Inside lay Konrad in his icy sarcophagus.
In that sunlit moment it seemed madness to try to bring him back, no more possible than stopping the turning of the earth. What if… What if I were to let life simply take its course? Surely it was a form of madness, what I had in mind.
But I couldn’t stop my thoughts from straying back to the spirit world, its lustrous colors and textures, the surge of life in my veins, my healed, painless hand. I’d opened a door, and it had revealed all kinds of possibilities, all manner of power.
And perhaps it would allow me to keep the promise I’d made to myself, to unlock every secret law of this earth, to bring Konrad back.
A jolt of pain in my missing fingers made me curse. I turned from the mountain, looking back at our chateau poised on the lake’s edge like a powerful and brooding sentinel. I imagined myself a malign spirit, whirling about the house, trying to get in.
There was a second promise I’d made not so long ago-to stop coveting what was my brother’s. If I brought him back, would I have to surrender any chance of winning Elizabeth?
Hadn’t I sacrificed enough already for Konrad? I’d given my fingers, dared to enter the spirit world, and might face even greater trials to give him back his life.
In the spirit world Elizabeth had kissed me and pushed herself against me with a passion that seemed impossible. Surely some part of her had to love me. She denied it, but I didn’t believe her, and if I could get her to spend more time with me in the spirit world, maybe that ardor would grow even stronger and I’d be able to unlock it in the real world. How could such a pursuit be deceitful if she herself wanted the same thing as me?
I will bring my brother back, I thought.
But I’d keep Elizabeth for myself.
As I made my way back home, I saw a fine carriage I didn’t recognize near our stables. Inside the chateau I found my father’s manservant, Schultz, and asked him who our visitor was.
“Professor Neumeyer from the university,” he told me. “He came to examine the caves.”
“Is he there now?” I asked, eager to have another chance to explore.
“No. He’s speaking with your father. I believe they’re in the west sitting room.”
“Thank you, Schultz,” I said, vaulting up the stairs.
I found them on the balcony, Elizabeth and Henry, too, standing against the balustrade, the professor pointing at something along the shoreline. He was not at all my idea of a professor. I’d expected someone bespectacled and papery, but this fellow was built like a bear. He wore clothes that looked better suited to hunting than studying, had a bearded ruddy face, and hands that could break bones with ease.
“As you see,” he was saying, “the site of your chateau is most desirable. Access to fresh drinking water and easy transport routes across the lake. It commands a view in all directions and is backed by the mountains, both strategic advantages. You’re by no means the first people to have lived here. The Allobroges Celts had settlements as far back as five hundred years before Christ.”
“Did they make the drawings in the caves?” I asked.
“Ah, Victor,” said my father, turning. “I’m glad you’re back. Professor Neumeyer has been kind enough to take a look at our recent discovery.”
“All too briefly,” he said, shaking my hand in a grip that was almost painful. “And, no, young sir, the Celts did not make those paintings. I believe they are altogether older.”
“How much older?” Elizabeth asked.
The professor shrugged his powerful shoulders. “I’ve never seen anything like them. They were made no doubt by an ancient hunting culture. Look here.” He pulled something from his pocket. “Their tools were primitive but ingenious as well. This stick of carved bone is stained with pigment at both ends-an early brush, I believe.”
“There were strange geometric symbols,” I said. “Did you see them?”
The professor’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “Indeed I did.”
“They had language,” I said.
“Ah, now there’s a question. Those markings seem purposeful, so I say yes. But it’s a codex I’ve never encountered. I made a transcription and mean to send it to a colleague of mine in France who discovered something similar in caves near Lascaux. I’m hopeful he’ll be able to translate them for me.” He looked at my father. “Alphonse, you’ve got a true treasure here. There are surely chambers and galleries yet to be discovered. I’d like to bring some artists to make a record of the paintings, and some colleagues to help make a thorough examination of the site.”
My father nodded. “I’d never hinder such an undertaking. The house is open to you.”
“I’d like to go to Mass,” Elizabeth said as we were finishing a late lunch after the professor had departed.
I knew that she only ever asked to go to Mass during a weekday when she was distraught. The last time was when Konrad was very ill and she’d wanted to light a candle for him. I had a fair idea what was bothering her, but it irritated me she was drawing attention to it. I looked over at Father, wondering if he suspected anything.
But all he said, somewhat distractedly, was, “Of course. Victor and Henry can take you.”
Before Konrad’s death it had always been his job to take Elizabeth to and from Mass in the nearby village of Bellerive, and he’d used this time alone with her, I later learned, to woo her. And she’d also used the time to slowly and secretly start converting him to the Church of Rome.
As I drove the horse and carriage down the lake road, I couldn’t resist asking her playfully, “So are we leaving you at the church permanently? Have you chosen your wimple yet?”
She tried to give me a withering look, but I could see the mirth behind her eyes.
Sitting between us, Henry turned to her in genuine alarm. “You’re not serious! That’s not happening today, is it?”
Elizabeth and I laughed together.
“No, Henry,” she said. “I won’t be joining the convent just yet.”
“Thank God,” murmured Henry.
“Any day now, though,” I said, and then a worrying thought halted my chuckling. I looked at Elizabeth sternly. “You don’t mean to confess anything, do you?”
“That’s really none of your business,” she said. “And even if I did, the priest is sworn to secrecy.”
“This is true,” Henry said.
“Still,” I said through gritted teeth, “it would be best if you didn’t go whispering our secrets to anyone else.”
“Well,” said Elizabeth, unable to restrain a smile, “why not come right into the church with me, to make sure I don’t go on a whispering spree.”
“I think I will,” I said as I guided the horses into the churchyard.
“Good. Henry, you’re most welcome to join us too.”
“I’ll wait outside, thank you,” said Henry, who worshipped at the Calvinist church.
“Better hurry, Victor,” she said tauntingly over her shoulder as she lifted her skirts and ran toward the entrance. “I’m feeling very contrite. Who knows what I might confess!”
I ran after her. During the service I waited at the back, watching Elizabeth like a hawk, to make sure she didn’t try to duck into a confessional booth. But she seemed intent only on her own prayers, and after a while I wandered into a side chapel where, above the altar, there was an oil painting of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead.
The Bible was not a book I was terribly familiar with, but this story I did know.
In the picture Jesus radiated light, his hand outstretched toward Lazarus, whose body was still partially wound in burial linens. Yet his eyes were open, one arm flexed to help push himself upright. All around, people were staring in amazement. Some swooned; others wept in joy, or perhaps terror.
I stared so long that I didn’t notice that parishioners were leaving the church, and that Elizabeth was at my side.
“I might’ve slipped into confession without you knowing,” she said mischievously.
“Did you?” I asked sharply.
