Cadoville (unfinished)

Chapter VII

Two solitary weeks since reading uncle Stefano's letter had given me a lot of time to think, chewing over the conflicting ambitions of my heart and my head. Like a ghostly face behind misty panes, I observed the world from my window and soaked up the sounds of life all around me. I washed the glassware when it was dark, alone in the candlelight, the shutters bolted.... Dr Spice's laboratory was a little den of curios, cluttered with things that were supposed to bore and bewilder girls like me – jars of leeches, powders, syrups, strange swirling fluids, a human skull, wax sculptures of what lurks under the skin.... All so strange and foreign – far more interesting than embroidery....

Until one rainy night – a silence-shattering THWACK against the big oak doors outside the laboratory and a cart clattering away on the other side of the shutters. Drying my hands, I cracked open the big doors and peered into the darkness.... A round package by my feet, tied up with red ribbon. I took it inside, bolting the doors behind me and placed on the workbench, where I tore off the brown paper in a fit of intrigue, only for my mouth to dry up again wondering if unwrapping a fresh wheel of Gruyères tied up with red ribbon had been a big mistake – it was addressed to Dr Spice after all.... Scrambling to wrap it up again as best I could – very unsuccessfully – l left it on the workbench and carried on washing the flasks, scrubbing them with vinegar and lemon.

The big oak doors ground and clanked again, this time a figure emerging from the darkness with the frosted green eyes of an Irish doctor tolerating my presence. Another late night apparently..., God alone knew where he went every night.... Not that he ever said anything, but he walked into the lab seemingly coolly and drinking from his hipflask, flitting his gaze between me and the chunk of Swiss cheese.

"I see you've resisted an incision inside for the note," he said, taking a scalpel from the bench and dissecting it, carefully and methodically.

"Of course," I replied, ensuring my words had a serrated edge. "It's addressed to you...."

"Indeed. But then that wouldn't be very inquisitive of you now, would it?" I didn't follow..., but rather watched him take the top off the cheese and retrieve the scrap of paper inside. Dr Spice scoffed, and mumbled something barely audible. "A painting..."

"A what?"

"A painting. They want me to find a painting...."

"What painting?"

Dr Spice searched his thoughts.

"It was in one of the letters if I recall .... A painting of the Queen and Polignac together – indisputable evidence of their relationship...."

"They want you to find a painting in Paris?" I asked, scrubbing the last piece of glassware and not envying Dr Spice's mammoth task one bit. "Where would you start?"

Dr Spice paused, half folding his arms and resting the note against his beard.

"If, indeed, it is in Paris...."

I almost headed up to bed but sat on the workbench instead, staring at the emotionally repressed curio that was Dr Spice. As far flung from reality as I was sure it had to be, all the creeping around in shadows and earwigging information was regretfully appealing, exciting even..., not something I'd have a chance of doing in New Orleans. I had had two weeks to pour over uncle Stefano's letter, contemplating what I'd do next, waiting for Dr Spice to simply turf me out now that we had my uncle's address, but he hadn't..., what was stopping him? With a fresh task on the table, I took the opportunity to ask Dr Spice something that had been scratching the back of my mind....

"What was my father working on for the Confrérie?" Dr Spice peered at me over the letter, the candle light flickering in his eyes. "...Did he have a mission?"