Free Immortal Muse by Stephen Leigh Page A

scattered cheers around the table at the news, mingled with shouts of alarm and anger.
    Perenelle, frozen in shock, started when she felt Nicolas take her arm. “Come, Perenelle,” he said. “We should leave.”
    She stared at him, at the placid satisfaction in his face. “You did this.”
    â€œI did,” he answered calmly. “And so did you. After all, it’s you who translated the scrolls from which I took the spell. I’m sure that in the eyes of the law, you’d be as guilty of this murder as I.” His finger reached out toward her; it stroked the face on the cameo at her breast. “So you’ll be silent about this, won’t you, my dear wife? Be silent,” he repeated, and his finger came up to lift her chin. His dark eyes held hers, unblinking, and his smile was chilling. “Or you’ll pay far worse than the Provost. I promise you that.”
    Perenelle took in a shuddering breath. The pounding of her heart was louder in her ears than the shouting in the hall. The servants had fled the hall; the Provost’s men had fled with them, leaving the bourgeoisie who had opposed the Provost triumphant. Only Marguerite was left, clutching at her husband’s body.
    â€œCome!” Nicolas commanded, and he pulled at her arm. Numb, she followed him from the hall.

Perenelle Flamel: 1370
    â€œM ay your daughter’s marriage be as perfect as your own.”
    â€œYou’re such a blessed couple; you must be so proud of all you’ve done.”
    â€œThe Lord has rewarded you for all that you’ve done with this wonderful day. You and Nicolas are indeed high in His favor.”
    Perenelle smiled and nodded to all the remarks as she moved through the crowd at the chapel of the Saint-Germain-des-Auxerrois church. Nicolas, his beard now completely gray, his body beginning to stoop, was shaking hands with the invited guests on the other side of the central aisle, along with the Dubois family. Alaine Dubois, Verdette’s soon-to-be-husband, was there with Nicolas, looking handsome and far too young to Perenelle’s eyes. The Dubois family were bankers, with holdings in Auvergne and purse strings that led directly to the court of Charles V. It was Nicolas’ rising influence in Parisian circles, and the amounts of money that he had donated to charitable works around the city, that had brought the Flamels and thus Verdette to the attention of the Dubois family. Alaine was the youngest of the four male children Madame Dubois had produced. The oldest son was married to the daughter of a courtier within the king’s inner circle; the other two had been married into wealthy guild families. The Dubois were willing to gamble the least of their male offspring on the hope that a relationship with the Flamels might be a profitable match.
    â€œHe’s a handsome one; Verdette must be pleased.”
    â€œYou must be praying that Alaine is as good and gentle and kind a man as your Nicolas.”
    Verdette and her attendants were in a small room off the chapel; Perenelle, still nodding and smiling like a marionette responding to the strings of its handler, knocked on the door. “Verdette,” she said softly. “It’s your Maman.”
    The door opened to a cascade of giggles and whispers, and Perenelle was ushered inside. Verdette was standing in the center of the room as her attendants made last-minute adjustments to her dress. Perenelle smiled at the scene, her eyes filling unbidden with tears. “You look beautiful,” she told Verdette, sniffing and wiping at her eyes. “A perfect angel.”
    â€œMaman . . .” Verdette opened her arms, and Perenelle went to her, hugging her hard, as if to keep the memory of her forever. Verdette’s arms wrapped her, and she felt Verdette waving at the attendants.
    â€œWould you leave us for a bit?” Verdette asked, and the attendants, chattering and laughing, left the