returned to the Caribbean, fled a slave revolt there to return to Paris at the height of the revolution, lost her husband to the guillotine in 1794, and then was imprisoned herself. Only the coup that ended the Terror saved her head. When a young army officer named Bonaparte called to compliment her on the conduct of her son Eugene, who had asked for help in retrieving the sword of his executed father, she seduced him. In desperation she gambled on this rising Corsican and married him, but then slept with everyone in sight while he was in Italy and Egypt. Some whispered she was a nymphomaniac.
She’d been living with a former officer named Hippolyte Charles, now a businessman, when the alarming news arrived of her husband’s return. With the revolution having allowed divorce, she was now in danger of losing everything at the very moment Bonaparte was seeking ultimate power. At thirty-six, with discoloring teeth, she might not have another chance.
Her eyes widened at Astiza’s explanation of supernatural powers.
A child of the Sugar Isles, tales of magic weren’t alien to her.
“This book can destroy men who possess it,” Astiza said, “and wreck nations in which it is unleashed. The ancients knew this and hid it away, but Count Silano has tempted fate by stealing it. He’s t h e
r o s e t t a k e y
3 0 9
bewitched your husband with dreams of unlimited power. It could drive Napoleon mad. You must help us get it back.”
“But how?”
“We’ll safeguard the book if you give it to us. Your knowledge of it will give you tremendous influence over him.”
“But who are you?”
“My name is Astiza and this is Ethan Gage, an American.”
“Gage? The electrician? Franklin’s man?”
“Madame, I am honored to make your acquaintance and flattered that you have heard of me.” I took her hand. “I hope we can be allies.” She snatched it away. “But you are a murderer!” She looked at me doubtfully. “Of a cheap adventuress! Aren’t you?”
“A perfect example of Silano’s lies, the kind that can entrap your husband and ruin his dreams. I was the victim of an unjust accusation.
Let us help get this kind of poison away from your husband, and your married bliss will return to normal.”
“Yes. It is Silano’s fault, not mine. This book contains terrible power, you say?”
“The kind that can enslave souls.”
She thought carefully. Finally she sat back and smiled. “You’re right. God is looking out for me.”
¤
¤
¤
The Bonaparte house, bought by Josephine before they were married, was in the fashionable part of Paris known as Chaussee d’Antin, a once-marshy area where the rich had built charming homes called “follies” over the past century. It was a modest two-story abode with a rose garden at the end of its bloom and a terrace that Josephine had covered with a wooden roof and hung with flags and tapestries: a respectable home for striving, midlevel functionaries. Her carriage pulled into a gravel drive under linden trees and she got out, nervous and flustered, plucking at her cheeks. “How do I look?”
“Like a woman with a secret,” Astiza assured her. “In control.” Josephine smiled wanly and took a breath. Then we entered.
3 1 0
w i l l i a m d i e t r i c h
The rooms were a curious mix of feminine and masculine, with rich wallpaper and lacy curtains but hung with maps and plans of cities. There were the mistress’s flowers, and the master’s books, heaps of them, some just unpacked from Egypt. Her neatness was apparent, even as his boots were discarded in the dining room and his greatcoat thrown over one chair. A staircase led upward.
“He is in his bedchamber,” she whispered.
“Go to him.”
“His brothers will have told him everything. He will hate me! I am a wicked, unfaithful woman. I can’t help it. I love love so. I thought he would be killed!”
“You are human, as is he,” I soothed. “He’s not a saint either, trust me. Go, ask forgiveness, and tell him you’ve been busy recruiting allies. Explain how you’ve persuaded us to help him, that his future depends on the three of us.”
I didn’t trust Josephine, but what other weapon did we have? I was worried that Silano might be lurking about. Summoning her courage, she mounted the twenty steps to the floor above, tapping on his door.
“My sweet general?”
It was quiet for a while, and then we heard pounding, and then weeping, and then sob-wracked pleas for forgiveness. Bonaparte, it seemed, had locked the door. He was determined for divorce. We could hear his wife pleading through the wood. Then the shouting quieted and there was quieter talk, and once I thought I heard the click of a lock being turned. Then, silence. I took the stairs down to the basement kitchen and a maid found us some cheese and bread to eat. The staff clustered like mice, awaiting the outcome of the storm above. We dozed, in our weariness.
Near dawn, a maid roused us. “My mistress wants to see you,” she whispered.
