It wasn’t until one night, when there had been a long silence in the dead hours, that he thought it was safe enough, and he took his chance. After bracing a chair against the door, he climbed on the bed and hugged Lanore close. He was amazed anew at how small she was, how fragile. Her toes came only to his shins. Her body was so narrow. He ran his hands over the parts of her that were exposed to him and thrilled at the rose-petal tenderness of her skin. He brought his face close to her neck, drinking in her scent, and that tiny bit of intimacy only made him want her more, made him shudder with the great physical potential inside him, like a tsunami rippling over the ocean and reaching for shore. He was seized with the desire to relieve his longing by coupling with her unconscious body. It wasn’t as though Lanore would be surprised if he told her when she awakened what he’d done, he thought. Knowing him as she did, she’d probably expect it of him. She’d excuse his base behavior and yet . . . he knew she’d be disappointed. It would be a bit of the old Adair resurfacing, the demon who frightened her so, proof that he hadn’t been exorcised completely.

He rolled away from her, closed his eyes, and reached for his member, already full and heavy with need. Pressed against her on the bed was enough of a connection for what he had to do, and he was able to bring himself to climax quickly. His relief was short-lived, however: he felt his hard-earned peace dissipate like mist, to be replaced with an aching sadness. He was, after all, still alone, and she was still lying next to him like an effigy on a tomb.

He went to the window and saw the entire island was in sleep. Even the goats were huddled together under the pine trees, their heads resting on their knees. A mist seemed to have settled over the island, covering everything in a thick white fog, as palpable as cotton batting.

Adair went downstairs, past the dining room, where he found the two women passed out at the table, a number of empty wine bottles strewn between them. He put on his greatcoat and went outdoors. It was wintertime, but aside from the biting wind whipping in from the sea, it didn’t seem like winter on the island, which was too far south in the Mediterranean for frost or snow. As Adair stood staring at the water with his hands thrust in his pockets, he thought that he would like it to look like winter. What was the coldness he felt in his heart, if not winter?

Without saying a word or even thinking about it too strenuously, he made the temperature fall. A frosty veil of white started to bloom over the black rocks. Plumes of breath rose over the sleeping goats. Where the sea met rock, a ring of ice began to form, then spread out to the sea, until the island was encircled by a huge disk of thick ice. Adair tried not to be surprised, because he knew that—in some way that wasn’t clear to him but was nonetheless undeniable—he’d willed this change to happen.

* * *

Inside the house, Adair continued his vigil. He moved a chair to the foot of the bed so that he could watch Lanore from a different angle. He brought a blanket from another room and spread it over the first one, fearing that she might feel a chill now that the air had gotten colder, though he suspected that she didn’t feel a thing. As he sat watching her, with a sigh he released the coldness in his heart, and as soon as he did, the temperature began to creep upward. The goats awoke, tossing their heads to shake off the enchantment. Before long the ice that had gripped the shore began to groan and break apart, chunks of it drifting into the sea.

Watching the ice break apart made Adair feel uneasy, however. He had begun to feel a presence gathering on the horizon. Whatever this presence was, it was malevolent. It stalked outside his field of vision, beyond his reach, like a wolf or jackal pacing and sniffing the air. It was testing the outer limits of Adair’s reach and would come in closer once it felt confident. He had no idea what the presence might be, or why he felt this strong sense of foreboding, but there it was, just as he felt there was a connection between the girls and the long-dead sister witches.

He worried that it could be the queen coming for him. There was a chance that Lanore’s entry to the underworld had gotten the queen’s attention and now she was amassing her forces, preparing to capture him and drag him to hell to face the punishment he’d eluded for so long. If it weren’t for Lanore, Adair would take measures of his own and leave the island. But as it was, Adair felt like a sitting duck, impatient with being helpless.

That night, Adair once again barricaded the door to Lanore’s room and settled in with her. He fitted himself against her on the bed, cupping his hand over the one of hers that held the vial, and then cleared his mind so that he might drift into sleep. Darkness fell on him swiftly, and as heavily as a hammer.


VENICE, 1262

The next day, Adair could hardly wait for midnight. He’d spent the daytime hurriedly copying out as many pages as he could from the blue book, until his hand cramped and his fingers were heavily stained with ink. As much as he regretted the loss of his treasure, he hoped to get something much better in return: a mentor. Oh, of course the man he met last night might be a pretender and a charlatan, but Adair didn’t think that was the case. If he was half as learned as Adair suspected, Adair had decided to try to convince him to take him on as an apprentice. At the very least, he hoped the old man would let him peruse his books on the occult. If owning even one book of secrets had made Adair this happy, he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have access to an entire collection. The sacrifice of the peacock book was a minor thing compared to the possibility of finding a knowledgeable mentor and gaining access to such an accumulation of occult knowledge.

By midnight, most of the doge’s staff was asleep, even the guard at the gate in the back of the courtyard, and Adair had no difficulty sneaking out of the palazzo. Energetic with anticipation, he dashed through cobblestone alleys and over bridges until he came to the Plaza Saint Vincent. The old man had not been kidding when he said Adair would be able to pick out his house without assistance: one house alone dominated the square, and it was conspicuously well lit for the hour. Two lanterns hung in front of the massive oak doors, and chinks of light coming from deep inside the house shone through all the closed shutters.

Adair was met at the door by a footman, who led him on a trek through the palazzo and all the way to a wing at the back of the house. They finally came to a large, heavy door. The servant held the door open but only nodded at Adair, indicating that he should proceed alone, the door closing at once behind him. The room might as well have been in a deep dungeon, it was so dark and cavernous, though it was lit as well as could be by two huge candelabras standing on tall pedestals. The room obviously served as a study, two of its long walls covered with book-laden shelves. Adair had never seen so many books in his life, not at the doge’s palace, nor in any of the rooms of his father’s castle. For a moment, all he could do was gawk. It was like seeing his dearest wish come true. To be able to afford so many books, he figured the old man must be rich beyond measure.

It was then that Adair noticed the old man standing behind a high lectern, reading from a large book. He was slightly more modestly dressed that evening than the first time they’d met, now wearing a tunic with a full fur collar and gold embroidery at the neck and sleeves. He was using a piece of glass to magnify the words on the page, and took his time finishing what he was doing before looking up at Adair.

“You made it, I see. And you have the book?” he asked, reaching out with one massive, leathery hand. Adair took the package from under his cloak and approached the lectern, offering it up.

The old man slipped the deerskin off, then held the book up to examine it under the light from the candelabras. He flicked through the pages, pleased. At length he said to Adair, “It’s a lovely book, wouldn’t you agree? And a very rare one. Do you know the provenance of this tome?”

Adair shook his head.

“If you did, doubtless you would’ve fought harder to keep it.” The old man gave him a cunning smile, pleased with himself. “It was reportedly made by a French monk who was a secret devotee of the occult arts during the Capetian reign, prior to the time of Eleanor of Aquitaine. The church has a very long and intimate relationship with the occult,” he said, clearly delighting in his new possession, the way a man might extoll the virtues of a superb wine or a good spouse to whoever is within earshot.

Now happy, the old man reached into his robes and held out Adair’s coin purse and proceeded to tell Adair about himself. His name was Cosimo Moretti. He was born the son of a common farmer in the principality of Naples, but over the course of many years had been able to distinguish himself as a knight in service to the prince, fighting his way out of poverty. For his entire life, however, he’d had a secret burning interest in the dark arts. For instance, on every campaign, he would seek out old crones, midwives, and herbalists, charming or paying them, whichever was necessary, to find out if there was an actual witch living in their midst. Such information was not readily shared with strangers—particularly one of the prince’s men, who more likely than not would turn the witch over to the authorities—but occasionally he struck pay dirt. In this way, albeit very slowly, he accumulated a good deal of knowledge about not only the dark arts but its renowned practitioners.