The bacon was tolerable; no-one really understands it like the United Kingdom do and it was closer to crispy pancetta – which I happen to like – than to real bacon. The sausages were more Germanic than anything else, I thought, and the eggs were definitely Spanish, I could taste garlic and chorizo in there. A thorough hodge-podge of a cuisine then, still intended to keep where we were a mystery.
James was unhappy with the bacon but cheered up when he got to the eggs and hash browns; Irene seemed quietly happy with her bacon rolls, but then she put more ketchup on them than anything else. After she asked for a second bottle I figured she was making ketchup sandwiches and the bacon was just there for a little bit of texture. Isabella's omelette was crepe thin but filled with buttered new potatoes, slices of ham, slivers of garlic and something green that I think was leek.
The coffee was excellent though, and I was on my third cup when Isabella looked at me warningly and told me that we had at least an hour's drive to the safe-house still. I paused, the cup half-way to my lips, steam rising from it and making me blink.
"I'll pop to the toilet now then," I said, unwilling to stop drinking the coffee.
When we were all done Isabella paid with a credit card that appeared to be a jet-black plastic slab, no numbers, no name on the front; just a way of transferring funds in unlimited amounts. I was envious. Then we were leaving by the doors and, to my astonishment, walking to a different car than the one we'd arrived by.
"Our actual car has arrived," said Isabella, leading the way. "It has all our luggage from the plane."
"We had a little extra luggage in our boot," I said, trying to be discreet.
"Don't worry about him," said Isabella. "I mentioned it back in the café. He'll get a breakfast, on me of course, and reassurance that he just slipped on some oil in the car-park and banged his head."
"Efficient," said James sounding pleased. He opened the rear door of the long black car with, I noted with a little dismay, tinted windows. I got in, and discovered that the car was long because the back contained a little horseshoe of seats, enough for six people to sit in comfort, eight to sit if they knew each other well, and anywhere up to twenty students to squeeze in.
The car moved off as soon as the back door was closed, and not only could I not see out of the windows, but the window between the driver and the passengers was up and there were no visible controls for it. Irene sat forward and slid a small table out from one of the unoccupied seats. "Scrabble?" she said brightly.
We drove for probably an hour and a half, but my guess was based on us playing three games. Irene and Isabella were tough opponents, but James was out of his league. When I set down BOLUS, making six words and a little over fifty points in the first game his jaw dropped, and when Irene followed that up with SPICY making three words but sixty-three points I thought he was going to stop playing. His final scores were usually a fifth of what myself, Irene and Isabella obtained, and a couple of times he clearly wanted to challenge a word he'd never seen before. When Irene finally played EUOUAE he actually did lay his rack down and announce he wasn't playing any more.
"Well, we're almost there anyway," said Isabella, her eyes not leaving the board. "We should really put this away."
Almost as she finished speaking the car slowed and I heard the crunch of tyres on gravel.
Showing posts with label book of miracles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label book of miracles. Show all posts
Friday, 9 December 2011
Thursday, 24 November 2011
Book of Miracles XI
Irene's driving was fast and competent, and though I think James was hoping for her to be either slower or less able, he was looking slightly impressed as we zoomed down the road. I tried to pay attention to where we were going, looking out for roadsigns and landmarks, and Isabella did a pretty good job of trying to distract me. After a while, when I realised that I was seeing the same tall building going past us for the third time, I gave up trying to work out where we were and accepted that Irene was taking us the long way round to wherever we were going, and listened to Isabella instead. Some of her stories were thoroughly hair-raising, and my respect for her abilities rose. As did my worry about what exactly I was getting myself into, and my confidence that this book of Miracles that she was taking me to was the real thing. It seemed like a fair trade-off.
When the car finally stopped we were at a small café of some kind, just along a muddy side-track from the main road. Irene had indicated and turned off so smoothly that at first I thought we were just striking out across a field. The car stopped in a car park that was equal parts mud and gravel, sending up a spray of muddy water, and Isabella opened her door.
"We'll have breakfast here," she said. "They speak English and don't have much small talk. The food's not wonderful, but it's cooked from scratch and most of the ingredients are locally sourced, which makes it better than any convenience store that's ever inconvenienced me. We're not far from where we're going, but I doubt there'll be much food there."
"I'm happy if they do bacon," said James. "Nothing beats a proper bacon sandwich."
I noticed Irene smiling too, and figured that made two bacon-lovers. I looked over at Isabella.
"Not for me," she said, but she was smiling as well. "I prefer less preserved foods. Eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, potatoes."
"Sounds vaguely Spanish, especially for breakfast," I said. "I think I'm probably in the bacon camp, though the eggs and potatoes sound pretty good too."
Isabella led the way into a single-storey building that appeared to have been made in the log-cabin fashion of piling wood up and filling in the gaps with whatever was handy. It was warm and dry inside, with the light coming from hurricane lanterns hanging from the ceiling every ten feet or so. There were tables; two were already occupied, and another eight were waiting for hungry breakfasters. We picked one and sat down, and a menu written in five languages was put in front of me by a tall, lethargic looking waiter.
We ordered, and while we waited Isabella told us what to expect next.
"We're going to a safe-house," she said. "It's safe because it's well protected, but it's not infallible. If you draw enough attention to yourselves, then even the safe-house will only buy us a small amount of time. They're difficult and expensive to put up, so please don't compromise it. I'm not letting you know where it is so that you can't tell anyone if they do capture you."
"Capture me?" I said. This was the first time Isabella had mentioned anything like this.
"Any of you," said Isabella. "We're going to look at a very precious and rare book, without its owners' knowledge. There is a trade-off for this."
I nodded my understanding but I could see that James still wasn't happy. "What happens if they capture us? And... who are they for that matter?"
"Eventual death," said Isabella, her voice curiously flat. As for who they are, they're the people who own the Book. They will feel that they have certain rights because of this.
"They don't sound all that pleasant," I said. "Why did you pick them for our little visit?"
"Because their Book is the best fit with what you told me you're looking for," said Isabella. "Did you think that these things are put into little community libraries in a back-room somewhere with a couple of cheap aluminium bars on the window and an elderly Doberman as a guard dog?"
"Would definitely be easier," said James. Irene smiled, though I think only I spotted it.
"And after the safe-house?" I said.
"That's when the adventure really begins," said Isabella.
When the car finally stopped we were at a small café of some kind, just along a muddy side-track from the main road. Irene had indicated and turned off so smoothly that at first I thought we were just striking out across a field. The car stopped in a car park that was equal parts mud and gravel, sending up a spray of muddy water, and Isabella opened her door.
"We'll have breakfast here," she said. "They speak English and don't have much small talk. The food's not wonderful, but it's cooked from scratch and most of the ingredients are locally sourced, which makes it better than any convenience store that's ever inconvenienced me. We're not far from where we're going, but I doubt there'll be much food there."
"I'm happy if they do bacon," said James. "Nothing beats a proper bacon sandwich."
I noticed Irene smiling too, and figured that made two bacon-lovers. I looked over at Isabella.
"Not for me," she said, but she was smiling as well. "I prefer less preserved foods. Eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, potatoes."
"Sounds vaguely Spanish, especially for breakfast," I said. "I think I'm probably in the bacon camp, though the eggs and potatoes sound pretty good too."
Isabella led the way into a single-storey building that appeared to have been made in the log-cabin fashion of piling wood up and filling in the gaps with whatever was handy. It was warm and dry inside, with the light coming from hurricane lanterns hanging from the ceiling every ten feet or so. There were tables; two were already occupied, and another eight were waiting for hungry breakfasters. We picked one and sat down, and a menu written in five languages was put in front of me by a tall, lethargic looking waiter.
We ordered, and while we waited Isabella told us what to expect next.
"We're going to a safe-house," she said. "It's safe because it's well protected, but it's not infallible. If you draw enough attention to yourselves, then even the safe-house will only buy us a small amount of time. They're difficult and expensive to put up, so please don't compromise it. I'm not letting you know where it is so that you can't tell anyone if they do capture you."
"Capture me?" I said. This was the first time Isabella had mentioned anything like this.
"Any of you," said Isabella. "We're going to look at a very precious and rare book, without its owners' knowledge. There is a trade-off for this."
I nodded my understanding but I could see that James still wasn't happy. "What happens if they capture us? And... who are they for that matter?"
"Eventual death," said Isabella, her voice curiously flat. As for who they are, they're the people who own the Book. They will feel that they have certain rights because of this.
"They don't sound all that pleasant," I said. "Why did you pick them for our little visit?"
"Because their Book is the best fit with what you told me you're looking for," said Isabella. "Did you think that these things are put into little community libraries in a back-room somewhere with a couple of cheap aluminium bars on the window and an elderly Doberman as a guard dog?"
"Would definitely be easier," said James. Irene smiled, though I think only I spotted it.
"And after the safe-house?" I said.
"That's when the adventure really begins," said Isabella.
Friday, 4 November 2011
Book of Miracles X
There was a light mist hanging over the field we'd landed on, but otherwise it seemed quite empty. James and I stamped our feet trying to keep warm as we all stood around; Isabella seemed not to care about the chill in the air at all, and Irene had produced some woollen leggings that seemed to be keeping her quite warm, if perhaps not quite so generally attractive as when she was just in her cabin crew uniform. I noticed that James kept sneaking glances at her, so I guessed that he liked the woollen leggings.
"I'm a little concerned," said Isabella finally, producing a mobile phone from somewhere about her person. "The car should have been waiting for us, and even if there's been a break-down there should have been a replacement out by now.""
"Two break-downs?" suggested James, rubbing his gloved hands together.
"Sounds like incompetence," said Isabella. "I really hope that something far worse has happened to explain this disappointment." The way she said disappointment made me fairly certain that I wouldn't like disappointing her. She closed the phone up, her lips setting in a thin line that, thanks to the immobility of one half of her face, actually matched up for once. She looked rather grim, and slightly scary.
"No answer," she said. "Which is generally bad, but probably good for them in the greater scheme of things. Right, we go this way then. Beyond the field is a track that eventually leads down to a small road that will have occasional traffic. We may have to hitchhike a little."
"We'll split into pairs then," said Irene immediately. Isabella started walking, leading the way. "One boy, one girl in each so that we're equally easy to give a lift to. James, would you like to be my cousin while we hitchhike?"
Even Isabella was oddly quiet while we waited for an answer, and I think we all knew what the real answer was. Finally James nodded and mumbled something I didn't quite catch, but Irene smiled over.
"So what are we going to be?" I said to Isabella's back. We were approaching a low wooden fence at the edge of the field, beyond which I could see a pot-holed muddy track that was probably only used by tractors.
"Customer and Bank Manager?" she suggested, stepping on to a stile I'd completely missed seeing. James vaulted the fence, and I tried to decide if I should to, or if I should pretend solidarity with Irene and Isabella and use the stile.
"Ouch," I said. "What have I done to you to force us to hitchhike instead of hiring a car?"
"Ok, that's a point," she said. "You can be my personal chef instead, who has lost the keys to my car in a poker game." I chose to vault the fence, now feeling no solidarity with Isabella at all, and I splashed into a wide shallow puddle.
"Fine," I said. "Though I should warn you that the only recipe I actually know off by heart is for Welsh Rarebit."
"I didn't hire you for your cooking ability," she said, and that strange half-smile danced on the mobile side of her face again.
We walked in mostly silence along the track, which slowly firmed up into something a little more roadworthy and finally, and abruptly, came out onto Isabella's occasionally travelled road – a six lane carriageway with cars zooming past at least every ten seconds.
"Irene, would you like to– oh." Isabella stared; James waving thumb had already flagged a car down, which pulled tidily over onto the hard shoulder. The driver appeared to be alone, though on the back-seat of the car was a duvet and a King Charles Spaniel. The dog was fast asleep.
"In that case, would you and James like to– oh." Isabella stopped again as James, who had got the driver to step out of the car to look at something on the passenger side, punched the driver on the back of the neck. The poor man slumped in James's arms, and he looked over at me.
"Open the boot," he said. "You'll probably need the keys from the ignition. He can ride back there, and we'll all get where we going together."
"Is this kidnapping?" I said, fetching the keys and unlocking the boot.
"Borrowing," said James. "If we pay for his petrol, I'm not sure he's got any complaints; a man who falls asleep this quickly would kill himself if he tried driving any distance."
We put the driver in the boot, and there was a brief argument between James and Irene over who was going to drive, finally resolved by Isabella pointing out that Irene knew where we were going. James sat in the front passenger seat, looking like he was ready to leap over and seize the wheel at any time, and Isabella and I woke the dog up on the back-seat, who sniffed us both for thirty-seconds and then turned in circles a few times. Finally he sat back down with a sigh, resting his head on Isabella's lap, and we were off.
"I'm a little concerned," said Isabella finally, producing a mobile phone from somewhere about her person. "The car should have been waiting for us, and even if there's been a break-down there should have been a replacement out by now.""
"Two break-downs?" suggested James, rubbing his gloved hands together.
"Sounds like incompetence," said Isabella. "I really hope that something far worse has happened to explain this disappointment." The way she said disappointment made me fairly certain that I wouldn't like disappointing her. She closed the phone up, her lips setting in a thin line that, thanks to the immobility of one half of her face, actually matched up for once. She looked rather grim, and slightly scary.
"No answer," she said. "Which is generally bad, but probably good for them in the greater scheme of things. Right, we go this way then. Beyond the field is a track that eventually leads down to a small road that will have occasional traffic. We may have to hitchhike a little."
"We'll split into pairs then," said Irene immediately. Isabella started walking, leading the way. "One boy, one girl in each so that we're equally easy to give a lift to. James, would you like to be my cousin while we hitchhike?"
Even Isabella was oddly quiet while we waited for an answer, and I think we all knew what the real answer was. Finally James nodded and mumbled something I didn't quite catch, but Irene smiled over.
"So what are we going to be?" I said to Isabella's back. We were approaching a low wooden fence at the edge of the field, beyond which I could see a pot-holed muddy track that was probably only used by tractors.
"Customer and Bank Manager?" she suggested, stepping on to a stile I'd completely missed seeing. James vaulted the fence, and I tried to decide if I should to, or if I should pretend solidarity with Irene and Isabella and use the stile.
"Ouch," I said. "What have I done to you to force us to hitchhike instead of hiring a car?"
"Ok, that's a point," she said. "You can be my personal chef instead, who has lost the keys to my car in a poker game." I chose to vault the fence, now feeling no solidarity with Isabella at all, and I splashed into a wide shallow puddle.
"Fine," I said. "Though I should warn you that the only recipe I actually know off by heart is for Welsh Rarebit."
"I didn't hire you for your cooking ability," she said, and that strange half-smile danced on the mobile side of her face again.
We walked in mostly silence along the track, which slowly firmed up into something a little more roadworthy and finally, and abruptly, came out onto Isabella's occasionally travelled road – a six lane carriageway with cars zooming past at least every ten seconds.
"Irene, would you like to– oh." Isabella stared; James waving thumb had already flagged a car down, which pulled tidily over onto the hard shoulder. The driver appeared to be alone, though on the back-seat of the car was a duvet and a King Charles Spaniel. The dog was fast asleep.
"In that case, would you and James like to– oh." Isabella stopped again as James, who had got the driver to step out of the car to look at something on the passenger side, punched the driver on the back of the neck. The poor man slumped in James's arms, and he looked over at me.
"Open the boot," he said. "You'll probably need the keys from the ignition. He can ride back there, and we'll all get where we going together."
"Is this kidnapping?" I said, fetching the keys and unlocking the boot.
"Borrowing," said James. "If we pay for his petrol, I'm not sure he's got any complaints; a man who falls asleep this quickly would kill himself if he tried driving any distance."
We put the driver in the boot, and there was a brief argument between James and Irene over who was going to drive, finally resolved by Isabella pointing out that Irene knew where we were going. James sat in the front passenger seat, looking like he was ready to leap over and seize the wheel at any time, and Isabella and I woke the dog up on the back-seat, who sniffed us both for thirty-seconds and then turned in circles a few times. Finally he sat back down with a sigh, resting his head on Isabella's lap, and we were off.
Thursday, 27 October 2011
Book of Miracles IX
The landing was astonishingly fast and rather bumpy. I'm used to commercial pilots landings, where there is plenty of notice, plenty of time for the cabin crew to stop you doing anything fun, and then frequently a delay while air-traffic control try to work out who you are and why you're in their airspace. I keep promising myself not to fly Penguin Airlines anymore, but they have far and away the best in-flight service going. This landing seemed to be over in no time. One minutes the Captain was shouting "Incoming!" over the intercom and the next minute we'd tilted noticeably forward and I found myself gripping the arms of my seat as a precaution. James looked terrified, I've already noted that Isabella's face is virtually impossible to read and Irene looked – well, serene.
The plane braked hard and I think we were all flung forward as much as our lap-straps would allow.
"I had a few modifications made to the plane," said Isabella in response to James's panic-stricken look. "Technically it's not air-worthy any more, but as I think you can see, we're a little ahead of most of the aerospace technicians out there. The plane jerked again, and stopped.
"Ah, I think we've landed," said Isabella. "Irene, could you get the doors, please?"
"Cabin-crew are cross, check!" said Irene smartly, and I knew it wasn't quite the usual statement that comes over the intercom during landing procedures, but I couldn't figure out what was wrong with it.
James wasn't moving, just sat very still and appeared to be holding his breath. His skin was a bit paler than usual, and I thought I could see sweat on his forehead.
"James?" I said, unbuckling.
"Ah," said Irene, throwing a heavy-looking bar on the door and swinging it open. "The air-sickness bags are in the seat pocket on his left." Of course, I looked on my left first and found only an in-flight magazine that looked to have been 'borrowed' from a dentist's waiting room. The air-sickness bags were in the other pocket, and James looked fractionally grateful when I put one in his hand and another on his lap.
"While your chauffeur recomposes himself," said Isabella, coming up behind me and taking my elbow, "let me show you the airfield. Irene will make sure he comes down off the plane after us, and I've realised that this will save us the hassle of hiring a driver." We walked to the door, and I saw that a flight of wheeled aluminium stairs had appeared outside the plane. I stepped on to them, and started to turn as I heard Isabella shout something, then the stairs wobbled violently and I lost my balance, and bounced down the stairs. Well, at least half-way. After that, I just woke up and found myself at the bottom and assumed that gravity had taken me there regardless.
"Boss?" James was shaking my shoulder and I was immediately grateful I'd not broken my neck. My head rolled from side to side with the force of his efforts to wake me.
"James, stop that," I said. I'd bitten my tongue and could taste the iron of blood in my mouth, and my words were slightly thickened and muffled by it. "James, STOP THAT."
"Boss," he said, standing up and backing off a bit. "You fell down the stairs. I was...." He looked sheepish, and I sat up carefully, checking for the wrong kind of pain. I hurt, but mostly in a bruised and battered kind of way, not unlike after a training session with James.
"You were indisposed," I said. "And it wouldn't matter anyway, I don't know what happened at the top there."
"You stepped onto an unsecured set of mobile stairs," said Isabella appearing from behind me. She was carrying my shoes in one hand. "I tried to stop you, which made things worse because you turned around, away from the safety rail. For a minute I thought you were going to go over the edge." She handed me my shoes.
"Thank-you," I said automatically. "Why did we go to the doors if the stairs weren't secured?"
"We had to leave the plane somehow," said Isabella, her voice flat, the way it gets when she doesn't want me to think that she thinks she's talking to an idiot. "And you weren't supposed to go down the stairs until I said it was safe to do so. This isn't a commercial flight, you know? We don't wrap you in cotton-wool, we expect a little bit of common-sense from you." She turned away, and then back again. "I really hope this was just a one-off," she said. "The Book of Miracles is not safe in any way at all, and it really is quite dangerous just to get to it. I'd rather not go at all if you're just going to die on the way."
I put my shoes on, wondering how they'd come off, and then a thought struck me. I pressed the release in the heel, and nothing fell out of the bottom of it. The GPS device was gone.
The plane braked hard and I think we were all flung forward as much as our lap-straps would allow.
"I had a few modifications made to the plane," said Isabella in response to James's panic-stricken look. "Technically it's not air-worthy any more, but as I think you can see, we're a little ahead of most of the aerospace technicians out there. The plane jerked again, and stopped.
"Ah, I think we've landed," said Isabella. "Irene, could you get the doors, please?"
"Cabin-crew are cross, check!" said Irene smartly, and I knew it wasn't quite the usual statement that comes over the intercom during landing procedures, but I couldn't figure out what was wrong with it.
James wasn't moving, just sat very still and appeared to be holding his breath. His skin was a bit paler than usual, and I thought I could see sweat on his forehead.
"James?" I said, unbuckling.
"Ah," said Irene, throwing a heavy-looking bar on the door and swinging it open. "The air-sickness bags are in the seat pocket on his left." Of course, I looked on my left first and found only an in-flight magazine that looked to have been 'borrowed' from a dentist's waiting room. The air-sickness bags were in the other pocket, and James looked fractionally grateful when I put one in his hand and another on his lap.
"While your chauffeur recomposes himself," said Isabella, coming up behind me and taking my elbow, "let me show you the airfield. Irene will make sure he comes down off the plane after us, and I've realised that this will save us the hassle of hiring a driver." We walked to the door, and I saw that a flight of wheeled aluminium stairs had appeared outside the plane. I stepped on to them, and started to turn as I heard Isabella shout something, then the stairs wobbled violently and I lost my balance, and bounced down the stairs. Well, at least half-way. After that, I just woke up and found myself at the bottom and assumed that gravity had taken me there regardless.
"Boss?" James was shaking my shoulder and I was immediately grateful I'd not broken my neck. My head rolled from side to side with the force of his efforts to wake me.
"James, stop that," I said. I'd bitten my tongue and could taste the iron of blood in my mouth, and my words were slightly thickened and muffled by it. "James, STOP THAT."
"Boss," he said, standing up and backing off a bit. "You fell down the stairs. I was...." He looked sheepish, and I sat up carefully, checking for the wrong kind of pain. I hurt, but mostly in a bruised and battered kind of way, not unlike after a training session with James.
"You were indisposed," I said. "And it wouldn't matter anyway, I don't know what happened at the top there."
"You stepped onto an unsecured set of mobile stairs," said Isabella appearing from behind me. She was carrying my shoes in one hand. "I tried to stop you, which made things worse because you turned around, away from the safety rail. For a minute I thought you were going to go over the edge." She handed me my shoes.
"Thank-you," I said automatically. "Why did we go to the doors if the stairs weren't secured?"
"We had to leave the plane somehow," said Isabella, her voice flat, the way it gets when she doesn't want me to think that she thinks she's talking to an idiot. "And you weren't supposed to go down the stairs until I said it was safe to do so. This isn't a commercial flight, you know? We don't wrap you in cotton-wool, we expect a little bit of common-sense from you." She turned away, and then back again. "I really hope this was just a one-off," she said. "The Book of Miracles is not safe in any way at all, and it really is quite dangerous just to get to it. I'd rather not go at all if you're just going to die on the way."
I put my shoes on, wondering how they'd come off, and then a thought struck me. I pressed the release in the heel, and nothing fell out of the bottom of it. The GPS device was gone.
Thursday, 20 October 2011
Book of Miracles VIII
James watched the cards like a hawk. There were three in the river already and he was nervously checking the two on the table in front of him every ten seconds or so, as though he was afraid that they were going to change. To his left sat Isabella's sister, the hostess, who had looked at her cards once when they were dealt and then seemed to be more interested in the view of clouds out of the window than in the game itself. Isabella was dealing, though she was refusing to play, and I knew far better than to start gambling again. The urge to join in was making me feel physically ill though, twisting and knotting my stomach. I was pretty sure I was starting to sweat as well, but I'd nearly died trying to beat my addiction and that memory was what kept me away from the poker table now.
Isabella turned the fourth card and added it to the river. It was the nine of spades, joining the nine of hearts, the two of clubs and the King of Clubs. James checked his cards again reflexively and then threw some more chips on to the table, a jerky, spasmic movement that suggested to me that he was uncertain of his holding and was desperate from some tell from Isabella's sister. I frowned slightly; had Isabella introduced her sister? Had I forgotten her name already?
Isabella glared at her sister, who was still staring out of the window, and said pointedly, "Irene? To you!"
Irene turned, and checked the chips on the table, ignoring the cards, and added more from the pile in front of her. Which, I knew, contained all her own chips and about half of what James had started with as well. James shuddered, and I thought he'd probably bitten his lip at that point. He checked his cards again. I checked my pulse; it was high.
Isabella turned the last card: the nine of diamonds. It joined the river, and James yelped as though he'd been bitten. Irene smiled and tossed her cards, still face down into the middle, conceding. James had already flipped his over though, revealing the fourth nine and his first winning hand of the flight.
"We'll be landing in fifteen minutes," said the pilot over the intercom. "We'll be landing fast, so please secure yourselves into your seats now."
"He makes it sound like we're going to crash," I said as everyone got up from the poker table, James clutching his pile of chips like they were a lifeline.
"Only once so far," said Isabella, her half-smile twisting the non-paralyzed side of her face. "But we were being shot at."
"And this time?" I said, unable to think of a witty riposte to such an outré statement.
"Just a fast landing," she said. "In case you were hoping we'd circle for a while so you could look for landmarks."
Again, I thought of the GPS device in the heel of my shoe, and I shrugged. "You said I wasn't to know were we landed," I said. "I can respect that."
"I'm sure you can," she said. "But the day I stop being careful will be day my sins catch up with me, I'm sure." That tantalising half-smile again, flitting over her face like a bat: shadowy, mysterious, and full of the promise of terror.
"So, how fast?" asked James as he fastened his seatbelt and the plane tilted noticeably forward.
"About this fast," said Irene. "I can't remember if I secured the drinks trolley, you know."
Isabella turned the fourth card and added it to the river. It was the nine of spades, joining the nine of hearts, the two of clubs and the King of Clubs. James checked his cards again reflexively and then threw some more chips on to the table, a jerky, spasmic movement that suggested to me that he was uncertain of his holding and was desperate from some tell from Isabella's sister. I frowned slightly; had Isabella introduced her sister? Had I forgotten her name already?
Isabella glared at her sister, who was still staring out of the window, and said pointedly, "Irene? To you!"
Irene turned, and checked the chips on the table, ignoring the cards, and added more from the pile in front of her. Which, I knew, contained all her own chips and about half of what James had started with as well. James shuddered, and I thought he'd probably bitten his lip at that point. He checked his cards again. I checked my pulse; it was high.
Isabella turned the last card: the nine of diamonds. It joined the river, and James yelped as though he'd been bitten. Irene smiled and tossed her cards, still face down into the middle, conceding. James had already flipped his over though, revealing the fourth nine and his first winning hand of the flight.
"We'll be landing in fifteen minutes," said the pilot over the intercom. "We'll be landing fast, so please secure yourselves into your seats now."
"He makes it sound like we're going to crash," I said as everyone got up from the poker table, James clutching his pile of chips like they were a lifeline.
"Only once so far," said Isabella, her half-smile twisting the non-paralyzed side of her face. "But we were being shot at."
"And this time?" I said, unable to think of a witty riposte to such an outré statement.
"Just a fast landing," she said. "In case you were hoping we'd circle for a while so you could look for landmarks."
Again, I thought of the GPS device in the heel of my shoe, and I shrugged. "You said I wasn't to know were we landed," I said. "I can respect that."
"I'm sure you can," she said. "But the day I stop being careful will be day my sins catch up with me, I'm sure." That tantalising half-smile again, flitting over her face like a bat: shadowy, mysterious, and full of the promise of terror.
"So, how fast?" asked James as he fastened his seatbelt and the plane tilted noticeably forward.
"About this fast," said Irene. "I can't remember if I secured the drinks trolley, you know."
Sunday, 16 October 2011
Book of Miracles VII
The charter plane that Isabella was talking about turned out to be a twin-engined little beauty that would probably have flown about 160 and had been refitted to fly eight. There was a poker table at the back, a bar nearby, and leather upholstered swivelling chairs. The kitchen provided a variety of gadgets and had a real stove with real gas burners. I found myself torn between wanting to travel like this all the time and worrying that if we hit turbulence during a flambé we'd all be toast.
Isabella's sister greeted us aboard the plane, wearing a smart uniform that reminded me of the Asian stewardess uniforms from the nineteen-thirties. She looked a little tired around her eyes, and though her make-up was impeccable I spotted that her nails were chewed on one hand. I thought I'd been discreet, but after she'd seated us and went to brink us drinks her nails were all neatly trimmed and filed, and less than hour later they'd had a change of nail polish as well, to a glossy burgundy.
"Where are we going?" I said, relaxing into my seat with a Negroni in one hand and a thin point of caviar-laden toast in the other.
"I've already told you as much as I intend to," said Isabella. She too was relaxing, and had selected a Coffeetini, some kind of coffee-flavoured martini. It came in a cocktail glass with dark chocolate flecked around the edges and a cube of vodka jelly speared on a cocktail stick. "We're going to Europe, and it is likely to be dangerous if you're planning on stealing the book. Our flight time will be a little longer than is necessary as we will be taking an indirect route in case you were planning on trying to use that information to figure out the location."
I shrugged; I had a small GPS device hidden in the heel of my shoe and would get location co-ordinates when we were on the ground.
"We'll be landing at a private air-field–"
"How private?"
"So private that most people don't know it's used as an airfield. There may be cattle or sheep around shortly after we land. You may be certain that our arrival will not be attracting very much attention."
I nodded, thinking hard. Air-traffic control is well-managed and monitored internationally because no-one wants to be responsible for planes crashing or colliding, so for us to land like this suggested that somewhere there was at least one air-traffic controller who was being paid to fail to see this plane disappear from the radar.
"We will disembark there and make our way to a cabin I maintain for my visits. When we're there I shall explain how we find the Book of Miracles and that will be your last opportunity to pull out. Once we start on the route to the Book there is no turning back, no changing your mind, and no getting scared and running home to mummy." Her voice had a faint mocking quality to it on the last sentence, but her look was still and calm assisted, I was sure, by that wretched stroke that had paralysed half her face.
"I have no intention of turning back," I said. "I'm not a coward."
"And your chauffeur?" Her riposte was lightning-quick.
"Is also not a coward," I said. "But if he runs off then–"
"Then he will die," Isabella interrupted with a flat, matter-of-fact tone. "This has nothing to do with me, and is completely out of my hands. Once we begin the route to the Book of Miracles things become extremely... difficult. The most probably outcome for getting things wrong is death."
"Only the most probable? Not certain then?" I was being stupid and I knew it, but this talk of death and not turning back was ridiculous.
"There are also things worse than death," she said quietly.
"How about your sister?" I said after a moment's thought, but I knew I'd just lost an argument somehow.
"She will remain with the plane, for our return journey," said Isabella. "She is sensible enough not to care about books of miracles."
"If it's so sensible not to care about them, how come you know all about them?" I said, annoyed now.
"No-one warned me about them before I started." And there is was, that half-smile that stopped half-way across her lips where the muscles no longer worked, that left you wondering if you were being sympathised with or mocked.
"Oh, sympathised with, indeed," she said softly, and I concentrated on emptying my glass and asking for another.
Isabella's sister greeted us aboard the plane, wearing a smart uniform that reminded me of the Asian stewardess uniforms from the nineteen-thirties. She looked a little tired around her eyes, and though her make-up was impeccable I spotted that her nails were chewed on one hand. I thought I'd been discreet, but after she'd seated us and went to brink us drinks her nails were all neatly trimmed and filed, and less than hour later they'd had a change of nail polish as well, to a glossy burgundy.
"Where are we going?" I said, relaxing into my seat with a Negroni in one hand and a thin point of caviar-laden toast in the other.
"I've already told you as much as I intend to," said Isabella. She too was relaxing, and had selected a Coffeetini, some kind of coffee-flavoured martini. It came in a cocktail glass with dark chocolate flecked around the edges and a cube of vodka jelly speared on a cocktail stick. "We're going to Europe, and it is likely to be dangerous if you're planning on stealing the book. Our flight time will be a little longer than is necessary as we will be taking an indirect route in case you were planning on trying to use that information to figure out the location."
I shrugged; I had a small GPS device hidden in the heel of my shoe and would get location co-ordinates when we were on the ground.
"We'll be landing at a private air-field–"
"How private?"
"So private that most people don't know it's used as an airfield. There may be cattle or sheep around shortly after we land. You may be certain that our arrival will not be attracting very much attention."
I nodded, thinking hard. Air-traffic control is well-managed and monitored internationally because no-one wants to be responsible for planes crashing or colliding, so for us to land like this suggested that somewhere there was at least one air-traffic controller who was being paid to fail to see this plane disappear from the radar.
"We will disembark there and make our way to a cabin I maintain for my visits. When we're there I shall explain how we find the Book of Miracles and that will be your last opportunity to pull out. Once we start on the route to the Book there is no turning back, no changing your mind, and no getting scared and running home to mummy." Her voice had a faint mocking quality to it on the last sentence, but her look was still and calm assisted, I was sure, by that wretched stroke that had paralysed half her face.
"I have no intention of turning back," I said. "I'm not a coward."
"And your chauffeur?" Her riposte was lightning-quick.
"Is also not a coward," I said. "But if he runs off then–"
"Then he will die," Isabella interrupted with a flat, matter-of-fact tone. "This has nothing to do with me, and is completely out of my hands. Once we begin the route to the Book of Miracles things become extremely... difficult. The most probably outcome for getting things wrong is death."
"Only the most probable? Not certain then?" I was being stupid and I knew it, but this talk of death and not turning back was ridiculous.
"There are also things worse than death," she said quietly.
"How about your sister?" I said after a moment's thought, but I knew I'd just lost an argument somehow.
"She will remain with the plane, for our return journey," said Isabella. "She is sensible enough not to care about books of miracles."
"If it's so sensible not to care about them, how come you know all about them?" I said, annoyed now.
"No-one warned me about them before I started." And there is was, that half-smile that stopped half-way across her lips where the muscles no longer worked, that left you wondering if you were being sympathised with or mocked.
"Oh, sympathised with, indeed," she said softly, and I concentrated on emptying my glass and asking for another.
Sunday, 9 October 2011
Book of Miracles VI
Isabella Bonfontaine was waiting for me on the corner opposite Haney's bookshop. She was wearing black jeans, hiking boots, a crimson blouse and a blue jacket. I had James pull up next to her, and leaned across the back seat to open the door for her. She got in, closed the door, and looked at me.
"You took your time," she said.
"What?" I checked my watch; it was actually a minute before eight, when she'd asked me to pick her up.
"You parked the car up at the top of the road," she said, annoyingly accurately, "and spent a good five minutes watching me. What were you hoping I was going to do? Turn into a bat and start looking for you?"
"Well, no," I said, hedging. In fact, it had taken me that long to get James to see her and to confirm that this was the woman he'd watched buying a broadsword from a one-room antique weapons shop in one of those little mazes of streets that cities and towns boast of as historic and quaint. Only when I'd essentially described everything that she was wearing did he finally understand that I was talking about the only person standing on the street. If she were only as oblivious to other people as James was I'd have had no qualms at all about using him as a chauffeur, but I suspected she was a lot more alert. So I'd taken the chance, figuring that if she appeared to recognise him I could tell him to stand down, and if she didn't then I had at least got him to the airport with us and didn't have to worry about logistics for him as well.
"Well, no," I said again. "I was actually trying to see if was you or if someone else was waiting on the corner. You suggested that this book might be valuable–"
"It's a book of miracles," she interrupted, her voice slurring very slightly on miracles. "Even your driver here would think that it was valuable. Look, it doesn't really matter, the point I'm making is that I saw you."
I held my breath without thinking about it; was she about to reveal that she'd spotted James traipsing after her while she was on her weaponly shopping trip?
"And that you've picked me up without bothering to ask me where my luggage is."
James hit the brakes sharply and I was thrown forward, catching myself with a hand before my face hit the seat in front. The screech behind us suggested that the rest of the traffic was now stopping just as abruptly.
"Luckily I had it all taken to the airport separately," she said, "so we can carry on. I trust you have more luggage with you than I can see?"
James started driving again, and I shrugged. "You didn't really tell me what I might need," I said. "I've got a case in the boot, there's some changes of clothes, money in Euros; basically enough for an emergency."
"To create one, or get out of one?"
"Hah. Funny."
"Clothes will be fine, the money might be useful, but I'm not sure. I hope you know how to defend yourself if you've decided you're stealing the book. Turn left here."
As James bore left on what looked to me like an access road, I tried not to look smug.
"I train with an MMA artist, actually," I said. "I'm considered to be adequate."
"It's a start," she said. "I suppose we'll find out how good that training is if it comes to that. Turn right when the signs turn green."
I stared out of the window, and sure enough, after another eight hundred metres or so the information signs changed from having a blue background to a green one.
"Where are we going?"
"An airfield; we need a plane. It's a small charter, the pilot's flown me to a lot of places before now."
"What's the food like?"
"Home-made."
As we bumped along a rough track that the car's suspension was struggling with, I laughed a little. "You mean the catering company hide the packaging before serving it?"
"No, I mean that my sister will be our stewardess and she'll be cooking our food from scratch."
I suddenly realised that not only did I not know where I'd be going, but this arrangement meant that James would have no way of following us either.
"Your sister?" A thought occurred to me. "I'm not so happy about that."
"Why? She's a trained cook, she's worked as a private chef to some rather fussy people before now."
"Because she's your sister and I thought there was just you and me on this. I want my chauffeur along too."
James stopped the car outside a hut where a man with an unkempt beard and eyebrows that looked like they had hay growing in them was sitting in a deckchair reading the paper.
"Fine," said Isabella after a pause. "You pay for him, and when he does something stupid, you fix things."
"Done," I said, offering her my hand and wondering if I'd just been tricked into revealing that James was my bodyguard or not. "I'll get him a change of clothes at Duty Free."
Isabella's laugh was melodic and charming, and underlined that we were on an airfield in the middle of nowhere, heading to a so-far secret destination, and Duty Free was just an idea, not a place.
"You took your time," she said.
"What?" I checked my watch; it was actually a minute before eight, when she'd asked me to pick her up.
"You parked the car up at the top of the road," she said, annoyingly accurately, "and spent a good five minutes watching me. What were you hoping I was going to do? Turn into a bat and start looking for you?"
"Well, no," I said, hedging. In fact, it had taken me that long to get James to see her and to confirm that this was the woman he'd watched buying a broadsword from a one-room antique weapons shop in one of those little mazes of streets that cities and towns boast of as historic and quaint. Only when I'd essentially described everything that she was wearing did he finally understand that I was talking about the only person standing on the street. If she were only as oblivious to other people as James was I'd have had no qualms at all about using him as a chauffeur, but I suspected she was a lot more alert. So I'd taken the chance, figuring that if she appeared to recognise him I could tell him to stand down, and if she didn't then I had at least got him to the airport with us and didn't have to worry about logistics for him as well.
"Well, no," I said again. "I was actually trying to see if was you or if someone else was waiting on the corner. You suggested that this book might be valuable–"
"It's a book of miracles," she interrupted, her voice slurring very slightly on miracles. "Even your driver here would think that it was valuable. Look, it doesn't really matter, the point I'm making is that I saw you."
I held my breath without thinking about it; was she about to reveal that she'd spotted James traipsing after her while she was on her weaponly shopping trip?
"And that you've picked me up without bothering to ask me where my luggage is."
James hit the brakes sharply and I was thrown forward, catching myself with a hand before my face hit the seat in front. The screech behind us suggested that the rest of the traffic was now stopping just as abruptly.
"Luckily I had it all taken to the airport separately," she said, "so we can carry on. I trust you have more luggage with you than I can see?"
James started driving again, and I shrugged. "You didn't really tell me what I might need," I said. "I've got a case in the boot, there's some changes of clothes, money in Euros; basically enough for an emergency."
"To create one, or get out of one?"
"Hah. Funny."
"Clothes will be fine, the money might be useful, but I'm not sure. I hope you know how to defend yourself if you've decided you're stealing the book. Turn left here."
As James bore left on what looked to me like an access road, I tried not to look smug.
"I train with an MMA artist, actually," I said. "I'm considered to be adequate."
"It's a start," she said. "I suppose we'll find out how good that training is if it comes to that. Turn right when the signs turn green."
I stared out of the window, and sure enough, after another eight hundred metres or so the information signs changed from having a blue background to a green one.
"Where are we going?"
"An airfield; we need a plane. It's a small charter, the pilot's flown me to a lot of places before now."
"What's the food like?"
"Home-made."
As we bumped along a rough track that the car's suspension was struggling with, I laughed a little. "You mean the catering company hide the packaging before serving it?"
"No, I mean that my sister will be our stewardess and she'll be cooking our food from scratch."
I suddenly realised that not only did I not know where I'd be going, but this arrangement meant that James would have no way of following us either.
"Your sister?" A thought occurred to me. "I'm not so happy about that."
"Why? She's a trained cook, she's worked as a private chef to some rather fussy people before now."
"Because she's your sister and I thought there was just you and me on this. I want my chauffeur along too."
James stopped the car outside a hut where a man with an unkempt beard and eyebrows that looked like they had hay growing in them was sitting in a deckchair reading the paper.
"Fine," said Isabella after a pause. "You pay for him, and when he does something stupid, you fix things."
"Done," I said, offering her my hand and wondering if I'd just been tricked into revealing that James was my bodyguard or not. "I'll get him a change of clothes at Duty Free."
Isabella's laugh was melodic and charming, and underlined that we were on an airfield in the middle of nowhere, heading to a so-far secret destination, and Duty Free was just an idea, not a place.
Wednesday, 5 October 2011
Book of Miracles V
I spent the next day talking to my lawyer. At first, he was happy enough to set up an escrow account for me, explaining how much interest he'd be charging on the capital to keep the money safe, and producing enough paperwork to fill an entire in-tray that apparently was needed so that no-one would think I was attempting to launder money. When he asked me what the account was for, I dodged his questions neatly, and he stopped asking shortly afterwards. Then I explained that Isabella Bonfontaine was to be the recipient of the keys to the account and his face closed up like a mousetrap on the mouse.
"There must be. Some mistake." he said, flapping a pale, pudgy hand near his face in lieu of a fan.
"No, I know who she is," I said. "She's an old friend of my mother's, fallen a little on hard times."
"You had your mother go on a coach trip to Hastings," said my lawyer, who had an inconveniently long memory sometimes, "where she inexplicably took magic mushrooms and was last seen floating out to sea, mostly unconscious, on an inflatable dinosaur."
"The police did say that they thought they'd had a sighting of her in Portugal," I said, but my lawyer flapped his pudgy hand in my face now, waving away my excuses.
"If they did," he said, "I'm sure you know much more about it that you're telling anyone. But that's a distraction to try and get me off the subject of Mx Bonfontaine. She is most certainly not 'fallen on hard times' as you phrased it."
I stiffened when he said Mx, figuring that if he knew enough to call her that he knew enough to call my bluff, but I decided to brazen it out anyway. "Look, Joel," I said, tempted to reach out and put my hand on shoulder but deterred from knowing how sweaty he got indoors, "She told me she was having a hard time making ends meet. She's very thin you know, and she's got a droopy eye. You can't help but feel sorry for her."
"So the shark has a toothache and you think you can pat it on the head and make it all better?"
"It's not like tha–"
"Oh good, because it sounds. Like. You're. Paying her." His face was a mottled grey by the end of the sentence, and he was wheezing like mouse-eaten organ bellows. He patted his pockets, hunting for his asthma pump.
"I'm setting up a little account for her, an emergency fund, in case she needs it."
Joel's coughing fit had Mandy out of her chair and striding determinedly towards my office cracking her knuckles, all ready to go Heimlich on him. I was tempted, but I wasn't sure he'd finished all the paperwork yet, so I waved her off and found his pump for him. He squeezed it a few times into his mouth, heaved a huge breath that set him off coughing again, but gradually it died away without taking him with it.
"These forms," he said, indicating them with a hand gesture that delicately sprayed them with sweat, "why are we bothering? Letting Mx Bonfontaine access the funds is as good as declaring ourselves best pals with the Mafia."
"Why one?"
"Does it matter?"
I had to concede that it probably didn't, and that similarly I needed the fund set up anyway. Joel produced even more paperwork now, most of it indemnifying him for everything, up to and including acts of God and the declaration of open hostilities resulting in war.
As I was finishing up my signatures, my hand aching, Skype chimed with a message from James.
"Read it out?" I asked Joel shaking some blood back into my fingers.
"Boss: the broad just bought a broadsword." Joel looked at me and I smiled. "Is that code? Or should I be worrying about you dating people with antique weaponry fetishes? Your life insurance won't cover that, you know."
"Neither. Though now you mention it, let's check over the life insurance papers, I might be doing something fun this weekend."
"There must be. Some mistake." he said, flapping a pale, pudgy hand near his face in lieu of a fan.
"No, I know who she is," I said. "She's an old friend of my mother's, fallen a little on hard times."
"You had your mother go on a coach trip to Hastings," said my lawyer, who had an inconveniently long memory sometimes, "where she inexplicably took magic mushrooms and was last seen floating out to sea, mostly unconscious, on an inflatable dinosaur."
"The police did say that they thought they'd had a sighting of her in Portugal," I said, but my lawyer flapped his pudgy hand in my face now, waving away my excuses.
"If they did," he said, "I'm sure you know much more about it that you're telling anyone. But that's a distraction to try and get me off the subject of Mx Bonfontaine. She is most certainly not 'fallen on hard times' as you phrased it."
I stiffened when he said Mx, figuring that if he knew enough to call her that he knew enough to call my bluff, but I decided to brazen it out anyway. "Look, Joel," I said, tempted to reach out and put my hand on shoulder but deterred from knowing how sweaty he got indoors, "She told me she was having a hard time making ends meet. She's very thin you know, and she's got a droopy eye. You can't help but feel sorry for her."
"So the shark has a toothache and you think you can pat it on the head and make it all better?"
"It's not like tha–"
"Oh good, because it sounds. Like. You're. Paying her." His face was a mottled grey by the end of the sentence, and he was wheezing like mouse-eaten organ bellows. He patted his pockets, hunting for his asthma pump.
"I'm setting up a little account for her, an emergency fund, in case she needs it."
Joel's coughing fit had Mandy out of her chair and striding determinedly towards my office cracking her knuckles, all ready to go Heimlich on him. I was tempted, but I wasn't sure he'd finished all the paperwork yet, so I waved her off and found his pump for him. He squeezed it a few times into his mouth, heaved a huge breath that set him off coughing again, but gradually it died away without taking him with it.
"These forms," he said, indicating them with a hand gesture that delicately sprayed them with sweat, "why are we bothering? Letting Mx Bonfontaine access the funds is as good as declaring ourselves best pals with the Mafia."
"Why one?"
"Does it matter?"
I had to concede that it probably didn't, and that similarly I needed the fund set up anyway. Joel produced even more paperwork now, most of it indemnifying him for everything, up to and including acts of God and the declaration of open hostilities resulting in war.
As I was finishing up my signatures, my hand aching, Skype chimed with a message from James.
"Read it out?" I asked Joel shaking some blood back into my fingers.
"Boss: the broad just bought a broadsword." Joel looked at me and I smiled. "Is that code? Or should I be worrying about you dating people with antique weaponry fetishes? Your life insurance won't cover that, you know."
"Neither. Though now you mention it, let's check over the life insurance papers, I might be doing something fun this weekend."
Tuesday, 4 October 2011
Book of Miracles IV
I wanted to spy on Isabella Bonfontaine myself, but it was far too risky; she'd met me and was going to take me to find a Book of Miracles, and I didn't want to jeopardise that. So I contented myself with telling James where to find her and to report back in every couple of hours, and tried to lose myself in work.
There were invoices to check, to file, and occasionally to pay; there were packages to open, packages to seal and send, and one rather odd-looking package that I sent back down to building security to have it scanned in case it was a bomb. It turned out to be a rather overripe cheese that my office manager had ordered two weeks ago; it had apparently been held up in transit until it had reached the point where it could get out and make its own way to us. When she opened it, albeit in the office's little kitchenette, the smell was so strong that I found myself wishing that security had exploded it instead.
"It's so evocative, isn't it!" exclaimed Mandy (the office manager), inhaling deeply and oblivious to the people turning green and running for the toilets behind her.
"Shouldn't you take that home and open it there?" I said, my voice a little muffled by the handkerchief covering my face.
"Oh no, I bought it for the office. I thought we could have a cultural food evening, you know, after work on Friday maybe, we can all bring in food from different cultures and share them, and talk about them... that kind of thing!"
The office isn't particularly diverse; Mandy says that her mother is French, and Darren in the sales team is dating a Bolivian girl, but that's about it. I thought about making a comment about the cheese providing all the culture we need, but Mandy's surprisingly sensitive to off-the-cuff remarks like that and I thought better of it. Thankfully Skype chimed at that moment, allowing me to flee back to the office and talk to James.
"Awright, boss?" James's face appeared on the tablet screen, far too close to the camera, so I could see every blackhead on his nose.
"James!" I said, genuinely pleased to see him for once. "How's the tail?"
"She's grand, isn't she? I've been following her around all morning, at least until she winked at me."
"She saw you? You idiot, James! You're supposed to be following us on Saturday as well, and now she knows what you look like!"
"Nah, it's alright, you can chill right out again, boss. I'm in disguise, aren't I?"
"Are you? You didn't mention a disguise."
"Yeah, course. You can't follow someone around unless you're in disguise. They'd get all suss otherwise, wouldn't they?"
"You'd think so, yes," I said. "What disguise?"
"Right, so she started off at the fish market, and she bought some ice there, and then we went across town to New Covent Garden market and she spent a couple of hours with the flowers there. Then she left there and went to the Vauxhall Bridge and stood staring at the river for a while. Then she winked at me, and we went in a little to get a coffee–"
"James!" Interrupting him in mid-flow can be tricky. "James, what are you talking about? Why are you telling me about fish and flowers and rivers?"
"That fancy woman you wanted me to follow, boss. She's been doing all those things."
"I don't think so," I said. "Isabella Bonfontaine is an antiquarian."
"Who?"
After a rather painful conversation, it transpired that James had been following a recent immigrée by the name of Isabelle Bloemfontain who was suffering the pangs of home-sickness, and that his disguise for the occasion had been a Hell's Angel.
"Right," I said, realising that when I got off Skype with him I would have to go back to the cheese, whose odour was starting to breach my office walls. "Let's try again. Isabella Bonfontaine, antiquarian tomorrow. And no disguise, just stay well out of sight and watch what she does."
"Got you boss!"
I hung up and wondered what on earth I'd done in a previous life to end up with all this in this one.
There were invoices to check, to file, and occasionally to pay; there were packages to open, packages to seal and send, and one rather odd-looking package that I sent back down to building security to have it scanned in case it was a bomb. It turned out to be a rather overripe cheese that my office manager had ordered two weeks ago; it had apparently been held up in transit until it had reached the point where it could get out and make its own way to us. When she opened it, albeit in the office's little kitchenette, the smell was so strong that I found myself wishing that security had exploded it instead.
"It's so evocative, isn't it!" exclaimed Mandy (the office manager), inhaling deeply and oblivious to the people turning green and running for the toilets behind her.
"Shouldn't you take that home and open it there?" I said, my voice a little muffled by the handkerchief covering my face.
"Oh no, I bought it for the office. I thought we could have a cultural food evening, you know, after work on Friday maybe, we can all bring in food from different cultures and share them, and talk about them... that kind of thing!"
The office isn't particularly diverse; Mandy says that her mother is French, and Darren in the sales team is dating a Bolivian girl, but that's about it. I thought about making a comment about the cheese providing all the culture we need, but Mandy's surprisingly sensitive to off-the-cuff remarks like that and I thought better of it. Thankfully Skype chimed at that moment, allowing me to flee back to the office and talk to James.
"Awright, boss?" James's face appeared on the tablet screen, far too close to the camera, so I could see every blackhead on his nose.
"James!" I said, genuinely pleased to see him for once. "How's the tail?"
"She's grand, isn't she? I've been following her around all morning, at least until she winked at me."
"She saw you? You idiot, James! You're supposed to be following us on Saturday as well, and now she knows what you look like!"
"Nah, it's alright, you can chill right out again, boss. I'm in disguise, aren't I?"
"Are you? You didn't mention a disguise."
"Yeah, course. You can't follow someone around unless you're in disguise. They'd get all suss otherwise, wouldn't they?"
"You'd think so, yes," I said. "What disguise?"
"Right, so she started off at the fish market, and she bought some ice there, and then we went across town to New Covent Garden market and she spent a couple of hours with the flowers there. Then she left there and went to the Vauxhall Bridge and stood staring at the river for a while. Then she winked at me, and we went in a little to get a coffee–"
"James!" Interrupting him in mid-flow can be tricky. "James, what are you talking about? Why are you telling me about fish and flowers and rivers?"
"That fancy woman you wanted me to follow, boss. She's been doing all those things."
"I don't think so," I said. "Isabella Bonfontaine is an antiquarian."
"Who?"
After a rather painful conversation, it transpired that James had been following a recent immigrée by the name of Isabelle Bloemfontain who was suffering the pangs of home-sickness, and that his disguise for the occasion had been a Hell's Angel.
"Right," I said, realising that when I got off Skype with him I would have to go back to the cheese, whose odour was starting to breach my office walls. "Let's try again. Isabella Bonfontaine, antiquarian tomorrow. And no disguise, just stay well out of sight and watch what she does."
"Got you boss!"
I hung up and wondered what on earth I'd done in a previous life to end up with all this in this one.
Monday, 3 October 2011
Book of Miracles III
I returned to my office before I went home. I'd escorted Isabella out of the bar, and she'd hailed a taxi before I could even ask her if she wanted one. As she opened the rear door to get in, she'd paused for a moment and laid a hand on my chest.
"Saturday," she said. "You know where to find me, so you may pick me up at ten-thirty. Wear something appropriate."
I went to lay my hand on top of hers, but she'd already taken it back. I went to close the taxi door for her, but she beat me to that as well. Then as I leant in to the window to ask what she meant by appropriate, the taxi pulled away, and I was left with the distinct feeling that I looked like the guy whose date just dumped him for a quiet evening with her toys and magazines.
"Taxi for you, Sir?" asked the bouncer at the door, and I could almost hear the snigger in his voice.
*
The office was quiet; I rent out a floor of a skyscraper, but it's near the bottom – low enough to be able to be rescued in the event of a fire – and all the desk-jockeys go home at five, pretty much on the dot. There were lights on in two of the offices, but they'd been left on, probably by the cleaners. I turned them off and swiped my card to let myself into my own office. Then I swiped my card again inside the office to reveal a coded panel, tapped my entry-code, and let myself into the library hidden behind my office. As I came in, Judith looked up.
"Well?"
"Is that any way to speak to the guy who pays you?" I was joking, Judith and I have been working on this thing for seven years now, and we've grown close. Not as close as I'd hoped, but there was still time.
"Depends on how much he's paying me." She smiled, her lips turning upwards and crow's-feet running suddenly from the corners of her eyes, animating her face. She's been talking more and more about getting Botox, but I'm trying to dissuade her; some lines and wrinkles are just there to make us look human.
"I spoke to Mx Bonfontaine," I said, hoping I'd got the salutation right. "She identified it as a Book of Miracles straight away."
"A book of miracles?" Judith laid down the magnifying glass she'd been using to study a document on the table in front her and looked directly at me now. Her auburn hair framed her face, and the soft light from the green-shaded banker's lamp on the desk made me think of portraits I'd studied in the Muzeul National.
"Yes. It turns out there's a few of them, and she's being cagey about where they are, too. She's going to take me to see one of them on Saturday, and, get this: her price goes up if she thinks I'm going to try and steal it!"
"That's it? She just puts the price up?"
"Yeah. What do you make of that?"
"She sounds like an honest woman. What's she doing with a thief like you then?"
I snorted, and crossed the room to sit in a chair at a second desk. There was probably room for a third desk, but it would have made the room feel crowded, and I wanted to keep some space to exhibit special works, works not yet... acquired.
"She said that we're probably going to Europe," I said, now watching Judith carefully, gaugeing her reaction.
"We? You told her about me?"
"No, we as in me and her. I haven't said anything that says I'm not doing this alone."
"This isn't just a Saturday jaunt, then, is it?"
I shrugged, my hands held out expressively. "I haven't a clue. If the flight's three hours say, then possibly, depends where the book's stashed. But if it were that easy to find...."
"So let's say it's a weekend jaunt. Either way... I think James had better tag along, don't you?"
James was Judith's nephew by her elder sister, and I'd been expecting this. I wasn't averse to the idea, for all I was sure that Judith was really just protecting her investment in our little project by having me watched, because James's fascination with Mixed Martial Arts makes him an excellent bodyguard. His other obsession is comic books, so he's also not that hard to get away from for fifteen minutes here and there.
"Sounds like a good idea to me," I said. Judith relaxed, her shoulders sitting back just fractionally, an almost imperceptible tension in her arms fading away like shadows at dawn. "As I say, I don't know where we're going yet–" there, the tension came back, "–so he'll have to follow me and stay close. I'll try and text him the destination when I know it, but if he can overhear it then there's less of a trail." The tension eased away again.
"Ok," she said. "Well and good. So that's your weekend sorted, what are we doing for the rest of the week?"
"Well," I said. "If James isn't too busy, I'd quite like him to follow Isabella for a little bit, see if we can't find out something more about her."
"Saturday," she said. "You know where to find me, so you may pick me up at ten-thirty. Wear something appropriate."
I went to lay my hand on top of hers, but she'd already taken it back. I went to close the taxi door for her, but she beat me to that as well. Then as I leant in to the window to ask what she meant by appropriate, the taxi pulled away, and I was left with the distinct feeling that I looked like the guy whose date just dumped him for a quiet evening with her toys and magazines.
"Taxi for you, Sir?" asked the bouncer at the door, and I could almost hear the snigger in his voice.
The office was quiet; I rent out a floor of a skyscraper, but it's near the bottom – low enough to be able to be rescued in the event of a fire – and all the desk-jockeys go home at five, pretty much on the dot. There were lights on in two of the offices, but they'd been left on, probably by the cleaners. I turned them off and swiped my card to let myself into my own office. Then I swiped my card again inside the office to reveal a coded panel, tapped my entry-code, and let myself into the library hidden behind my office. As I came in, Judith looked up.
"Well?"
"Is that any way to speak to the guy who pays you?" I was joking, Judith and I have been working on this thing for seven years now, and we've grown close. Not as close as I'd hoped, but there was still time.
"Depends on how much he's paying me." She smiled, her lips turning upwards and crow's-feet running suddenly from the corners of her eyes, animating her face. She's been talking more and more about getting Botox, but I'm trying to dissuade her; some lines and wrinkles are just there to make us look human.
"I spoke to Mx Bonfontaine," I said, hoping I'd got the salutation right. "She identified it as a Book of Miracles straight away."
"A book of miracles?" Judith laid down the magnifying glass she'd been using to study a document on the table in front her and looked directly at me now. Her auburn hair framed her face, and the soft light from the green-shaded banker's lamp on the desk made me think of portraits I'd studied in the Muzeul National.
"Yes. It turns out there's a few of them, and she's being cagey about where they are, too. She's going to take me to see one of them on Saturday, and, get this: her price goes up if she thinks I'm going to try and steal it!"
"That's it? She just puts the price up?"
"Yeah. What do you make of that?"
"She sounds like an honest woman. What's she doing with a thief like you then?"
I snorted, and crossed the room to sit in a chair at a second desk. There was probably room for a third desk, but it would have made the room feel crowded, and I wanted to keep some space to exhibit special works, works not yet... acquired.
"She said that we're probably going to Europe," I said, now watching Judith carefully, gaugeing her reaction.
"We? You told her about me?"
"No, we as in me and her. I haven't said anything that says I'm not doing this alone."
"This isn't just a Saturday jaunt, then, is it?"
I shrugged, my hands held out expressively. "I haven't a clue. If the flight's three hours say, then possibly, depends where the book's stashed. But if it were that easy to find...."
"So let's say it's a weekend jaunt. Either way... I think James had better tag along, don't you?"
James was Judith's nephew by her elder sister, and I'd been expecting this. I wasn't averse to the idea, for all I was sure that Judith was really just protecting her investment in our little project by having me watched, because James's fascination with Mixed Martial Arts makes him an excellent bodyguard. His other obsession is comic books, so he's also not that hard to get away from for fifteen minutes here and there.
"Sounds like a good idea to me," I said. Judith relaxed, her shoulders sitting back just fractionally, an almost imperceptible tension in her arms fading away like shadows at dawn. "As I say, I don't know where we're going yet–" there, the tension came back, "–so he'll have to follow me and stay close. I'll try and text him the destination when I know it, but if he can overhear it then there's less of a trail." The tension eased away again.
"Ok," she said. "Well and good. So that's your weekend sorted, what are we doing for the rest of the week?"
"Well," I said. "If James isn't too busy, I'd quite like him to follow Isabella for a little bit, see if we can't find out something more about her."
Sunday, 2 October 2011
Book of miracles II
"As soon as you're ready," she said, her eyes twinkling. "Although it would make things a little easier if I knew what kind of miracle you're hoping to perform."
"Why?" I didn't mean to snap, but I'd thought she'd be more professional than to ask me that. Well, I'd expected her not to ask why I wanted the book, but it was much the same thing. I thought. She didn't look perturbed though, or even particularly bothered by my rudeness. It could have been the stroke, helping her hide her reaction, but there was no hesitation when she spoke again, no hint of rancour in her voice.
"Because, as I said, each book records miracles that have happened. If I show you a book that doesn't contain the miracle you're after then that book is worthless to you." She stopped there, and looked down at the table. As I opened my mouth to speak, my thoughts racing to be the first one said, she looked up at me, and said,
"Unless you're only interested in buying, or otherways... acquiring... that book. In which case my fee for taking you will be higher, to reflect the significantly increased danger, both to myself and my line of business, but the book may be easier to get to."
"Otherways?" It was stupid, it was the last thing I was interested in, but asking it bought me time to think. Did I tell her what I was wanted? Or did I pretend that I just wanted to steal the book and pay the higher price? Hang on, I didn't know what the lower price was yet, if I could even afford that!
"A portmanteau." She said the word as though she were savouring it. "A collapse of 'otherwise, in other ways," into a simpler word. Like 'anywhen," or 'everywhen,': words that people need but don't think to create."
"Who needs anywhen and everywhen?"
"I do." There is was again, that half-smile that was making me wonder if it was always a half-smile, if the stroke wasn't so much as hiding her feelings from me, but hiding the fact that she was hiding her feelings from me. I started to feel a little dizzy with all the meta-analysis I was doing.
"Your price?" I finally said, deciding that I needed answers to my questions no matter how poorly I negotiated for them. I waved a hand, and the waitress I pulled here last week came over. She smiled at Isabella and poked her tongue playfully out at me. I caught her hand, kissed it, and said,
"I'll take a liquid cocaine, sweetheart. And don't skimp on the Red Bull, either. Isabella–"
"Mx Bonfontaine," she said, pronouncing the first word mix. "At least until we've set a price for business." She looked at the waitress, who was looking more impressed than I was comfortable with. "I'll take one of those top-shelf artisanal vodkas you have, a Sipsmith I should think. Neat. Two doubles, in two glasses."
The waitress disappeared and I looked at Isabella, wishing that I felt more in control of this conversation. "Mix?" I said, feeling hopeless.
"A very modern appellation," she said, laughing throatily and sending a shiver down my spine. "I believe it's used by people who don't wish to talk about their gender so that everyone is aware that there's something to talk about. It's supposed to tell you not to ask, particularly if they seem a little more masculine than you'd expect for a woman, or if you're just plain having trouble telling."
"Does it matter what gender someone is?" I said. I'd never met anyone I couldn't classify as male or female at a glance, and I was quite happy with that.
"To them. Anyway, you asked for a price, and I still don't know what we're doing exactly so: for ten thousand I will take you to the nearest book of miracles on the assumption that you want to view it, and potentially conduct business with it's owner. If you'd like to be a little more explicit about the miracle you want, I'll take you to the book that has the best chance of helping you; the fee will be more than ten thousand in that case, but should be under twenty thousand with a single exception, where the fee would be twenty-five thousand, five thousand up front for the purchase of the equipment we would need. If you think you may need to take the book away with you, then my fee goes up by thirty-thousand over the original; and that fee can be applied at any time if I believe you are intending to steal, repossess, or otherwise acquire the book I'm taking you to."
Our drinks arrived; mine was fizzing happily, while Isabella's had the serious air of a woman who was considering signing your death-warrant after she'd finished writing out your birthday card.
"Ok," I said. Isabella sniffed her vodka, cocked her head slightly on one side and nodded. Our waitress smiled with relief, laid the bill in front of me, and disappeared, just enough of a jaunt in her hips to let me know I had a date tonight if I wanted it.
"Ok to what?"
"Ok, I'll pay all you ask for. I'll have fifty thousand in an escrow account by the end of the week, with you having immediate access to ten thousand of it. I'd like us to leave on Saturday."
"And where will we be going?"
"Very loosely speaking," I said, only now knowing that I was going to tell her more than I'd originally intended to, "I'd like the kind of miracle that doesn't seem very miraculous to the people who get caught up in it."
Isabella nodded. "Just because something terrible happens doesn't mean it's not a miracle," she said. "If this has to happen just so, and that has to unexpectedly to the other, and all manner of coincidences have to go wrong in just the right way, then it's still a miracle. Those are rarely recorded, but there are some. I shall consult my notes, but I think we shall be going to Europe."
I nodded, and knocked my drink back in one. Then I started coughing.
Part 3
"Why?" I didn't mean to snap, but I'd thought she'd be more professional than to ask me that. Well, I'd expected her not to ask why I wanted the book, but it was much the same thing. I thought. She didn't look perturbed though, or even particularly bothered by my rudeness. It could have been the stroke, helping her hide her reaction, but there was no hesitation when she spoke again, no hint of rancour in her voice.
"Because, as I said, each book records miracles that have happened. If I show you a book that doesn't contain the miracle you're after then that book is worthless to you." She stopped there, and looked down at the table. As I opened my mouth to speak, my thoughts racing to be the first one said, she looked up at me, and said,
"Unless you're only interested in buying, or otherways... acquiring... that book. In which case my fee for taking you will be higher, to reflect the significantly increased danger, both to myself and my line of business, but the book may be easier to get to."
"Otherways?" It was stupid, it was the last thing I was interested in, but asking it bought me time to think. Did I tell her what I was wanted? Or did I pretend that I just wanted to steal the book and pay the higher price? Hang on, I didn't know what the lower price was yet, if I could even afford that!
"A portmanteau." She said the word as though she were savouring it. "A collapse of 'otherwise, in other ways," into a simpler word. Like 'anywhen," or 'everywhen,': words that people need but don't think to create."
"Who needs anywhen and everywhen?"
"I do." There is was again, that half-smile that was making me wonder if it was always a half-smile, if the stroke wasn't so much as hiding her feelings from me, but hiding the fact that she was hiding her feelings from me. I started to feel a little dizzy with all the meta-analysis I was doing.
"Your price?" I finally said, deciding that I needed answers to my questions no matter how poorly I negotiated for them. I waved a hand, and the waitress I pulled here last week came over. She smiled at Isabella and poked her tongue playfully out at me. I caught her hand, kissed it, and said,
"I'll take a liquid cocaine, sweetheart. And don't skimp on the Red Bull, either. Isabella–"
"Mx Bonfontaine," she said, pronouncing the first word mix. "At least until we've set a price for business." She looked at the waitress, who was looking more impressed than I was comfortable with. "I'll take one of those top-shelf artisanal vodkas you have, a Sipsmith I should think. Neat. Two doubles, in two glasses."
The waitress disappeared and I looked at Isabella, wishing that I felt more in control of this conversation. "Mix?" I said, feeling hopeless.
"A very modern appellation," she said, laughing throatily and sending a shiver down my spine. "I believe it's used by people who don't wish to talk about their gender so that everyone is aware that there's something to talk about. It's supposed to tell you not to ask, particularly if they seem a little more masculine than you'd expect for a woman, or if you're just plain having trouble telling."
"Does it matter what gender someone is?" I said. I'd never met anyone I couldn't classify as male or female at a glance, and I was quite happy with that.
"To them. Anyway, you asked for a price, and I still don't know what we're doing exactly so: for ten thousand I will take you to the nearest book of miracles on the assumption that you want to view it, and potentially conduct business with it's owner. If you'd like to be a little more explicit about the miracle you want, I'll take you to the book that has the best chance of helping you; the fee will be more than ten thousand in that case, but should be under twenty thousand with a single exception, where the fee would be twenty-five thousand, five thousand up front for the purchase of the equipment we would need. If you think you may need to take the book away with you, then my fee goes up by thirty-thousand over the original; and that fee can be applied at any time if I believe you are intending to steal, repossess, or otherwise acquire the book I'm taking you to."
Our drinks arrived; mine was fizzing happily, while Isabella's had the serious air of a woman who was considering signing your death-warrant after she'd finished writing out your birthday card.
"Ok," I said. Isabella sniffed her vodka, cocked her head slightly on one side and nodded. Our waitress smiled with relief, laid the bill in front of me, and disappeared, just enough of a jaunt in her hips to let me know I had a date tonight if I wanted it.
"Ok to what?"
"Ok, I'll pay all you ask for. I'll have fifty thousand in an escrow account by the end of the week, with you having immediate access to ten thousand of it. I'd like us to leave on Saturday."
"And where will we be going?"
"Very loosely speaking," I said, only now knowing that I was going to tell her more than I'd originally intended to, "I'd like the kind of miracle that doesn't seem very miraculous to the people who get caught up in it."
Isabella nodded. "Just because something terrible happens doesn't mean it's not a miracle," she said. "If this has to happen just so, and that has to unexpectedly to the other, and all manner of coincidences have to go wrong in just the right way, then it's still a miracle. Those are rarely recorded, but there are some. I shall consult my notes, but I think we shall be going to Europe."
I nodded, and knocked my drink back in one. Then I started coughing.
Part 3
Friday, 30 September 2011
The book of miracles
Isabella Bonfontaine half-smiled. That is, half of her face smiled, but the other half remained fixed, immobile. The effect was slightly disconcerting, at first I thought she was mocking me. Then I wondered if perhaps she only half-agreed with what I'd asked her for.
"I had a stroke when I was younger," she said, her voice deep and soft like a nineteen-twenties film star. "I lost some muscle control in the side of my face. It doesn't bother me."
The unspoken question, does it bother you? hung in the air for a few moments and then evaporated as I decided it didn't.
"I had a cat when I was younger," I said. "It got run over by a truck. On the whole, I'd say you did better."
She half-smiled again, and I smiled back, and although it was clearly just my imagination, the room seemed a little lighter for the rest of our conversation. Isabella leaned back, nestling her shoulders comfortably into the padded cushion of the banquette and laid both her hands on the table. I looked at them; they were short, spatulate, functional hands, engineer's hands as my mother would have dismissively described them. (Though for all her obsession with hands, seeking out long, elegant, musician's hands, the woman who strangled her had the ugliest, wartiest, hairiest hands I'd ever seen.) She was wearing rings on two fingers on each hand, each ring a simple metallic band with a different intaglioed design.
"You're looking for a book," she said. I nodded. My satchel, a hopelessly fashionable courier's bag made of pre-aged brown leather that I'd hoped would impress her, was next to me on the seat, and I opened it to remove a piece of A4 paper onto which I'd written what I knew of the book. Isabella said nothing, watching me with bird-bright eyes, and accepted the page when I offered it to her. While she read it, I closed the satchel up again and hid it under the table.
"The book of miracles," she said a few moments later, and I looked at her, puzzled. "It's what you've described here," she said. I noticed that only three-quarters of her lips moved when she spoke, and she slurred, very slightly, a few words here and there. "This is the – well, a to be precise, book of miracles."
"You know this book then?" I was genuinely surprised now, as the antiquariats I'd consulted had all shaken their heads, laughed, and told me I was being deceived.
"I know of several books of this general form," she said. "They list miracles that have happened, and give precise instructions on how to repeat them. They're usually quite interesting, and of course, quite valuable to the people who own them."
"Can you get me one?" I said, leaning forward now, my arms on the table and my stomach tensed. Isabella laid the paper back in front of me, forcing me to sit back a little to make space, and suddenly I realised I could smell my own sweat. I sat back further, now embarrassed.
"No."
"I can pay. I can pay well," I said, mentally wondering how many life insurance policies I could cash out in a hurry.
"You misunderstand," said Isabella, that half-smile playing around her lips again. "I can't get you a book of miracles because they're no use except in the places they're kept. One of those instructions for recreating miracles is invariably that the miracle happen where it happened the first time."
"Oh." I waited, she seemed to suggest there was more to say.
"I can, however, take you to one of these books, and what you choose to do then is up to you."
"When can we leave?"
Part 2
"I had a stroke when I was younger," she said, her voice deep and soft like a nineteen-twenties film star. "I lost some muscle control in the side of my face. It doesn't bother me."
The unspoken question, does it bother you? hung in the air for a few moments and then evaporated as I decided it didn't.
"I had a cat when I was younger," I said. "It got run over by a truck. On the whole, I'd say you did better."
She half-smiled again, and I smiled back, and although it was clearly just my imagination, the room seemed a little lighter for the rest of our conversation. Isabella leaned back, nestling her shoulders comfortably into the padded cushion of the banquette and laid both her hands on the table. I looked at them; they were short, spatulate, functional hands, engineer's hands as my mother would have dismissively described them. (Though for all her obsession with hands, seeking out long, elegant, musician's hands, the woman who strangled her had the ugliest, wartiest, hairiest hands I'd ever seen.) She was wearing rings on two fingers on each hand, each ring a simple metallic band with a different intaglioed design.
"You're looking for a book," she said. I nodded. My satchel, a hopelessly fashionable courier's bag made of pre-aged brown leather that I'd hoped would impress her, was next to me on the seat, and I opened it to remove a piece of A4 paper onto which I'd written what I knew of the book. Isabella said nothing, watching me with bird-bright eyes, and accepted the page when I offered it to her. While she read it, I closed the satchel up again and hid it under the table.
"The book of miracles," she said a few moments later, and I looked at her, puzzled. "It's what you've described here," she said. I noticed that only three-quarters of her lips moved when she spoke, and she slurred, very slightly, a few words here and there. "This is the – well, a to be precise, book of miracles."
"You know this book then?" I was genuinely surprised now, as the antiquariats I'd consulted had all shaken their heads, laughed, and told me I was being deceived.
"I know of several books of this general form," she said. "They list miracles that have happened, and give precise instructions on how to repeat them. They're usually quite interesting, and of course, quite valuable to the people who own them."
"Can you get me one?" I said, leaning forward now, my arms on the table and my stomach tensed. Isabella laid the paper back in front of me, forcing me to sit back a little to make space, and suddenly I realised I could smell my own sweat. I sat back further, now embarrassed.
"No."
"I can pay. I can pay well," I said, mentally wondering how many life insurance policies I could cash out in a hurry.
"You misunderstand," said Isabella, that half-smile playing around her lips again. "I can't get you a book of miracles because they're no use except in the places they're kept. One of those instructions for recreating miracles is invariably that the miracle happen where it happened the first time."
"Oh." I waited, she seemed to suggest there was more to say.
"I can, however, take you to one of these books, and what you choose to do then is up to you."
"When can we leave?"
Part 2
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)