Free The Whispering of Bones by Judith Rock Page A

the stone street passage that ran beneath the main building to the postern door. Frère Martin, the doorkeeper, was enthroned on a stool at the street end of the passage.
    â€œA fine morning,
maître
!” he said. “I always love the bite of autumn air. Makes the brain work better, don’t you think? I even guessed the riddle Marie-Ange brought me this morning when she came to ask after Père Dainville. Poor little maid, I didn’t have any good news for her, they say he’s just the same. But then she told me the September riddle from the
Mercure
—oh, not that the baker can afford to buy it,” he said, seeing Charles’s surprise. “But its riddles are always passed around the
quartier
, you know. And I solved this one! Got a little cake for my trouble, too; she always brings me something.”
    â€œWell done,” Charles said, smiling.
The Mercure Galant
, the news publication that reviewed the college theatre productions, was printed as a small, calf-bound book at the end of every month, and always included new riddles. “What was the answer?”
    â€œQueen of Hungary water!” The lay brother’s canvas-aproned bulk shook as he laughed. “And hard enough it was to follow the clues, I can tell you. But then maybe I had an advantage, because Frère Brunet uses Hungary water on my rheumatics, rubs it on my knees when I can hardly stand up. And it works,
maître
; remember that when you’re as old as me! You can drink it, too, which is just as good for you, since it’s mostly brandy!” He winked at Charles and glanced toward the courtyard. “Waiting for someone?”
    â€œMaître Richaud and I are going to the Novice House.”
    â€œAh. Him. I’ll tell you in confidence that the lay brothers who look after the boarding students’ lodgings are glad to see the back of him. And we’re about to see the front of him,” Martin finished, as footsteps echoed behind Charles.
    â€œFortunate us. A blessed day to you, Frère Martin.”
    The lay brother opened the postern and Charles was out the door like an arrow. Only to stop again and wait for Richaud to catch up.
    â€œWe have something of a walk,
maître
,” Charles said. “Can you go a little faster?”
    Richaud’s flat black gaze under the slightly drooping brim of his black hat grew a shade more disapproving. “Jesuits are not supposed to make a spectacle of themselves in the streets.”
    â€œTrue. Jesuits are also supposed to be on time for their obligations.” The clock in the college tower began to chime. “We have exactly a quarter of an hour to arrive at the rue du Pot-de-Fer and find out where we are to meet our teacher. It would be rude indeed to be late on our first day.”
    Richaud grudgingly admitted that and walked a little faster, though still not fast enough to suit Charles. But since surging ahead of one’s companion in the street actually did count as making something of a spectacle, he shortened his stride to match Richaud’s. As they walked up the hill toward the rue des Cordeliers, Charles heard someone singing in the corner house, and his own steps lagged. It was the same song about the pleasure and danger of love, and the same singer. He looked up at the window where he’d seen the woman singing the night before, but no one was there.
    â€œLe plaisir de vous voir est un plaisir extrême,
    mais il est dangereux . . .”
    An exasperated cry from within the house cut off the words. “Stop your noise! Customers are waiting!”
    Richaud walked on, but Charles was looking at the long sign hung above the house door. At the feet of a saint with halo and staff, a black dog with a red ball in his mouth was pawing at the saint’s robe, inviting him to play. Beneath the sign was a table piled with books, and the customers coming out of the shop had books under their arms. Richaud