“What is it?” asked Johann.
“Come to the shed tomorrow night with your assistant, at midnight, when everyone’s asleep,” said Leonardo. “Perhaps then we’ll finally find an answer to the question that has been torturing us for the longest time. Is our illness merely a loose screw or a”—he hesitated—“an incurable curse? I am tired. Let us go to bed.”
Leonardo waited until Johann had left the library. When Johann wanted to take another look at the drawings the following day, including the terrifying sketch with the mysterious word Seguaffit scrawled on it, he found the library door locked.
It would remain locked to Johann for many weeks.
The following morning, Greta, along with many other believers, headed for the small Saint Denis Church above town.
The church stood a little outside of Amboise on a wide road that led from the Loire up a hill. It was Sunday, and Greta had left Château du Cloux before breakfast to roam the streets of town, like she had done for nearly two weeks. On several occasions she’d had the feeling of being followed, but she thought she was probably mistaken. For safety, she usually brought along Little Satan, who was better than three highly trained bodyguards.
Greta found it very hard to get over John’s betrayal. She had truly believed the night at Blois had been special for him, too. But she guessed she was just one of many girls he picked up along the Loire each week. A fun adventure, a brief bit of pleasure, nothing more. She had been so embarrassed about the rebuff and her naive longings that she hadn’t even told Karl about it. The two men were always busy with Leonardo; no one cared about Greta at Château du Cloux. It was high time to leave all this behind.
But where should she go? Greta wasn’t fooling herself. A single young woman in a foreign country was fair game, and her French wasn’t good enough to join a troupe of jugglers. She had given herself a few days to consider her options.
To take her mind off John and all the other gloomy thoughts, she and Little Satan had been exploring Amboise, the port, the nearby tuff caves, and the castle, even though she never got farther than the upper gates.
When mist rose from the Loire like a white sheet in the mornings, the castle appeared to hover above the town. A paved lane led up the inside of a tower in serpentines, wide enough to fit carts and carriages. Courtiers and officials came and went, but the king hadn’t returned. He was still somewhere north, trying to sway the election of the German king in his favor.
In one of the caves at the foot of the hill, Greta had discovered a small chapel. She liked to pray in it, and it soon became her favorite spot, her refuge. Since she had helped her father twice with the power of prayer, her belief had grown strong again. Memories returned from church visits with Valentin back in Nuremberg. The prayers gave Greta strength and dispelled her fears and doubts. That was also the reason she was going to church today. She had left the dog at Cloux; he wasn’t an appropriate churchgoer.
When the bells rang, Greta followed the other believers into the cool building and sat in a pew at the back. No one paid her any special attention. The smell of incense wafting through the vaulted room soothed her instantly. The citizens of Amboise started to sing a simple hymn that sounded like a children’s song. Greta hummed along softly.
“Mon Dieu, protégez nos enfants.”
Lord, protect our children.
Just as in Blois, farther upstream, here in Amboise people told stories of a child-eating monster. Several times Greta had heard the word ogre in taverns, and people had seemed anxious and downcast. And there was another word she’d heard repeatedly in connection with this ogre.
Tiffauges.
Greta didn’t know what it meant—was it another monster, or the name of a place or a person? She had considered asking Karl, but he was so preoccupied with Leonardo that she’d dropped the thought.
The chanting of the believers rose, and Greta joined in.
“Je crois, je crois, je crois.”
She was kneeling down to pray with the others when she sensed that someone was watching her. It was the same vague feeling she’d had a few times lately, like an itchy spot on the back that you couldn’t scratch. Carefully, she looked around. She was kneeling in the pews of the women, all wearing scarves around their heads and some even veils. Greta looked to the rows of men to her right. They, too, were kneeling with their heads bowed, but one of those heads, so Greta thought, had only just turned away. The man was sitting on the far side of the church; she couldn’t make out more than a shadow in the dim light.
Greta’s heart beat faster until the end of the service. Here inside the church she felt safe, untouchable. Evil couldn’t harm her here. When the priest spoke the final blessing with his arms wide open, she stood up and followed the other women outside. But unlike the others, she turned right and hid around the corner of the building. The chiming bells and the murmuring of the crowd gave her courage. If anything happened to her here, she could call out for help.
After a while she heard footsteps; someone was approaching her hiding place. Greta gathered all her courage and stepped forward.
She almost collided with the man.
When Greta recognized him, she was lost for words at first.
“John?” she asked, puzzled. She took a step back and looked at him. He was unshaven and pale, as if he’d been sleeping poorly. But other than that, he was just the same. Greta was so surprised that she forgot to be angry.
John,
