The Parisian Codex

26 - A delicate and confidential Matter

Sofia's collection included some disturbing works, such as the demonic Who's Who bound in human skin through which she had identified Zagan. But there were also wacky, delirious and incomprehensible writings, such as the little compendium I first immersed myself in.

The grimoire had been used by several people in succession, as evidenced by the different handwriting on it. One feature tied the authors together: they were all as equally messy. They jotted down their thoughts of the day, cooking recipes, inheritance accounts, village gossip and sometimes, when the mood struck, innovative magic formulas and esoteric mystical studies.

Kitten curled up in a ball on my lap as I deciphered the more or less legible handwriting on the manuscript. Hours passed. I closed the first grimoire and moved on to the second. This one was intricately illuminated, carefully calligraphed on vellum and written in Greek.

It was an exegesis of the Apocalypse according to Saint John, probably fascinating for a first-century Orthodox monk but singularly lacking in practical applications. I skimmed through the chapters, convinced that there was nothing useful to be found in the pages.

Three knocks on the back of the metal cupboard startled me. Kitten dug his claws into my pants and scurried off into a dark corner. I put the book down and went to see who was disturbing me in the middle of the night. Had Zagan discovered something, or was the demon totally devoid of patience?

"I barely had time to look at the manuscripts," I muttered, pushing the cupboard aside.

"What manuscripts?" asked Romane.

She was carrying her class satchel and yoga mat over her shoulder.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Half past five. Did I wake you up?"

Without waiting for an answer, she stood on tiptoe to look over my shoulder. Her face suddenly took on a serious expression I'd only observed when she was talking real estate.

Her bags slid to the ground.

She pushed me aside to enter my office, and in surprise, I let her. She went straight for the third grimoire, the one I hadn't opened yet. "Where did you find this gem?"

She stroked the musty leather cover with maternal tenderness.

I pulled the book from her hands and placed it back on my desk. "This is a confidential file."

She immediately took it back and began to leaf through it with a look of adoration.

Ah.

Here I had an assortment of magical compendia and a human whom Zagan had twice referred to as a "witch." I'd taken that as an insult. But when you thought about it...

"Romane?"

She didn't seem to hear me. Her fingers moved from page to page, as if she were reading in braille. Her gaze was fixed, filled with a gloomy glimmer.

"Romane?" I said again.

I put a hand on her forearm, and she gave a frightened cry.

"Ah," said Zagan from the threshold, "our little witch has sniffed out magic."

Romane gave him a look of pure terror. "No, I ... not at all."

But she hadn't let go of the grimoire, and her knuckles had turned white under the force of her grip.

"Oh, we'll have none of that!" said Zagan with a casual gesture.

He strode to Romane's side and looked down at her (Mathieu liked his dancers to be over six feet tall). "Kid, you stink of death. I know a necromancer when I see one. What are you looking for? The wisdom of the ancient sorcerers? The secrets of immortality? Or do you want an army of the undead?"