Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [175]
“Right,” I said. “Well, I’ll admit you’ve been helpful so far. No one’s tried to poison me lately. I don’t suppose you and Jamie between you are likely to get me burnt for witchcraft in the Place de la Bastille, do you?” I spoke lightly, but my memories of the thieves’ hole and the trial at Cranesmuir were still fresh.
“Certainly not,” he said, with dignity. “No one’s been burnt for witchcraft in Paris in…oh, twenty years, at least. You’re perfectly safe. As long as you don’t kill anyone,” he added.
“I’ll do my best,” I said, and rose to go.
* * *
Fergus found me a carriage with no difficulty, and I spent the short trip to the Hawkins house musing over recent developments. I supposed that Raymond had in fact done me a service by expanding on Jamie’s original wild story to his more superstitious clients, though the thought of having my name bandied about in séances or Black Masses left me with some misgivings.
It also occurred to me that, rushed for time, and beset with speculations of kings and swords and ships, I had not had time to ask Master Raymond where—if anywhere—the Comte St. Germain entered into his own realm of influence.
Public opinion seemed to place the Comte firmly in the center of the mysterious “circles” to which Raymond referred. But as a participant—or a rival? And did the ripples of these circles spread as far as the King’s chamber? Louis was rumored to take interest in astrology; could there be some connection, through the dark channels of Cabbalism and sorcery, among Louis, the Comte, and Charles Stuart?
I shook my head impatiently, to clear it of brandy fumes and pointless questions. The only thing that could be said for certain was that he had entered into a dangerous partnership with Charles Stuart, and that was concern enough for the present.
The Hawkins residence on the Rue Malory was a solid, respectable-looking house of three stories, but its internal disruption was apparent even to the casual observer. The day was warm, but all the shutters were still sealed tight against any intrusion of prying eyes. The steps had not been scrubbed this morning, and the marks of dirty feet smeared the white stone. No sign of cook or housemaid out front to bargain for fresh meat and gossip with the barrowmen. It was a house battened down against the coming of disaster.
Feeling not a little like a harbinger of doom myself, despite my relatively cheerful yellow gown, I sent Fergus up the steps to knock for me. There was some give-and-take between Fergus and whoever opened the door, but one of Fergus’s better character traits was an inability to take “no” for an answer, and shortly I found myself face-to-face with a woman who appeared to be the lady of the house, and therefore Mrs. Hawkins, Mary’s aunt.
I was forced to draw my own conclusions, as the woman seemed much too distraught to assist me by offering any sort of tangible information, such as her name.
“But we can’t see anybody!” she kept exclaiming, glancing furtively over her shoulder, as though expecting the bulky form of Mr. Hawkins suddenly to materialize accusingly behind her. “We’re…we have…that is…”
“I don’t want to see you,” I said firmly. “I want to see your niece, Mary.”
The name seemed to throw her into fresh paroxysms of alarm.
“She…but…Mary? No! She’s…she’s not well!”
“I don’t suppose she is,” I said patiently. I lifted my basket into view. “I’ve brought some medicines for her.”
“Oh! But…but…she…you…aren’t you…?”
“Havers, woman,” said Fergus in his best Scots accent. He viewed this spectacle of derangement disapprovingly. “The maid says the young mistress is upstairs in her room.”
“Just so,” I said. “Lead on, Fergus.” Waiting for no further encouragement, he ducked under the outstretched forearm that barred our way, and made off into the gloomy depths of the house. Mrs. Hawkins turned after him with an incoherent cry, allowing me to slip past her.
There was a maid on duty outside Mary’s door, a stout party in a striped apron, but she offered no resistance to my statement