“When you told us we’d be spending the winter here in Metz, you didn’t mention that you would live only on books and parchment,” she said one evening when she and Johann were alone at the table in the dining room. “Karl and I would like to know if you’ve learned anything about your disease yet.”
“Not yet.” Johann shook his head and chewed absentmindedly on a piece of bread. “But the strange thing is that ever since I started focusing on this case, the fits have stopped, apart from some weak trembling.”
“And yet they will return—you know that,” Greta said, squeezing his hand. “By the way, Karl told me what happened in Nuremberg.”
Johann straightened up. “What did he tell you?”
“Well, I know that there was a pact between you and this Tonio del Moravia, who used to be your master. Karl told me that Tonio tried to invoke the devil in Nuremberg and that you believe this pact is the reason for your illness.”
Johann sighed. His assistant had kept his word and told Greta neither that he was her father nor any precise details about what happened at Nuremberg. Still, Greta knew more than he wanted her to. He sensed that he couldn’t string her along for much longer.
Deep in thought, he used the bread to soak up the last of Elsbeth’s soup.
“It’s true,” he said eventually. “There are things you . . . things you should know. Soon. Let me see this trial through first, all right? And then we’ll have time to talk.” He rose abruptly. “And now excuse me. Agrippa and I must study some files.”
A few weeks later, Karl and Greta sat in a tavern near the Moselle over a jug of wine, gazing out through the dirty crown-glass windows. It was late afternoon and darkness was falling, even though it was already early February, the month of carnival. Josette Corbin still hadn’t confessed. The woman had been through ten days of trial and as many tortures now, and while she grew weaker each time, she still held up.
In the beginning, Karl and Greta had joined the doctor at court, but when proceedings began to drag on and turned into a series of legal battles, they stayed away and chose to explore the city instead. Karl had also been painting, while Greta practiced her juggling tricks and often felt bored to death.
Elsbeth, Agrippa’s wife, treated her very kindly, almost like a sister. But Greta had soon realized that she would never have a real connection with the plump, cheerful woman. Elsbeth had her child, and she cooked, did the washing, and looked after her forgetful husband, while Greta was a traveling juggler, destination unknown. Greta sometimes wondered whether the path Elsbeth had chosen—that so many women chose—wasn’t the better one.
The snow had given way to a cold dampness, a frosty fog that crept into the clothes and made one shiver as with a fever. From the tavern they could hear shouting and music outside, the monotonous thud of a drum, several bagpipes, and flutes playing a melancholy tune, followed by the footsteps of a crowd marching past.
Slightly tipsy from the strong wine, Greta set down her cup and looked around the taproom. She and Karl were just about the only patrons. Everyone else was outside to watch the annual Graoully procession. The Graoully was a mythical creature that had allegedly inhabited Metz a long time ago. The burghers of Metz had fetched the huge wooden puppet from a storeroom in the cathedral, renewed some of the scales of the dragon, and polished its red glass eyes. Now people followed the beast through the lanes in their best clothes, laughing and singing to the beat of the musicians. The monstrous dragon puppet moved past the tavern window, and Greta involuntarily shrank back from the glass.
“I wonder for how much longer we must stay in this rotten city,” she muttered and refilled both their cups. For some time now they had seen Johann only briefly, for dinner. He hadn’t yet fulfilled his promise of telling Greta more about her past and her mother.
Karl shrugged. “I think we could be doing worse. Those windows in the cathedral are stunning—they practically glow. Elsbeth is an excellent cook, and the wine here is much better than in Bamberg.” He smiled, but then his expression turned serious. “But you’re right, of course. The doctor hasn’t come an inch closer to his goal of learning more about his mysterious illness. Agrippa is holding out on him.”
Greta drained her cup and wiped her mouth. “If only I hadn’t seen the throbbing in his hand again—I’d be long gone!” The words had slipped out because she had drunk too much, like so often in the last few weeks. She drank to forget her woes, but they always returned and continued to grow.
“And what about you?” she asked Karl. “The doctor doesn’t even look at you these days. And still you run after him like a pup.”
“You don’t understand.” Karl lowered his gaze. “I . . . I can’t help it. The doctor and I . . .”
Suddenly Greta understood, and she was filled with sympathy, regretting her harsh words.
“Dear God—you’re in love with him, aren’t you?” she said gently. “Of course! That is why you’re staying.” She smiled sadly, feeling much more sober now. “I should have noticed sooner. All those years . . . You poor thing.” She shook her head. “How awful it must be to love someone, unable to confess your love and without hope of ever being loved back.”
“It eats you up. It’s like the candlewick that forever flickers but never goes out.” Karl’s handsome face was fine boned and serious. Greta thought about how many
