Prophecy. S. J. Parris
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hesitate only for the space of a breath, but she is sharp enough to notice.
‘Ned. Ned Kelley. Well, madame, I must –’ I gesture towards the door at the other end of the gallery. It is a handsome room, running the length of the house at the front, with tall windows along the walls on both sides. Sunlight plays along the darkened panelling, dust dancing in perpetual motion in glittering shafts. The same light falls sidelong on Marie’s face and I have an urge to reach out and touch her cheek, not from desire but merely to see how soft it feels, lit up and golden. I take a step back as if to leave and she reaches out and grasps my sleeve.
‘There – now I have remembered what it was! The ambassador wishes to speak to you in his private office – he has been asking for you all morning but no one knew your whereabouts.’ She says this as a kind of accusation.
‘Then I will go to him shortly,’ I say, feeling the shape of the bag still pressing against my chest under my jerkin. ‘First I must change my shirt.’
She looks at my collar doubtfully.
‘While you are there, tell him I wish to take lessons in your arcane magical arts.’
‘Madame, there is no magic involved, whatever they say in Paris –’ I begin, earnestly, but then I catch sight of her impish smile.
‘Oh dear, Bruno – you are too easy to tease. I think I will enjoy our lessons.’
I reply with a curt bow, leaving her standing in a ray of light with her jewels glittering, still laughing to herself.
The velvet bag, when it is opened, reveals the items Abigail mentioned to me before: a gold signet ring with an engraved emblem; a tortoiseshell hand mirror, beautifully smooth; a small glass vial of perfume in the shape of a diamond, of the kind that women wear around their necks, with a gold clasp and a chain attached at the top. Love-tokens, clearly expensive, but what can these trinkets tell me of the story of Cecily Ashe and her lover? One by one, I hold them up to the light and examine them. The ring’s design is of a bird with outstretched wings and a curved beak, an eagle perhaps, and around the edge letters are carved in mirror image, so that they would read true when pressed into warm sealing wax. I frown for a moment, trying to decipher the motto, until I realise it is written in French: Sa Virtu M’Atire. ‘Her virtue draws me’ – or perhaps ‘its virtue’. But the word ‘attire’ is misspelled – a curious mistake. You would think if you were having a gold ring engraved, you would make sure the goldsmith carved it correctly; nor would any craftsman worth his fee want the expense of making such an error. So, I think, rotating the ring again while my eye follows the letters around, what appears at first glance to be a mistake must be by design, and therefore perhaps the motto has a hidden or coded meaning. If this is the case, it is not giving itself up to me easily; I am no nearer than Abigail to knowing whose emblem this is, though it seems the giver of the ring had a French connection. That hardly helps, of course – half the nobility have some French ancestry and everyone of the gentry class and above learns at least a few words.
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