He knew what this message contained, and if he pulled the priest from his holy duty, Rufus would only admonish him for what he'd called his obsession with Mal Verne. But now, at long last, that obsession had closed with Mal Verne's death, and Fantin could focus his complete attention on the purification of himself and preparation for the formula for the Philosopher's Stone. It was the sign he'd been awaiting.
"Who sends the message?" Tavis looked like an eager pup as he elbowed the bowl, sloshing the smoking liquid over the side. Dismay pinked his face as he grabbed a cloth to sop up the spill.
"Take care, you fool!" Fantin snapped, ire rising at the young man's clumsiness that seemed to rear its head at the least thrice per day. "I do not wish to have pig's blood and belladonna all over the floor of my chamber!"
His annoyed eased as he looked at his assistant, who'd cleaned up the mess and now had appropriately downcast eyes. Tavis might be overly eager, and more than a bit clumsy, but he was completely devoted to Fantin and his work and that in itself was worth the trouble of cleaning up after his ineptness.
"The message is from Rohan, the man I have in Mal Verne's employ. " He broke the seal and began to scan the parchment as he continued to speak. "I expect this to be the news that-" Fantin choked off, his eyes bulging with incredulity and then in bare shock. Hot fury rose in him, heating his face and causing the hand that held the missive to shake violently.
At his master's high, keening cry of disbelief, Tavis froze, gaping at him with big, bowl-shaped eyes. "What is it, Master Fantin?" he asked in a thready voice.
The vein in Fantin's forehead throbbed furiously. Raking a hand through his hair, he looked at his assistant. "Mal Verne lives. He lives!"
Fantin clenched his fingers around the edges of the parchment, relishing in the yield of the brittle paper beneath his anger, wishing that it was Mal Verne's own neck beneath his nails. It could not be that he lived!
He sucked in a deep draught of air. He must retain control of his senses and force the red that suddenly colored his vision to ease away. . . he closed his eyes and called upon God to send him the calmness and clarity he deserved. If he was to undertake His Will, then He must give him the tools to understand it.
Fantin concentrated, taking two more deep breaths. The tang of smoke, and the acridity of burning pear wood and melting iron, seared his lungs, but it did not matter.
The missive vibrated in his grip so that he could barely read the words of the remainder of the message. . . but when at last he returned to the paper, he snatched in his breath. He could not believe the words he saw there. He read it thrice before the shock compelled him to speak. "Mal Verne claims to have found my daughter! My daughter is alive! It cannot be!" He stared at the paper, rereading the impossible words.
Tavis stared at him with his wide, dark eyes. "Your daughter is alive? But. . . is that not good news?"
Suddenly, at last, the familiar warmth rushed over Fantin, calming him and soothing his frayed nerves. Like a flash of lightning, a sharp thrill heightened his senses, and all at once he understood.
The sign! 'Twas the sign he'd been praying for!
"Rufus!" he shrieked, rushing to the chapel, "'tis the sign! My daughter lives!"
The priest paced from the small cell, his face sober as always, his hands tucked inside his sleeves. "Ah. . . I have been expecting such good news. The Lord has provided and now you can see the way. "
"Aye!" Fantin could not remember the last time he had felt so relieved, so certain of his destiny. Warmth, beauty, love. . . all glowed within him at the knowledge that he'd been gifted thus. He smiled beatifically, caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror across the table from him. . . and admired the angelic, saintly glow that reflected in his fine-boned face.
At last.
That God should return his daughter-the pure, innocent manifestation of his flesh, conjoined with that of his beloved wife Anne-to him now. . . resurrected her, after so many years. . . .
He was blessed. And without any doubt, he knew Madelyne would be instrumental in the creation of the Philosopher's Stone. She was the missing piece, now returned to him.
Of course. The warmth rushing through him was hot and full and arousing. "She has been serving God in an abbey and shall take the veil," he explained to the priest.
Rufus smiled. "All the better. Her devotion should not be wasted upon the needs of those sisters there-Lord Fantin, you must bring her here and she will serve God thusly for your purposes. "
A warmth suffused Fantin as the truth of Rufus's words broke over him. "Aye, oh, father, you have the right of it! Madelyne, sprung from my own loins and that of her mother, is indeed the purest creation on this earth. 'Tis only fit that she act as the conduit betwixt myself and my God. . . for through her, He will speak and show me the salvation that I shall attain with the Stone!"
He smiled with a sudden spark of good humor. "'Twill be the greatest pleasure to welcome my daughter back to her home after so many years. "
Chapter Six
"Look you there, Lady Madelyne. " Lord Mal Verne pointed in a southerly direction as they reached the crest of a hill. "'Tis Mal Verne. "
Madelyne turned obediently, and found herself looking across a small valley to another, larger hill, on which a rambling stone wall rimmed its height. Gold and black flags bearing the standard of Mal Verne fluttered over merlons that jutted like great teeth along the top of the wall. From her view, she could see the small figures of men-at-arms walking around the enclosure, and to the farthest south corner, she saw the heavy iron portcullis that blocked entrance to the bailey. The small buildings of the town clustered on a plateau below the wall, and down in the valley were healthy green fields ready to be harvested.
Lord Mal Verne kicked Rule, the warhorse, and, as if sensing he was near home, the stallion charged off the hill. Madelyne stifled a shriek as she was jounced abruptly to one side, nearly losing her grip on his mane before catching her balance, and she closed her eyes as they headed straight down the hill. She would have begun praying aloud had Mal Verne not given a short bark of laughter and tightened his arms on either side of her.
"Do you not fear, my lady. I have not brought you this far to have you fall beneath Rule's hooves!"
Madelyne pressed her lips together and sat even straighter in her seat. She would not show her fear. . . and she would not allow herself to fall! Those words became a chant in her mind as they careened down the hill, the other men in their party so close on their heels that she feared they'd be overturned, if not trampled, by their zealous companions.