“I . . . I don’t know if I . . . ,” replied Johann. The dying man seemed to talk feverishly. Johann was going to say something else, but Leonardo pushed him away.
“Some thoughts must be burned,” he said more loudly. “They must never come to light! I think there will be a big fire before I die, and I am going to warm my gout-ridden fingers on my many ideas one last time. I want to be alone now. Fare thee well, Doctor. And give my regards to your handsome assistant. What a shame I couldn’t have met him in my younger days.” He raised his trembling hand in farewell. “I consider you my brother in spirit. Walk the rest of your path with care.”
He sank back into his pillows and closed his eyes. Battista shuffled toward Johann and gestured at the door.
“Thank you. I can find my own way out,” muttered Johann.
He gave one last nod in the direction of Leonardo da Vinci, the greatest genius the world had ever seen, and walked out into the hallway. The door creaked shut behind him.
And with the closing door vanished the last glimmer of hope that Johann could still escape his fate.
There was no way out.
He was lost.
When Greta hurried to the Île d’Or the following evening, the rushes and the swamp looked creepy to her, like hostile beings. The evening sun cast a red glow over the trees, and the shadows on the muddy ground were long. The magic she had always felt on the island had vanished. The bad news she’d received earlier awakened old fears, like a scab that was ripped off.
This time John waited for her outside the church, his face wrought with worry.
“Where have you been all day?” he asked, walking toward her. “I thought God-knows-what happened!”
“Something has happened,” said Greta quietly. John hugged her, waiting for her to continue. But she took a few moments; she was too upset.
They had left Château du Cloux very early that morning, at Melzi’s request. Leonardo da Vinci was on his deathbed; for all she knew, he might have already died. The news had hit Karl hard, since Leonardo was one of his idols. But her father was even worse. He had spent the whole day staring at the ceiling of an attic room at an inn below the castle. He murmured strange things while Karl sat watching over him. It was as if her father had given up, as if he waited for death in that bed—or for that which came after. His state probably wasn’t helped by the large amounts of theriac he consumed.
Greta had taken another look at the lines in her father’s hand before she left. They had become even paler, like the trails of fireflies fading in the night.
He is going to die, she thought. There is no way out.
“What’s happened?” asked John. He gently led her into the church, where some candles had been lit on the altar. Greta gazed at their shared hideout, knowing that the time had come: she needed to make a decision. She felt in her heart that she’d already made it: she would go with John, the man she loved.
Why was it so incredibly difficult to take this step?
My father’s story is also my story.
“My news isn’t very good,” she began. Then she told John haltingly what had happened in the last few hours. “I knew it would end like this,” she said bitterly. “I just didn’t want to accept it. This whole journey was doomed from the beginning. Maybe all we’re chasing is a phantom. I should never have followed my father.”
“Your father?” John gaped at her. “The famous Doctor Faustus is your father?”
“Yes, he is. That and more . . .” Greta was shaking, unable to go on.
“I think it’s time for you to tell me the real reason for your journey,” said John, taking her hand in his. “No more excuses, Greta. And no lies. We made a promise to each other, remember? I am a smuggler, but who are you, Greta? I know nothing about you.”
She hesitated for another moment, then she spoke. “Back in Blois, at the tavern. You told me that people around here speak of a child-eating ogre.”
John rolled his eyes. “Not that again! Don’t tell me your father believes those fairy tales and is too scared to leave the house. I mean, he is Doctor Faustus. He should—”
“What if those ogres are real?” asked Greta, cutting him off. “What if my father has been cursed by such an ogre?”
“Cursed?” John looked stupefied. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”
Haltingly at first, Greta began to tell John about Tonio and the pact her father had made with him a long time ago. Her voice grew steadier as she told him about Johann’s illness and the suspicion that Tonio was some kind of ancient creature, perhaps even the devil himself. In the end, the words came gushing out of her as if she confided in John in the hope of finding solace and absolution. He listened silently. When she had finished, he shook his head.
“It all sounds very strange. I honestly don’t know what to think. This Tonio—an old pact with the devil?”
“You don’t have to believe it. I don’t know myself how much of it is true. But at least now you know why we visited Leonardo da Vinci. My father suspects that Leonardo, too, made such a pact with the devil, and that he might know what can be done about it. But Leonardo revealed nothing, and now Melzi has thrown us out.” Her voice trembled. “I saw it in my father’s hands. He . . . he is dying. I could come to terms with that, but not if the devil swoops in to fetch him!”
“And you could really foretell his death by his hand? You can actually do that?” John held out his right. “Do you want
