Labyrinth (17 page)

Marie-Cecile herself was sitting in an ornate Louis XIV armchair beside the fireplace, her long, smooth legs crossed at the knees. The ivory sheen of her silk camisole shimmered against the deep blue velvet upholstery.

She had the distinctive profile of the de l’Oradore family, a pale, aquiline beauty, although her lips were both sensuous and full and her catlike green eyes were fringed with generous dark lashes. Her perfectly cut black curls skimmed the top of chiseled shoulders.

“This is such a great room,” said Will. “The perfect setting for you. Cool, expensive, subtle.”

The tiny diamond studs in her ears glinted as she leaned forward to stub out her cigarette.

“It was my grandfather’s room originally.”

Her English was flawless, with just a shimmer of a French accent that still turned him on. She stood up and walked across the room toward him, her feet making no sound on the thick, pale blue carpet.

Will smiled expectantly as he breathed in the unique smell of her: sex, Chanel and a hint of Gauloise.

“Over,” she said, making a twisting movement with her finger in the air. “Turn over.”

Will did as he was told. Marie-Cecile began to massage his neck and broad shoulders. He could feel his body stretch and relax under her touch. Neither of them paid any attention to the sound of the front door opening and closing below. He didn’t even register the voices in the hall, the footsteps taking the stairs two by two and striding along the corridor.

There were a couple of sharp raps on the bedroom door. “
Maman
!”

Will tensed.

“It’s only my son,” she said. “
Out? Qu’est-ce que c’est
?”

“
Maman! Je veux te parler
.”

Will lifted his head. “I thought he wasn’t due back until tomorrow.”

“He isn’t.”

“
Maman
!” Francois-Baptiste repeated. “
C’est important
.”

“If I’m in the way…”he said awkwardly.

Marie-Cecile continued to massage his shoulders. “He knows not to disturb me. I will talk to him later.” She raised her voice.
“Pas maintenant,
Francois-Baptiste.” Then she added in English for Will’s benefit, as she ran her hands down his back: “Now is not… convenient.”

Will rolled onto his back and sat up, feeling embarrassed. In the three months he’d known Marie-Cecile, he’d never met her son. Francois-Baptiste had been away at university, then on holiday with friends. Only now did it occur to him that Marie-Cecile had engineered it.

“Aren’t you going to talk to him?”

“If it makes you happy,” she said, slipping off the bed. She opened the door a fraction. There was a muffled exchange that Will couldn’t hear, then the sound of feet stomping off down the hall. She turned the key in the lock and turned back to face him.

“Better?” she said softly.

Slowly, she moved back toward him, looking at him from the fringe of her long, dark eyelashes. There was something deliberate about her movements, like a performance, but Will felt his body respond all the same.

She pushed him back on to the bed and straddled him, draping her elegant arms over his shoulders. Her sharp nails left faint scratch marks across his skin. He could feel her knees pressing into his sides. He reached up and ran his fingers down her smooth, toned arms and brushed her breasts with the back of his hands through the silk. The thin silk straps slipped easily from her sculptured shoulders.

The mobile phone lying on the bedside table rang. Will ignored it. He eased the delicate camisole down her lean body to her waist.

“They’ll call back if it’s important.”

Marie-Cecile glanced at the number on the screen. Immediately, her mood changed.

“I must take this,” she said.

Will tried to stop her, but she pushed him away impatiently. “Not now.”

Covering herself, she walked away to the window. “
Oui. J’ecoute
.”

He heard the crackle of a bad line.
“Trouve-le, alors!”
she said and disconnected. Her face flushed with anger, Marie-Cecile reached for a cigarette and lit it. Her hands were shaking.

“Is there a problem?”

To start with, Will thought she hadn’t heard him. She looked as if she’d forgotten he was even in the room. Then, she glanced over.

“Something has come up,” she said.

Will waited, until he realized it was all the explanation he was going to get and she was expecting him to go.

“I’m sorry,” she said, in a conciliatory tone. “I’d much rather stay with you,
mats
…”

Annoyed, Will got up and pulled on his jeans.

“Will I see you for dinner?”

She pulled a face. “I have an engagement. Business, if you remember.” She shrugged. “Later,
oui?”

“How late is later? Ten o’clock? Midnight?”

She came over and threaded her fingers through his. “I am sorry.”

Will tried to pull away, although she wouldn’t let him. “You’re always doing this. I never know what’s going on.”

She moved closer so he could feel her breasts pressing against his chest through the thin silk. Despite his bad temper, he felt his body react.

“It’s just business,” she murmured. “Nothing to be jealous about.”

“I’m not jealous.” He’d lost count of the times they’d had this conversation. “It’s more that—”

“
Ce soir
,” she said, releasing him. “Now, I must get ready.”

Before he had a chance to object, she had disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

When Marie-Cecile emerged from her shower she was relieved to find Will had gone. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find him still sprawled across the bed with that innocent expression on his face.

His demands were starting to get on her nerves. Increasingly, he wanted more of her time and attention than she was prepared to give. He seemed to be misunderstanding the nature of the relationship. She would have to deal with it.

Marie-Cecile put Will from her mind. She looked around. Her maid had been in and tidied the room. Her things were laid out ready on the bed. Her gold handmade slippers were on the floor beside it.

She lit another cigarette from her case. She was smoking too much, but she was nervous tonight. She tapped the end of the filter against the lid before lighting it. It was another mannerism she’d inherited from her grandfather, like so much else.

Marie-Cecile walked over to the mirror and allowed the white silk bathrobe to slide from her shoulders. It pooled around her feet on the floor. She tilted her head to one side and stared in the mirror with a critical eye. The long lean body, unfashionably pale; the full high breasts, the flawless skin. She ran her hand over her dark nipples then lower, tracing the outline of her hip bones, her flat stomach. There were a few more lines around her eyes and mouth perhaps, but otherwise she was little marked by time.

The ormolu clock on the mantle above the fireplace began to chime the hour, reminding her she should begin her preparations. She reached and took the full length, diaphanous shift from the hanger. Cut high at the back, with a sharp V-neck at the front, it had been tailored for her.

Marie-Cecile hooked the straps, narrow ribbons of gold, over her angular shoulders, and then sat down at the dressing table. She brushed her hair, twisting the curls around her fingers, until it shone like polished jet. She loved this moment of metamorphosis, when she ceased to be herself and became the
Navigataire.
The process connected back through time to all those who had filled this same role before her.

Marie-Cecile smiled. Only her grandfather would understand how she felt now. Euphoric, exhilarated, invincible. Not tonight, but the next time she did this, it would be in the place where her ancestors once had stood. But not him. It was painful how close the cave was to the site of her grandfather’s excavations fifty years ago. He’d been right all along. Just a matter of a few kilometers to the east and it would have been him and not her who stood poised to change history.

She’d inherited the de l’Oradore family business on his death five years ago. It was a role he had been grooming her for, for as long as she could remember. Her father—his only son—was a disappointment to him. Marie-Cecile had been aware of this from a very early age. At six, her grandfather had taken her education in hand—social, academic and philosophical. He had a passion for the finer things of life and an amazing eye for color and craftsmanship. Furniture, tapestries, couture, paintings, books, his taste was immaculate. Everything she valued about herself, she had learned from him.

He had also taught her about power, how to use it and how to keep it. When she was eighteen and he believed her ready, her grandfather had formally disinherited his own son and named her instead as his heir.

There had only been one stumble in their relationship, her unexpected and unwanted pregnancy. Despite his dedication to the Quest for the ancient secret of the Grail, her grandfather’s Catholicism was strong and orthodox and he did not approve of children born outside marriage. Abortion was out of the question. Adoption was out of the question. It was only when he saw that motherhood made no difference to her determination—that, if anything, it sharpened her ambition and ruthlessness—that he allowed her back into his life.

She inhaled deeply on her cigarette, welcoming the burning smoke as it curled down her throat and into her lungs, resenting the power of her memories. Even more than twenty years later, the memory of her exile filled her with a cold desperation. Her
excommunication,
he’d called it.

It was a good description. It had felt like being dead.

Marie-Cecile shook her head to shake the maudlin thoughts away. She wanted nothing to disturb her mood tonight. She couldn’t allow anything to cast a shadow over tonight. She wanted no mistakes.

She turned back to the mirror. First, she applied a pale foundation and dusted her skin with a gold face powder that reflected the light. Next, she outlined her lids and brows with heavy kohl pencil that accentuated her dark lashes and black pupils, then a green eye shadow, iridescent like a peacock’s tail. For her lips, she chose a metallic copper gloss flecked with gold, kissing a tissue to seal the color. Finally, she sprayed a haze of perfume into the air and let it fall, like mist, onto the surface of her skin.

Three boxes were lined up on the dressing table, the red leather and brass clasps polished and gleaming. Each piece of ceremonial jewelry was several hundred years old, but modeled on pieces thousands of years older. In the first, there was a gold headdress, like a tiara, rising to a point in the center; in the second, two gold amulets, shaped like snakes, their glittering eyes made of cut emerald; the third contained a necklace, a solid band of gold with the symbol suspended from the middle. The gleaming surfaces echoed with an imagined memory of the dust, the heat of ancient Egypt.

When she was ready, Marie-Cecile moved over to the window. Below her, the streets of Chartres lay spread out like a picture postcard, the everyday shops and cars and restaurants nestling in the shadows of the great Gothic cathedral. Soon, from these same houses, would come the men and women chosen to take part in tonight’s ritual.

She closed her eyes to the familiar skyline and darkening horizon. Now, she no longer saw the spire and the gray cloisters. Instead, in her mind’s eye, she saw the whole world, like a glittering map, stretched out before her.

Within her reach at last.

CHAPTER 15

Foix

Alice was jolted awake by a persistent ringing in her ear.

Where the hell am I?
The beige phone on the shelf above the bed rang again.

Of course.
Her hotel room in Foix. She’d come back from the site, done some packing, then had a shower. The last thing she remembered was lying down on her bed for five minutes.

Alice fumbled for the receiver. “
Oui.Allo
?”

The owner of the hotel, Monsieur Annaud, had a strong local accent, all flat vowels and nasal consonants. Alice had trouble understanding him face to face. On the phone, without the benefit of eyebrows and hand gestures, it was impossible. He sounded like a cartoon character.

“Plus lentement,”s’il vous plait,“
she said, trying to slow him down.
”Vous parlez trop vite. Je ne comprends pas.“

There was a pause. She heard rapid muttering in the background. Then Madame Annaud came on and explained there was someone waiting for Alice in reception.

“
Une femme
?” she said hopefully.

Alice had left a note for Shelagh at the site house, as well as a couple of messages on her voicemail, but she’d heard nothing.

“
Non, c’est un homme
,” replied Madame Annaud.

“
Okay
,” she sighed, disappointed. “
J’arrive. Deux minutes
.”

She ran a comb through her hair, which was still damp, then pulled on a skirt and T-shirt, pushed her feet into a pair of espadrilles, then headed downstairs, wondering who the hell it could be.

The main team were all staying in a small auberge close to the excavation site. In any case, she’d already said her goodbyes to those who wanted to hear them. Nobody else knew she was here. Since she’d broken up with Oliver, there was no one to tell anyway.

The reception area was deserted. She peered into the gloom, expecting to see Madame Annaud sitting behind the high wooden desk, but the was no one there. Alice took a quick look round the corner at the waiting room. The old wicker chairs, dusty on the underside, were unoccupied, were the two large leather sofas that stood at right angles to the fireplace draped with horse brasses and testimonials from grateful past guests, lopsided spinner of postcards, offering dog-eared views of everything Foix and the Ariege had to offer, was still.

Alice went back to the desk and rang the bell. There was a rattle of beads in the doorway as Monsieur Annaud appeared from the family’s private quarters.

“II y a quelqu’un pour moi?”