After another two hours of hiking, they finally made camp. John plucked the pheasant, stuffed it with wild carrots and herbs, and roasted it together with the skinned rabbits on a spit. When he divided up the delicious-smelling meat, he tossed a few lumps to Little Satan, who devoured them happily. The dog obeyed John almost as readily as he obeyed Johann, which didn’t help to improve the doctor’s mood.
As the branches cracked in the fire and everyone’s faces were shiny with fat, John told the others what he knew about this area.
“This land was a war zone for decades, almost an entire century,” he began. “When Charles IV died as the last Capetian king without a male heir, an argument over the succession of the French crown broke out. The English laid their claim and occupied the entire north of the country. The border was right here, along the Loire.” John lowered his voice. “People say this region bled more than any other in France. They say the ghosts of the dead soldiers still haunt these woods.”
“Cut out the ridiculous ghost stories,” said Johann. “You’re our guide, not a juggler or jester.”
“Oh, perhaps the doctor would like to tell us his own ghost story?” jeered John. “About a knight who is over a hundred years old and still roams the Loire Valley?”
“I have to agree with John,” said Karl. “What you need is real medicine, not the castle of a villain who died a hundred years ago. The whole thing is . . . absurd!” He shook his head. “You are a man of reason, of intellect, and now you’re looking for the devil on earth. I had hoped fervently that Leonardo would steer you back onto the right track.”
Karl still regretted deeply having left the great Leonardo behind on his deathbed. He would have liked to stay at Cloux for much longer, but instead, they were chasing a phantom.
Or Satan himself.
Greta, on the other hand, had come to believe her father. There were too many events that couldn’t be explained with reason alone, as Karl insisted. She prayed every day now, thinking about her mother, who had found God toward the end of her life—and still had to burn at the stake like Jeanne d’Arc, companion of Gilles de Rais.
God and the devil always form a unity, thought Greta. Like two sides of a coin. What side is my father on?
The honest truth was, she didn’t know.
Around noon the following day they came to a small abbey with lodgings. It had been raining heavily since morning, and they were glad to warm their limbs for a little while and dry their soaked coats by the fire. A handful of other travelers had also sought shelter in the narrow, smoky pub room. They were served steaming mutton stew, cheese, and a slightly sour but drinkable wine. Greta noticed the other guests repeatedly turning their heads to stare at her father. His paralysis was obvious now, and his crooked neck and shaking hand when he lifted the spoon to his mouth turned him into a leper, an untouchable. It seemed to her like the people sensed that the man in their midst was cursed. Johann, however, didn’t deign to look at anyone in the room. After he’d finished his meal, he picked up one of his books with shaking hands and awkwardly started to read it. It was the Figura Umana, which Faust had stitched back together at Cloux. The tattered work was the last reminder he had of the great Leonardo da Vinci.
They dozed by the fire. Evidently, the chimney hadn’t been cleaned in a while; the smoke escaped very poorly. Greta eventually decided to go outside for some fresh air. She stepped out the door and peered through the rain. Over by the stables she saw John with several men. Greta blinked. She could have been mistaken, but two of the men looked almost identical to John’s former crew members. When John spotted Greta in the door, he quickly walked away from the men with a nod and hurried over to her. He hugged her tightly.
“They are carpenters from Tours who are here to put a new roof on the abbey,” he explained. “They, too, have heard stories of missing or dead children, especially in the barony of Retz.” John shook his head. “Hell, I’d really like to know who is behind it.”
“If it isn’t an ogre, then who?” asked Greta.
“My guess is that it’s a gang of slave traders. They might abduct children to sell them to the Ottomans, and whoever is too weak they kill. It wouldn’t be the first time—the Atlantic isn’t far.” John frowned. “But then again, it might actually be connected with Tiffauges. Those carpenters reckon the steward allowed some strange people into the castle, and since then nothing is the way it used to be.”
“Those men from Tours do seem to know a lot,” said Greta.
John laughed dismissively. “I’m sure much of it is just talk. But one thing is true: there are a lot of wolves in this area. They’ve become a real pest in recent years. We must be careful.”
As if to prove his point, they suddenly heard a howling from the woods, followed shortly by the howling of a second
