in code, but the next part was. Elisa had written, "Now you must be wondering why I marked the letter 'Most urgent.' Of course, it is most urgent to me that you come to my wedding, but I don't mind if everyone else knows that, too. The rest is for no one's eyes but ours. Mireille, I've seen the bandits again. Caragone, the leader, and his two friends, the former Parisian Jacobins Roger and Pierre. Felix and I were walking along the docks of Marseille, when I saw their faces in the distance. I wasn't certain at first that's who it was, but I had my suspicions, and I asked Felix if we could pause in our walk. So we did, and I recognized them. I have no idea if they saw me, of course, but I have to assume the worst. What are they doing back in Marseille? And do they have the White King with them? I have to believe they do. They'd never abandon anything so valuable. I wonder if they'll follow me to Mombello for my wedding. I'm sure they will, if they know I'm on their trail, and they'll bring the White King wherever they go. Mireille, I'm telling you this to make sure to be very careful when you come to Mombello. But, of course, this could also be our chance. I can't come up with a way to take the White King from them on my own, but I'm sure if we put our heads together, we can think of someting. Then we could put the White King away, once and for all, where no one will ever find it and it can no longer do evil.
"But I hate to end with gloomy thoughts. I just wanted you to be aware of the danger. I hope nothing will stop you from coming to my wedding. You don't know how eagerly I'm looking forward to your arrival.
"Yours affectionately,
"Elisa."
Mireille shook her head. Would the danger ever end? But of course it wouldn't. The Game went on eternally, didn't it? But, at least, she knew she and Elisa would find a way to put this particular danger to an end. She had no doubt the bandits had recognized Elisa, and would find a way to get word of her plans and follow her to Mombello. There, she and Elisa would come up with their plan to defeat them. Mireille was looking forward to seeing Elisa again. It had been much too long, and so much had happened, since they had seen each other last. And Lucien? She began to think that it was the self-hatred that had taken possession of her, which had allowed her to believe the worst of him. Perhaps she hadn't been willing to accept Elisa's explanation of Lucien's behavior because she was afraid to become too close to him. Her inability to love, the result of her self-hatred, had ruined Lucien's life, and any chance she might have had of happiness with him. She burst into tears and held her head in her hands for a long time, until she wiped the tears away with her handkerchief. It was too late now for a future with Lucien, she knew, even if she ever recovered the ability to love.
She set those thoughts aside when she noticed the clock in the corridor, which said it was almost time for her and Blake to meet Wordsworth and go out to their favorite pub to celebrate her birthday. She rushed back into the library, where Blake was studying Newton's equation. He looked up when she came in. "Mireille! What is the matter? Obviously that letter contained bad news, as you thought. I am very sorry to hear that. I hope it's not that Elisa is unwell?"
"No, she's quite well. In fact, she couldn't be better. She's getting married in June, and she's written to invite me to the wedding."
"Why, that's wonderful news! Give her my best wishes. You do plan to attend the wedding, of course."
"Yes, even though I know it will interrupt our work."
"Our work can wait until after the wedding. We've worked this long without really finding anything, so we can afford to wait a little longer. But something has upset you, and it's obviously not the news that your best friend is getting married. Of course, if you prefer not to tell me, that is your choice."
"No, I will tell you." At least, as much as she could. "You do know that Lucien Bonaparte is married, and that I have very... mixed feelings.. about it?"
"Yes, I do. I am sorry to hear things did not go as well as expected, between the two of you."
"I will be seeing him again for the first time since this happened, so of course I am very anxious about what we will have to say to each other. But it's not only that. Elisa has seen the bandits who took the White King from the Montglane Service with them. They're back in Marseille. And she has no doubt, and I agree, that they've seen her, too, and will follow her to the wedding. So both our lives could be in danger."
"But, no doubt, you will also see it as a way to defeat them."
"Yes, I do. I only hope our plan, when we come up with it, will succeed."
"I have no doubt it will. I have the greatest confidence in you."
"I hope you're right." Then she looked at the paper with the equation she hadn't figured out how to solve. "Any luck with that equation?"
He shook his head. "No. Did you really expect me to solve it, when you could not? You're the mathematician, after all, even though, as a woman, you are not allowed to earn a degree to show for it."
"I only wish I were. Do you think women will ever be allowed to earn degrees?"
"Not in our lifetimes, certainly. Once, I would have seen nothing wrong with that, but after knowing you, I am beginning to change my mind." He smiled.
"I hope men will begin to change their minds about women earning degrees, even though I agree it's not likely to happen in our lifetimes." She looked at the equation again and frowned. "I almost have it, but it's escaping me. I think I'll copy it down and show it to Charlot. Perhaps he could solve it."
"Charlot? But he's only four years old! How could he possibly solve it if you can't?"
"Charlot is more brilliant than any of us, as I'm sure you realize. I've taught him algebra and geometry, and he surpasses me at it!"
"That is hard to believe."
"It's true, nevertheless." Mireille copied down the equation onto a blank piece of paper and tucked it into her bag. "Are we ready, then?" she asked.
He nodded. "Wordsworth should be waiting for us."
And indeed he was. William Wordsworth was waiting outside the entrance to the library. He and Mireille gave each other a kiss on each cheek in the French manner, as he had learned to do during his years in France. He was five years older than Mireille, tall and lanky, with a handsome face and a hawk-like nose. Over the years, they had developed an affectionate friendship, almost like brother and sister, even though Mireille knew that, at one time, he had hoped to be something more to her. If circumstances had been different, she might have wished that, too, especially after Talleyrand had gone missing and everything was over between her and Lucien Bonaparte. But her cursed self-hatred had gotten in the way, once again.
Mireille didn't know whether Blake and Wordsworth knew she had killed Marat. They might very well know. After all, people in the Game had a way of knowing things that no one else did. But she couldn't be sure. They certainly never let on that they knew. And if they didn't? If she married Wordsworth, she would not be able to keep such a terrible secret from him. What if he rejected her because of it? She shuddered at the thought. She'd rather not know that he knew, than have him know and hate her for it. It never occurred to her that they already knew and were very proud of her. And so, as with Lucien, her inability to truly get close to anyone kept her from having the relationship with Wordsworth that he would have wanted, but she was glad things had settled down into the brother-sister relationship they had now.
When they reached their favorite pub, which was not far from the library, they went into the private room Blake had requested and sat down at the table. They ordered beer and shepherd's pie. When she had first come to England, Mireille had thought she could never get used to English food, and thought it very inferior to French, but she had developed a taste for shepherd's pie. She never would like beer as much as wine, though, and she was glad she had a fine Burgundy at her lodgings.
"Happy Birthday, Mireille!" Blake and Wordsworth raised their beer mugs to her.
"Thank you!" she said.
"I'm sorry Shahin and Charlot couldn't join us," said Wordsworth.
"We're going to have our own celebration at my lodgings. Shahin won't go to pubs because, as you know, his religion forbids the drinking of alcoholic beverages. And Charlot is too little, even though I do allow him to have a drop of wine on special occasions." Then, turning to Wordsworth, she said, "William, I have news of Elisa." And she told him all she had told Blake, of the news in Elisa's letter.
"Congratulations to Elisa on her marriage!" said Wordsworth, and they all raised their beer mugs again. "You will go to the wedding, of course."
"Yes, of course," said Mireille. "But the other news is alarming, isn't it? Those bandits, or at least their leader, Caragone, are members of the White team, and they have one of the most powerful pieces of all. You're my allies in the Game, as well as my friends. Do you have any suggestions on how to get it back?"
"I'm sure you are right, that they will follow Elisa to Mombello," said Wordsworth. "And they know you will go there to attend her wedding. Perhaps you should make the first move."
"Ah, but it's White who always makes the first move."
"The first move of the whole Game, certainly. But this Game has been going on for a long time. I believe it is our-Black's-turn to move. Perhaps you should find out the likeliest place they would hide the White King. Once you know where they're keeping it, I'm sure you and Elisa can figure out a way to get it."
Mireille nodded. "Very good advice, William. And once we have it, we are going to dispose of it."
"Melt it down, you mean? I'm not sure that's wise. That piece is immensely powerful. It will resist any attempt of yours to destroy it, and it could kill you in the process."
"So you, too, believe these pieces have minds of their own?"
"Minds, or spirits. I don't know what you'd call it. But something that animates them, certainly."
"And do you think the same?" Mireille asked Blake.
"I have always thought so, ever since you told me about your and Elisa's experience with them," replied Blake. Mireille had told them as much as she could about how the pieces spoke to her and Elisa in a trance, but without mentioning Marat.
"So the White King will resist any attempt to destroy it. But we could bury it away where no one will ever find it."
Both men nodded. "Yes, that is probably the best idea," said Wordsworth. He raised his beer mug again. "To Mireille and Elisa. May they put the White King to rest once and for all!"
"Hear, hear," said Blake.
"Now, tell me, have you had any success with Newton's papers?" asked Wordsworth.
"Not much," said Mireille. "There's an equation which seems very important, but which has eluded us so far. If I'm right, the answer to it might even tell us whether Newton was able to make the Philosopher's Stone or not."
"And if it eludes you, it will elude anyone, I fear."
"Except, apparently, her four-year-old son," Blake said with a smile.
"Charlot? Really? How could he possibly solve it when you can't?"
"Because he's a genius."
"And you are not?"
Mireille blushed. "I doubt it. He's much more brilliant than me. As I told Blake, I've taught him algebra and geometry, and he's surpassed me at it already. Besides, the mind of a child is clear. It's not cluttered up with all the cares of life, as ours are. He'd be able to see things I've missed. If anyone can figure out this equation, he can."
"Perfectly true. We shall leave it to him, then," said Wordsworth. They went on eating their meal in contentment, then they escorted Mireille back to her lodgings, where they took their leave.
As soon as Mireille entered her lodgings, Charlot ran into her arms. Although he had her red hair, he resembled his father, Talleyrand, more closely, with the same blue eyes and cleft chin, and the same elongated face. Mireille gave him a kiss on each cheek, and said, as she always did when she got back from the library, "Charlot! My little Charlemagne!"
He smiled and hugged her. "Bonne anniversaire, Maman!"
"Thank you, Charlot. But remember, we speak English here, for Shahin's sake. How is he going to learn it if he doesn't hear us speaking it?"
"Oh, I forgot," Charlot switched to English. "Happy Birthday, Mama!"
"That's better." Mireille smiled. Her son's English was already as fluent as her own and, unlike her, he did not even speak with an accent.
Shahin, who had been standing nearby and observing them, held out his hands to Mireille and said, in his broken English, "Happy Birthday, Mireille!" His face, which resembled the peregrine falcon for which he was named, usually so expressionless, was lit up with a smile. Although his French was perfect, if accented, his English was rudimentary. At first, when it appeared their visit to England would be short, he had not bothered to learn it, but now that it seemed as though their stay would be more prolonged, Mireille was teaching him the language.
"How did your day go? And how are Blake and Wordsworth?" asked Shahin.
"They are very well, and give you their best wishes. And I have news." She waved Elisa's letter at him. "I got a letter from Elisa."
Shahin's face lit up even more. "Ah, Elisa Bonaparte! Your very dear friend. At least, I hope that is still the case?"
"Yes, things have been much better between us for over a year now. Almost what they were before."
"I am very glad to hear it. She is an amazing young woman, like all the women of her family. So, how does it go with her?"
"The best news possible. She's getting married in June!"
"Oh, how wonderful. To Monsieur Baciocchi, I hope?"
"Yes, indeed. Napoleon has finally given his permission. And her sister Pauline is getting married, too, so it will be a double wedding."
"And you will go, of course. Where is it to be?"
"At the Bonapartes' villa at Mombello, in Lombardy. We will all go. Elisa says it's a beautiful place."
"We're going to Elisa's wedding, Mama?" asked Charlot, grinning from ear to ear. "And I'll meet her at last?"
"Yes, we will. You will finally get to meet Elisa."
"Wonderful!" Charlot exclaimed.
Shahin nodded. "I have never been to the Italian peninsula before, and I will be very glad to see my friends the Bonapartes again. It has been a long time." But he noticed the shadow over Mireille's face. "But what is wrong? Surely there is no bad news? Ah, perhaps you wish your own wedding to Lucien could have happened at the same time? I know you are upset he is married to another."
"Shahin, I'm so confused about how I feel about him. Once I hated him for the reason I talked about," she glanced at Charlot, not wanting to go into too many details in front of him. "But, from what Elisa says, I misunderstood what happened. I can only hope she's right. I am willing to see him again. Now that he is another woman's husband, there is no danger of our past feelings being renewed."
"But perhaps you wish there were still some hope?"
"I don't know. Honestly, I don't know. And I won't until I go there. But it is not only Lucien. Elisa says she's seen the bandits who have the White King. And she thinks they've seen her, and they will follow her to Mombello."
"Yes, I could sense the danger as soon as I saw that look on your face. But this can be an opportunity, too, could it not? For you to take the White King once and for all?"
"Exactly what I thought."
He nodded. "You and Elisa will face great danger there, but you will be triumphant in the end. I sense it. Al-Kalim agrees, I think." He turned towards Charlot, whom he, and his people, believed to be a long-awaited prophet named Al-Kalim. Charlot nodded in agreement. Whether he was a prophet or not, Mireille knew her son had the second sight, and sometimes used it at inconvenient moments.
"But how did your work with Blake go?" asked Shahin.
"It's very frustrating. We found a formula in Newton's papers that I can't figure out."
"That is a surprise."
"It's one of the most complex formulas I've seen. I think it might be very important, but I can't solve it, whatever I do. But I've copied it out for Charlot. Perhaps he can solve it."
"Oh, can I, Mama?" Charlot asked wth an eager look on his face.
"Certainly. But don't you want to have cake first? And even a drop of wine?"
"Oh, yes!" They sat down at the table and ate the almond cake Shahin had bought earlier that day. Mireille poured herself a glass of Burgundy and put a drop of it in a glass of water for Charlot, while Shahin drank only water.
Mireille felt content after she had finished her cake, and then she showed Charlot the formula she had copied. "Charlot, this is more complex than any formula you have ever seen. Please, take your time with it."
Charlot studied it for a while, then he wrote down numbers with his quill. He paused several times to study the formula, then wrote down more numbers. Shahin kept in the background while Charlot worked. After a while, Charlot looked up. "I think I have it, Mama!"
"You do? So quickly?" Mireille came around the table and threw her arms around him. Then she studied the paper and her eyes lit up in excitement. "Of course! Why didn't I see that in the first place? Charlot, you're a genius! And do you know what this means?" She turned to include Shahin in the conversation. "I think Newton may have made the Philosopher's Stone, after all! Charlot, this is the breakthrough we need. I can't wait to tell Blake tomorrow. But, how did you figure it out? Can you take me through it, step by step?"
"Certainly, Mama." Charlot showed her what he had done to solve the formula.
As soon as she saw what her mistake had been, Mireille slapped herself on the forehead. "Oh, how stupid I've been! I transposed two digits. A beginner's mistake! How could I not have seen that?"
"It happens to everyone, I think, Mama. You are too hard on yourself. And not just about this."
"What do you mean?"
Charlot put down his quill and sighed. "You know perfectly well what I mean. You need to talk about it, Mama."
"About what?" But Mireille had a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her son knew about Marat! Not that she was surprised. After all, she knew his sixth sense told him many things. But to have it confirmed was something else.
"About when you killed Marat, of course."
"How did you know about that?" Anger flashed in Mireille's face, even though she knew she shouldn't be angry with her son. Then she turned on Shahin. "Shahin, did you tell him? After I made you promise not to speak a word of it?"
Shahin shook his head. "I did not say a thing. Al-Kalim knows things the rest of us do not. It is his gift."
Mireille was relieved that Shahin hadn't spoken, at least. "Well, Charlot? How did you find out and how long have you known?"
"I have always known. Ever since you came back to the desert from France."
"But you were a baby then. Only three months old. You couldn't possibly have known anything like that, much less remembered it."
"But I did. Don't ask me how, but I did, through my sixth sense, as you call it."
"So why didn't you say anything before?"
"Because I knew you didn't like to talk about it. But you're wrong there. As I said, you need to talk about it. It's all bottled up inside you, like the genie in Aladdin's magic lamp in the story Shahin was reading to me. Someone needs to rub the lamp to release it. Or it will make you ill."
Mireille's face turned red as a beet, and she snapped, "I will not be lectured to by a child!"
"I am hardly any child."
"Oh, I know. You talk like an adult, you solve formulas I can't solve, you speak English better than me, you have the gift of second sight. Of course you're not just any child." Mireille threw her arms around him, sorry for her outburst. "But this is something I absolutely do not talk about, no matter what. Not even to you. Perhaps, when you're older, things will be different. Now I'm ashamed you even know."
"Why, Mama? You should know I love you. But you never tell me you love me. And I think that's why."
"What do you mean, I never tell you I love you? It's perfectly obvious."
"No, it isn't. You say you're proud of me, when I do something clever. You've said you want to keep me out of danger. But you never say you love me, or anyone else. Not Shahin, either. I don't think you ever told Papa, or Lucien Bonaparte. Or Mr. Wordsworth, either."
Mireille shook her head. Her son was echoing the exact thoughts she'd had earlier, that her self-hatred kept her from loving anyone. But how had he known exactly how she'd been feeling? It must have been his sixth sense again. "I'm sorry, Charlot. I'll say it now. I love you. My wonderful, brilliant, handsome son. I love you!" She held him in her arms. "Even if you know what I did."
"There is no shame in what you did. You're a hero, like the knights who slay the dragons."
"Oh, Charlot, there is a vast difference between what I did and what the heroes of legend did. But I don't want to get into that now. I cannot talk about it."
"Then you will make yourself ill. Talk to Shahin if you don't want to talk to me. If you think I'm too little to understand, which I'm not."
"I've already talked to him, many times. He means well, but it doesn't help."
"How about Mr. Wordsworth?"
"What about him?"
"Talk to him about it. He loves you."
"He might not, if he knew what I did."
"He does know, and he loves you all the more for it."
Mireille was startled. "How do you know that? Charlot, you didn't talk to him, did you?"
"I haven't said a word about it to anyone, I swear. I just know that he knows. And so does Mr. Blake. He's all the prouder of you for it, too."
Mireille shook her head. Her son's sixth sense seemed more like a curse than a gift. Charlot went on, "Please, talk to them."
"I will not. You could be wrong, and they could hate me if they knew. Besides, we still have so much work to do. Your solution of the formula gave me the clue I need. Newton may have made the Philosopher's Stone, but if he did, what did he do with it? Does it still exist? There's so much more we need to know. I'm not going to waste time talking about the most horrible thing I ever did."
"It was not a horrible thing, and you need to talk to someone, if not them. And I like Mr. Wordsworth. I wish you'd marry him, if you can't marry Papa. And I don't know why you can't marry Papa, anyway."
"We've talked about this before. Papa is far away, in America. Even if we could go there, it would take a long time to find him. And I can't marry him because he's a bishop."
"Bishops can get married. They do here."
"English bishops can. French bishops can't."
"Then why can't Papa live here and become an English bishop?"
"It's much more complicated than that. He'd have to change his religion. And so would I. I'd have to change mine if I married Mr. Wordsworth, too. And if Papa changed his religion, he still couldn't be an English bishop. Besides, if he stepped down as a bishop, a French one, I mean, he'd lose all his income. He likes the finer things in life, and he's lose all that."
"He'd give up anything for you, Mama."
Mireille knew her son was probably right. But it was the old curse again: Talleyrand most likely didn't know what she had done, and if she married him, she'd have to tell him. And what if he hated her if he found out? "I don't want to risk it," she said.
"Because you're afraid he'd hate you. He won't."
"I can't be so sure of that."
"Then marry Mr. Wordsworth. I like him. He reads his poetry to me whenever he visits us. You never read to me."
"But I read all the time."
"Only to yourself. Not to me."
And then Mireille realized, to her shame, it was true. She never read to her son. "Well, you're old enough to read to yourself. And you do. I've seen you."
"But I still like being read to. And only Shahin and Mr. Wordsworth ever read to me."
Mireille felt deeply ashamed. She had a wonderful son, and she had neglected him all this time, all because of what she had done four years ago and the feelings associated with it. Even if she could never atone for that, at least she could make things up with her son. "I am so sorry, Charlot. I've been thinking only of myself, all this time. I want to make it up to you, very badly. No, I'm not ready to talk about what I did just yet. But I will read to you." She looked at the clock and realized what time it was.. "Oh, look, it's past your bedtime. Here, I'll come to your bedroom and read to you. Aladdin and the Magic Lamp, was it?"
"No, I'm on Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves now."
"Then I will read that to you."
Mireille noticed Shahin smiling at her as she followed Charlot to his bedroom. She tucked Charlot into bed, then picked up the volume of the Thousand and One Nights that lay on the small bedside table. It was in the original Arabic, but Shahin had taught that language to her and Charlot, so they had no trouble understanding it. She read him the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves until she saw him nod off. "Sleepy?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Have we read enough for tonight?"
"Yes, Mama. You will continue tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, and as often as you like. Good night, Charlot, my little Charlemagne." She kissed him on the forehead, then they threw their arms around each other. And, for the first time, they were a normal mother and son.
When Mireille was sure Charlot was asleep, she joined Shahin in the parlor. "I'm glad you read to him tonight, Mireille," said Shahin.
"I am, too."
"But he's right, you know. You do need to talk about Marat. It's like a festering wound on your soul. And it's going to get worse and worse the longer you keep it inside."
She shook her head in exasperation. "Shahin, I've talked about it with you so many times. With you and Elisa, both. I'm not going to feel any better."
"Perhaps you've been talking to the wrong people."
"You and Elisa? But you're my closest friends!"
"But, you see, we encouraged you to do it from the very beginning, and we think you're a hero, and don't understand why you don't think so. Now that I think about it, we might have gone about things the wrong way. Perhaps we should have been more understanding of how strongly you feel. Mireille, as I've told you before, you feel things more deeply than most people. I should have known from the beginning that would be the case. Remember when you had a hard time making your mark on the falcon, and, of course, how you've always been afraid of the sight of blood?"
Mireille nodded. "Yes."
"That's a sign that you feel things very deeply. I was never bothered by those things, and, I suspect, neither is Elisa. I told you I've killed men in battle, the first one when I was only a boy."
"I know that."
"And I told you I felt bad at the time, but I got over it. It was either that or be killed myself, after all. I think Elisa's brothers feel the same way. But it's different with you."
"Of course it is." Tears came to Mireille's eyes.
Shahin did something he almost never did. He threw his arms around her and held her for a long time. "Mireille, I should have known. You were so young. Only eighteen, and a very sheltered eighteen at that. Little more than a child. Much too young to go through something like that. I was younger than you, but I was trained as a warrior. I know how if feels different for you. Of course it's affected you all this time. But you have to realize you were right to do what you did."
She shook her head. "No, I wasn't."
"Yes, you were. Not only did you avenge Valentine's death, but you saved thousands of innocent lives. Valentine would have done the same, if your roles had been reversed and you had been the one who was killed, and she had been the one who survived."
"She wouldn't have. You didn't know Valentine. She was the kindest person imaginable. She would have been horrified by what I did."
"That's not true. It doesn't matter how kind she was. She would have avenged your death. And, because she was so kind, she would have been the first person in the world to understand why you did what you did, and to comfort you."
"But Valentine wasn't capable of that."
"As Elisa and I have both told you, we're all capable of it, whether we want to admit it or not. Even Valentine. Of course, it takes extreme circumstances for most of us. And, believe me, you were in extreme circumstances. No, what I think you need to do is talk about it to someone you've never talked to about it before. It will relieve a horrible burden from your mind. A burden you're much too young to carry."
"But what if they hate me?"
"I know you're afraid of that. That's why you're keeping it bottled up inside, because you're afraid people will hate you. But the truth is, your real friends will love you no matter what. And if people hate you, they don't deserve to have such a wonderful friend as you."
"But my own uncle turned against me!"
"Jacques-Louis David is a great painter, but he's a weak and cowardly man. What kind of a person continues to support the man who killed his niece? You should have known what kind of a man he was after Valentine was killed."
"I think I always did know. But still, it hurts. And I'm afraid he won't be the only one. Whenever I start to get close to someone, I start wondering what they would think if they knew."
"Mireille, you've always worried too much about what people will think of you. Not just about this."
"But this is the worst possible thing anyone could do!"
"No, it isn't. Mireille, anyone who knows what circumstances you were in, seeing your beloved cousin beheaded before your eyes, will understand why you did what you did. And they won't hate you for it. They'll be very proud of you."
Mireille shook her head. "I don't think so."
"You're afraid to try."
"I suppose I am."
"Then this will haunt you for the rest of your life, and as Charlot said, it will make you ill. It's keeping you from becoming truly close to anyone. Like Lucien Bonaparte. How could you have doubted him? And Talleyrand. And Mr. Wordsworth, too. Mr. Blake and Mr. Wordsworth would be the perfect people to tell. They think the world of you. And Charlot is right. They already know."
"But how?"
"As you've noticed before, we in the Game have a way of knowing things that others do not. We're all pieces on a chessboard, so we can see the other pieces, right? We can see all the moves they make, and which pieces get taken. Unless, of course, their view was blocked by another piece. But, in the case of these two gentlemen, it was not."
Mireille's face turned red with embarrassment. "So, if they know, why haven't they said anything?"
"Because they know you don't want to talk about it. But I think you need to. Mireille, you know they don't hate you. That's perfectly obvious. You will feel so much better once you talk to them."
Mireille shook her head. "I can't. In fact, now I'm afraid of what will happen when I see them again. I think I need to get away from here. I'm glad I'm going to Elisa's wedding. It can't come soon enough."
"Mireille, you can't run away. You have to face your feelings. Talk to them. They will understand everything."
"No, I cannot."
Shahin looked at her with deep sadness in his eyes. "Then you will be ill. In your soul as well as your body."
"I think I deserve to be."
"No. you don't. You deserve a long, fulfilling life. You have so many people who care about you."
"Shahin, I can't talk about this any more. I'm too tired. I'm going to bed."
"Very well. But before you go to sleep, you might want to read some of that bawdy English novel I've seen you reading." Mireille saw a hint of a smile on Shahin's face.
"Do you mean Tom Jones?'
"Exactly. I've seen you laugh out loud sometimes when you read it. That's good for you. It keeps your mind off of what's troubling you. But, remember what I said. Your troubles will return, unless you talk to someone."
"I'm not ready."
"I hope you will be soon." And they embraced before Mireille went off to bed.
In her bedroom, she lay back and read Tom Jones for a while. It put her in a better mood, but at the same time she thought of Valentine, and about the opera of Tom Jones by Philidor, the great chess master and composer, which Madame de Stael had taken her and Valentine to see in Paris, when they were still carefree young girls. Before the Terror. Before Marat. Tears came to her eyes once again. Then she thought that, if Valentine were still alive, she would have translated this novel into French for her, and they would have enjoyed it together. Even though Valentine never read, she would have made an exception for this book, Mireille was sure. If only Valentine were still alive! In that moment, Mireille realized Shahin was right, and Valentine would have understood why Mireille had done what she did. She was the one person who could have comforted her. But Valentine was dead, and there was no one, not even her closest friends Elisa and Shahin, who could make her feel better, ever again. She closed her eyes and fell asleep, and had a nightmare about Marat, as she often did. She was used to it by now, and she had hardly ever gotten a whole night's sleep in the four years since she had killed Marat.
When she woke up the next morning, she realized she had forgotten to answer Elisa's letter. Looking at the clock, she saw there was time before breakfast, so she sat down and wrote:
"Cambridge, April 5, 1797.
"(No, I refuse to use the new calendar. I think you know perfectly well why. The old one is good enough for me.)
"My dear Elisa,
"Congratulations to you and Felix on the wonderful news of your upcoming marriage! I know you will be very happy together. It goes without saying that I will attend the wedding. Words cannot say how much I am looking forward to it, and to seeing you again after all these years. May I bring Charlot and Shahin with me? I'm certain you will say yes, but I know I should ask you first. They are both looking forward to seeing you, especially Charlot, who has never met you. Of course I've told him all about you. Congratulations to Pauline and her bridegroom as well.
"As for Lucien, I have such mixed feelings it's hard to express them in a letter. Obviously things can never be as they once were between us. He is another women's husband, after all. I am willing to accept your explanation of his actions, and I am very glad you are no longer angry with me. But I suppose I will never be fully satisfied until I hear from his own mouth what he has to say for himself. It is not that I don't believe you. But is it possible he has deceived you? I know you always want to think the best of him, but I was deeply hurt by what I read in the newspaper. I hope it really is all a misunderstanding. I do want to see him again, if only to hear his explanation, but please understand that is the greatest source of my anxiety about my visit with you and your family."
Mireille wrote the rest of her letter in code:
"My work at Cambridge goes exceedingly well, and I believe I have made a significant breakthrough, or rather, Charlot has. Yes, you read this correctly. As you know, I have been teaching mathematics to Charlot, and he has proven to be a genius. With his child's clear mind, he can see things we cannot. I found a formula in Newton's papers, which Blake and I were unable to solve. Yesterday I copied it down for Charlot, and he solved it. It turns out I made the stupid mistake of transposing two digits. I think this formula is the breakthrough we need. If I am correct, Newton may have made the Philosopher's Stone after all! But, if he did, what did he do with it, and does it still exist? And can we duplicate his work? Those are questions still to be answered.
"I have not seen Blake since Charlot made this breakthrough, and I cannot wait to tell him. But, in a conversation with Shahin last night, I discovered that Blake, as well as Wordsworth and even Charlot, know what I did four years ago. Charlot, of course, still loves me, but he wants me to talk about it with him, which I am not ready to do. I was very upset that Blake and Wordsworth know, and I hope this does not put a damper on my relations with them. You will say they obviously don't hate me. That is exactly what Shahin said last night. But I feel very awkward, knowing that they know.
"So I think you can see with what relief I will take leave of my work in England, even on the verge of a major breakthrough, and join you in Mombello for your wedding. As for the bandits and the White King, I'm sure we can think of what to do once we're together.
"I intend to arrive a week or so before your wedding, if that is not inconvenient. That should give us time to work out a plan. Once again, congratulations to you and Felix, and to Pauline and her bridegroom, and my best wishes to your whole family, including Lucien, providing what you told me is true.
"Yours affectionately,
"Mireille."
When Mireille arrived at the library and saw Blake already there, looking over a stack of papers, she felt butterflies in her stomach. She was afraid to face him, knowing her knew her terrible secret. But she had to tell him about Charlot's discovery. Trying to hide the fear in her face, she exclaimed, "Wonderful news! Charlot has solved the formula." She pulled out the paper to show him.
His eyes lit up like flames as he examined it. "Incredible! Simply incredible! What a genius your son is."
"Indeed. You see what this means, don't you? I believe Newton may have made the Philosopher's Stone, after all! This is what we've been looking for, all this time."
He smiled. "I do believe you're right. The question is, though, what did he do with it? Where is it now?"
"And does it still exist? And can we duplicate what he did?"
"Those are all questions for the future. Naturally I will inform Wordsworth of this discovery. What shall we do next?"
"I suppose we should continue with the papers, and see if there's any indication of what he did with the Philosopher's Stone. Was it able to hold its nature? Or did it dissolve in a few seconds after he made it? And, of course, if it maintained its existence, where did he keep it?"
"Those are all excellent questions, which further research should resolve." His face fell. "But, may I ask, why do you seem so downcast? I thought you would be excited after such a discovery."
"I am very excited, believe me. I am only sad because of other things I do not wish to discuss."
"Ah! I think you may have learned that I know certain things about your past that you'd rather were kept secret. Am I right?"
Mireille felt as if her throat had fallen into the pit of her stomach. She sank down in her chair and put her hands over her face for a moment. Then, taking a deep breath, she could just barely squeak out, "Yes."
"I understand why you would not wish to discuss such things. But if you ever do, I am perfectly willing to listen."
"I know that," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I cannot talk about it."
"I see, even though, if I may be so bold as to say, I think it might help you if you did. But I am the last person to force you to speak when you do not want to. I will say, though, that if you change your mind, I am always ready to listen. Also, I think you should know, without getting too much into matters of which you are unwilling to speak, that we live in terrible times. Especially you, with what you went through in Paris during the Terror, and your cousin's tragic death. And terrible times often make people act against their nature. You will, of course, understand my meaning."
Mireille's face had gone as white as a sheet. "Yes, I do."
"People may act against their nature, but that does not change their nature. I cannot say more without your being willing to discuss certain events, but I will say this: Mireille, you are a good person. Anyone who knows you will be sure of that. Except for certain cowardly people like a painter we both know, and their friendship is not worth having, though he is your uncle. If it is because you lost his love that you are not willing to talk about what happened, please realize that his love means nothing. He didn't even love his own niece enough to defend her, after all."
Mireille shook her head, her eyes full of tears. "No, it's not only because of him, even though I was very upset by the way he acted. I just cannot talk about what happened. I'm sorry, but I cannot."
"I understand. But if, at any time, you wish to do so, let me know and I will listen."
Very briefly, she squeezed his hand. "Thank you for your support. I appreciate it very much. In fact, it means more than I can say, that I have not lost your friendship."
"You always had it. You see, Wordsworth and I both knew of these events before we even met you."
"I'm very glad that you did not think badly of me. But I just cannot speak of it now. I don't know if I'll ever be able to. Please, let's just focus on the task at hand, and not spend time on the past."
"I perfectly understand that, as well. We certainly have much work before us. But it might help to proceed with a clear mind."
"My mind is clear, I assure you. I want to know as much as I can about Newton's discovery, before I leave for Elisa's wedding." And they resumed their work on the papers.
The next two months passed quietly. They delved into Newton's papers with renewed enthusiasm, sometimes with Wordsworth's help when he was able to get away from London. But no matter how hard they tried, they could not discover any more about the Philosopher's Stone. It remained just as much of a mystery as it ever was.
And then came the time when Mireille, Shahin, and Charlot took their leave of Blake and Wordsworth. They stood on the docks at Dover, about to board a ship headed to Livorno. From Livorno, they would make their way by carriage to Mombello. Mireille embraced her two English friends. To her delight, Wordsworth gave her a copy of his latest book of poetry.
"The first copy to the fairest lady," he said, his face lit up with a smile. "I will miss you. I hope Elisa's wedding does not keep you away too long. And if, at any time, you wish to discuss certain things with me, I am always ready to listen."
"I know that, and I thank you for it. But I cannot speak of it to anyone. It is enough to know I have your friendship."
"And more, if you wish," he whispered in her ear.
"I know that, too. But I have much to think about, as you know. For now, I hope friendship will be enough."
"Certainly it is." And they embraced once more.
Then she turned to Blake. "Thank you for all your friendship and support. I only wish we had progressed more in our research before now."
"I will continue looking in your absence, even though I doubt I can find much without you. And I will, of course, inform you of any discovery I make. I will echo Wordsworth's wishes that you may return soon."
"As soon as I can. As you know, there is more than Elisa's wedding that brings me to Mombello. But I hope that matter will be resolved to all our satisfaction, and I can come back here soon. Until then, farewell!"
They waved to each other, and then Mireille, Shahin, and Charlot turned to board the ship.