The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [64]
“It makes me writhe,” Jacqueline said. “I didn’t think I was that transparent. What about yours?”
“I think it’s funny,” Jean admitted. “But I don’t get it. Or, if I do get it, I’m mad.”
“There are worse things than being thought of as a woolly lamb. Hang on to this, Jean. Or—let me keep it for you. May I?”
“You can have it,” Jean said. “As a souvenir.”
Jacqueline shivered.
“I think I’d prefer a bright brass paperweight in the shape of St. Peter’s. Or a cerise satin pillow with ‘Arrivederci Roma,’ embroidered on it. Something bland and meaningless.”
“I know,” Jean said wearily. “It hasn’t been pleasant for—” Her voice broke off, and she looked at the drawing with aroused interest. “Are you saying that this sketch means—”
“I’m not saying anything else. I’m too incoherent.” Jacqueline rose; and Jean noticed that she held the drawing by its edge, as if it were hot to the touch. “Let’s get some sleep. Believe me, we’re going to need it.”
9
THE DAY OF THE PARTY DAWNED BRIGHT AND clear and hot. The close air woke Jean at sunrise; she kicked off the sheet that had covered her and moved her sweating body to a cooler spot, dislodging Nefertiti, whose affectionate position under her knees had not reduced the temperature. The cat arose, cursing, and removed itself. Jean looked at the other bed. The covers were thrown back, but Jacqueline was not there.
She fell asleep again, too tired to do more than wonder briefly; and when she finally woke again the sun was high and the room was even hotter. The shutters were closed; bright parallel streaks of light crossed the gloom.
Jean staggered out into the salone, which was brighter and not quite so hot. She found Jacqueline fully dressed, drinking coffee. The efficient professional was in command again; Jacqueline’s eyes were sunken, as if she hadn’t slept well, but her mouth was tightly set and her glasses rode high on the bridge of her nose.
“You have a somewhat haggard aspect,” said Jacqueline critically. “Didn’t you sleep well?”
“I had a bad dream,” Jean said. She shuddered. “Really bad. I’m still shaking.”
“Here, have some coffee. What was it about?”
“I dreamed I met Saint Agnes,” Jean said, accepting the proffered cup. “Walking down the Via Nomentana.”
“The Via—”
“Nomentana. That’s the street her church is on, the one outside the walls. I knew it was the Nomentana, even though it looked completely different from the way it looks now. It was like a country road instead of a street, and it was paved with those big dark stone blocks, like the ones you can still see in sections of the Via Appia Antica. There were trees lining the way—dark, pointed cypresses, and pines, and mimosa. Trees and tombs. Some of them were brick mausolea and some were big, elaborate white marble buildings. And then she—she came up out of a stairway that went down into the ground. Like the entrance to the catacombs.” Jean sipped her coffee. She said in a small voice, “She was carrying her head under her arm.”
“You have an accurate imagination,” Jacqueline said. “She was beheaded, wasn’t she? You know where you received the stimulus for this—”
“Sure, I know. Damn Michael and his sketches…But you know how nightmares are, this was much worse than it sounds when I describe it; when I was dreaming it I was absolutely paralyzed with terror. She wasn’t horrible-looking, I mean, there wasn’t even any blood. In a way, that would have been better. She—the head—smiled at me. And winked one eye.”
“That’s enough,” Jacqueline said hastily.
“I know it doesn’t sound—”
“It sounds ghastly. Forget it. We’ve got a lot to do. Grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning—and somehow we’ve got to invent a couple of costumes.”
From then on Jean didn’t have time to brood—or ask questions. The entire apartment had to be cleaned, and that meant floor scrubbing, waxing, and so on. Jacqueline admitted blandly that she hadn’t done much cleaning, and since her friend’s tuttofare was also on vacation, the apartment had gotten into a state which a persnickety Swiss