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  “Well, I don’t know if I’m the right practitioner, and I have no amulet, but I have been researching palm reading in the library. It fascinates me, that the future could be spelled out in the palm of your hand.” I hold up my hand in illustration, then lower it. “I wonder, could I practice on you? Would you mind?”

  March laughs and holds out her hand, palm up. The charms on her bracelet jingle against each other. The key dangles on the back side of her hand, closest to the ground. Bingo.

  “Of course. Please, tell me what you see. Unless it’s bad news, of course.” She winks at me. “I don’t want to hear any bad news tonight. I haven’t had enough wine for that.”

  I reach out with both hands to cup her palm. My left hand holds her hand steady, while my right takes a piece of modeling clay from under my sleeve and then hovers under my left. I pretend to peer at the lines of March’s palm while my fingers massage the clay into a thick disk.

  “Apparently, there are two schools of thought about what direction to read the heart line,” I say. “I’ve been going with index to pinkie, if that works for you.”

  March smiles indulgently.

  “Let’s see what you can tell me.”

  “Okay, I’ll start with the heart line. It begins in the middle, so you fall in love easily.” I look up and wink. March laughs. “Good to know. It’s also straight, so you have a good handle on your emotions. I can see that. Hmm, but the line is also broken―you’ve experienced emotional trauma.”

  Time for the impression. I look up at March, and she meets my eyes. Quickly, I press the clay into the key then peel it away and tuck it back into my sleeve.

  “Very good,” March says. Her lauvan are minorly ruffled. Perhaps I’ve guessed correctly? “What about the head line?”

  “The head line is straight, long, and deep, so your thinking is clear and focused, and you’re realistic. But all those crosses through the line, that shows that you’ve made momentous decisions. No surprise there, I guess.” I laugh and release her hand. “But I’m not very good at it, so it’s probably all nonsense. You’d be better to stick with the horoscope than trust my palm reading.”

  I take a swig of wine, and when I look at March again, she gazes at me with narrowed eyes. It’s a calculating look.

  “The Jeremy I know wouldn’t brush off his findings like that. He is much more intent on his spirit education.” She stares at me for a moment longer. “You’re not really Jeremy Barnum, are you?”

  My eyes widen involuntarily, although I try to hide it. March nods with satisfaction at catching me out.

  “I would ask who you are, but I imagine the whole point of your disguise is to hide that fact. You’d better run along. And know this: the next time you enter headquarters, we will have a way to detect imposters. You won’t be able to pull this trick again.” She stands. “Goodbye, whoever you are.”

  March sweeps away, leaving me speechless. How had she known? More to the point, how had she guessed that shapeshifting was possible, and that I was doing it? What does she know?

  I shake my head to clear it and drop some bills on the bar, then walk around the block a few times to make sure no one follows me. In a nearby alley, I release my lauvan to transform back into myself, then beat a hasty retreat to my car.

  March’s guess about my transformation shook me, but my mission was still successful. I carefully peel the clay off the skin of my wrist and smile grimly. I’ll make the key tonight. Tomorrow, the grail will be mine.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Dreaming

  Axel Gustafsson Oxenstierna af Södermöre, the Lord High Chancellor for Queen Christina of Sweden, ushers me through the doorway and down a long corridor lined with multi-paned windows that allow the early morning sun to dribble through onto the waxed wooden floorboards. Polished sconces between each window are unlit at this hour.

  “Thank you for coming, Dr. Bourdelot,” he says in a firm voice. His once blond hair and beard are liberally streaked with white, but his sumptuous clothes sit well on his frame despite his age. “The queen has been poorly for months. The court physician can make no improvements and is at a loss.”

  “I imagine bloodletting is his most common treatment?” I say with derision. “Have no fear. If Queen Christina can be healed, I will be the one to do it. Assuming you can keep your end of our bargain.”

  Axel coughs.

  “I will do my best. The queen is very fond of the newfound treasure, and it won’t be easy.”

  I stop and glare at him. He fidgets.

  “Yes, of course, the ring will be yours. As soon as the queen shows substantial improvement.”

  “Good. The ring is precious to me.” Word had reached me in Paris that some hapless Swedish farmer had dug up a box of precious stones and a beautiful, unusual jade ring. It was quickly confiscated by the Swedish crown, and now resides in their treasury. It was a mystery how a treasure like that had wound up buried in a field, a mystery to everyone except me.

  “How so?” says Axel. “It looks ancient.”

  “I recognized it as a family heirloom. I have no interest in the jewels, it’s the ring that has value to my family.” It was my eighth wife Khutulun’s, the ring I gave her on our wedding day. She thought it an odd Western idea compared to Mongol custom, but was enamored, nonetheless. On her deathbed, she begged me to hide it at the ends of the earth, hidden forever as a testament to our eternal love. How could I refuse her dying wish? I traveled to the wilds of northern Europe and buried it in the forest. I couldn’t have known it would be cleared for farmland. I need to recover the ring to hide it away once more.

  “Well, whatever your reason, I will fulfill your request if you heal the queen. You have my word. She is our sovereign leader, as well as a dear friend of mine.”

  His mossy green lauvan show no signs of subterfuge. He clearly cares for the young queen. Axel has been advisor to the Swedish royalty since her father Gustavus Adolphus was in power. He must have watched her grow from child to adolescent queen to confident ruler.

  “You were right to accept my offer,” I say when we approach an ornately carved door.

  “I hope so,” he says and knocks.

  A maid opens the door. Hot, stale air and scent of woodsmoke waft past us, and I wrinkle my nose. Nothing about the air brings health to my mind. The room is dim, with thick curtains closed against the pale northern sun. Three maids dither in various employments, and a man―presumably the court physician, Grégoire François Du Rietz―stands over the bed. Under the sheets lies a woman who, although I cannot describe her as attractive, nevertheless draws my eye from an obvious strength of character. Her large eyes pierce me through. Her shoulders are crooked, and her light chestnut hair is a tangled mess over a face drawn from suffering.

  “Your grace,” Axel says. “I am pleased to introduce you to the doctor Pierre Michon Bourdelot, the esteemed physician from Paris. With your permission, he will examine you.”

  “Yes, of course.” Christina’s voice is weary but firm. “You are most welcome, Dr. Bourdelot. I am in your capable hands. Please show me that your reputation is not unfounded.”

  I bow low.

  “It is my pleasure to be here, your grace. Do I have your authority to take control of your path to better health?”

  She waves her acquiescence.

  “You do.”

  “Everyone out,” I say at once. “I must examine my patient without distraction.”

  With nervous looks at their mistress, the three maids curtsey and retreat. The doctor looks immovable.

  “You as well, doctor.”

  “Surely you will need my account of her grace’s health?”

  “I prefer to make my own assessments.”

  “For God’s sake,” Christina curses. “Leave the man to his work. There are plenty of others in need of your services. I am not one of them today.”

  The doctor’s gaze darkens, but after the queen’s outburst, there is little he can do. He sweeps from the room without
another word. When his footsteps fade from hearing, and Axel has closed the door behind himself, Christina speaks.

  “You lack tact, Dr. Bourdelot. My physician will run to my mother and try to turn the court against you.” She closes her eyes and sighs.

  “Does that displease you?”

  “It is your choice, you are the one who must navigate those waters. I am too weary to care overmuch. And tact has never been my specialty, so I am not one to point fingers. But tell me, doctor, what is wrong with me?”

  “May I remove the covers?” I need to see her lauvan clearly. While her nightgown poses no problem, the abundance of blankets obscures her burgundy strands.

  “If you must.” She throws them off herself and lies stretched out fully. She gives me a mocking smile. “Gaze upon the magnificence of Sweden’s ruling queen.”

  She still has spirit, despite her illness. I can observe her body for signs of sickness, such as knotted lauvan. Her strands tell the tale of general malaise and poor habits―she doesn’t receive nearly the amount of rest and food she needs, strange in a monarch―but there is a larger problem. Directly above her lower abdomen floats a snarled mess of threads. My latest mentor, the one who taught me the basics of modern medicine, helped me understand what is inside the body, and what is likely the cause of each knotted untidiness I see. It’s not strictly necessary, but it’s interesting to properly diagnose a condition. I suspect Christina suffers from inflammation of the female organs. Luckily, that is something I can fix.

  “My methods are unorthodox,” I say at last. “There will be no bloodletting, for one. I will need to do something strange, which will likely last for an hour. There should be little or no pain. I ask you to trust me.”

  Christina slowly nods.

  “You are welcome to try anything that will make me feel better.” She reaches for a book on her nightstand. “I will read while you work.”

  The title proclaims it to be by the Roman author Petronius. I shake my head and remove it from her grasp.

  “Absolutely not. You are overworked, overtaxed, and underfed. You must rest your mind as well as your body. No reading for the next few weeks, especially tomes of significance.”

  “No reading?” Christina’s eyes are wide, and her strands suggest the imminent assertion of her status.

  “Perhaps, if you are a good girl, I will find you some suitable reading material in a few days.”

  She stares at me past her unkempt hair with a blank expression for a long moment. Then she lets out a weak laugh.

  “You have nerve, I will grant you that. Fine, no books. But this treatment had best deliver as promised, or by God, you will wish it had.”

  “It will,” I assure her. She leans back with her eyes closed and waves at me to continue. I put one knee on the bed for leverage and begin the slow process of unknotting.

  By the time I have smoothed all the strands over Christina’s abdomen, the steady breaths of sleep escape her lips. She is still pale, but with the pale of tiredness instead of illness. I sit on a nearby chair and relax after my tedious exertion. My work as a doctor entails a lot of lauvan untangling. I expect I will choose a different profession next time.

  After a half hour of repose, Christina opens her eyes. I clap my hands, and she looks startled.

  “Good morning, your grace.” I stand and walk to the windows. With a swift motion, I yank the curtains open to expose the room to the watery northern sun. “We must have no more dark, stale heat. Clean, fresh air is the best medicine for you now.”

  Christina blinks at the sudden light. I stride to the door and fling it open. Two of the maids linger in the corridor.

  “Your mistress needs a bath, and a hearty meal,” I say loudly. They stare at me in confusion, and I clap my hands once more. “Right now, if you will!”

  They scurry to fetch food and hot water. I turn to Christina, who watches me warily.

  “Rest, cleanliness, and plenty of food will bring back your health in no time. You are too young to be so careworn. You must take some amusement when you can. Your friend, Ebba Sparre, she must be missing you, no?”

  Christina’s mouth twitches at my mention of her close companion. By Axel’s account, they are more than simply friends. I hide my smile as I pull a small book out of my pocket.

  “This is the only reading you are permitted for now.”

  Christina opens the book without enthusiasm.

  “Sonnets? I am sometimes entertained by―oh!” She skims the poetry in earnest. She chuckles and I smile.

  “To warm the blood. As your doctor, I must insist.”

  “These are hardly proper,” she says as she turns the page to read more.

  “Don’t be concerned, you don’t have to read them with me. Perhaps Ebba will lend a willing ear. Ah,” I say as some maids enter with trays and towels. “I will leave you to your ablutions and meal.”

  “This is far too much,” she protests when a maid places the tray before her. “The diet of an ascetic cleanses the body and sharpens the mind.”

  “And how has that treated your body thus far?” I ask. She flushes in anger and indignation. “As for your mind, by all accounts it is already very sharp. A few weeks of meat won’t dullen it substantially.”

  “We shall see,” she says and waves me over. “Come, sit with me while I eat. You may monitor my meat consumption, to ensure it is adequate.” She smiles at me with a look that reminds me that this woman has been successfully ruling a country for years. She is built of steel.

  “Of course, your grace.” I let her take a few bites, then casually mention the real reason I am here, in the guise of small talk. “Even in Paris, the news reached us of the treasure found in a farmer’s field. Tell me, is it as glorious as the rumors proclaim?”

  “It could hardly be less,” she says with true animation lighting her eyes. “It’s a small chest, carved with horses in a strange fashion, but the jewels within! Quite magnificent. The crowning glory is a ring, nestled in the center of all the riches. A beautiful green stone, which my advisors tell me is known as jade. It’s a splendid piece of jewelry, and I’m quite attached to it already. I have plans to take the setting and place it on a thicker gold band set with rubies to counterpoint the green of the jade.”

  “It sounds splendid,” I murmur. I must bring the queen back to health, and soon. If I don’t take the ring before she dismantles it, I will have failed Khutulun. Some would say it doesn’t matter, she is long dead and beyond caring. But I have so little to keep―I can at least keep my promises.

  ***

  “The ring, as promised,” Axel whispers. He passes me a small leather pouch. I glance inside. The ring is nestled in a silk cloth, almost as beautiful as the hand it once adorned. I slip the pouch into my pocket.

  “You have worked miracles for the queen’s health,” he says. “Are you certain I can’t convince you to stay? You may name your price. The queen would agree.”

  I laugh.

  “The queen’s mother would most assuredly not agree. I would have an uphill battle ingratiating myself with Maria Elenore and her courtiers, if I wished. No, Paris calls me back. Farewell, Axel. You have kept your bargain and proven yourself a fine friend.”

  Axel grips my hand. Our lauvan twist together, to my surprise.

  “You are welcome here at any time,” he says with feeling. I nod slowly.

  “I will remember.”

  ***

  Shaking wakes me from my dreams. Is there someone in my bed? No, it must be an earthquake. Before my befuddled brain can push my body into action, the tremor stops. It is a long time after that my heart ceases to pound.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Time is of the essence, but I don’t want to move too quickly. Breaking and entering is an art, one I am well-versed in. It is Saturday, so I take a leisurely breakfast and mark a few papers. After lunch, I dial Alejandro’s number.

  “It’s time,” I say when he answers. “I have the key. Afternoon is the best time to break
in―less likely to have someone at home. Are you in for today?”

  “I’ll be at your place in fifteen minutes.” Alejandro’s voice is flat and subdued, a far cry from his usual pep. I expected far more enthusiasm, perhaps some excited questioning about how I took the key, but he hangs up immediately.

  When Alejandro arrives, his drooping lauvan and long face match his voice.

  “What happened to you?” I say without preamble. A quick examination of the lauvan that fan out from his center hint at the source of Alejandro’s angst. “Woman troubles?”

  “How did you guess?” Alejandro’s voice is uncharacteristically belligerent.

  “The lauvan that connect you to Jen are snarled and tangled,” I say calmly. “What happened?”

  I motion for Alejandro to come inside. He steps with more force than usual and kicks off his shoes as if they have offended him.

  “My uncle died yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you!” Alejandro gestures at me as if I’ve proven a point. “That’s what a friend says. I was very close to my uncle, it was a big shock.” He pauses to collect himself. “I went to Jen’s straight after I heard. I guess I was hoping for kindness or sympathy.”

  I frown. Alejandro implies that he received neither, but that doesn’t sound like Jen. He continues in a bitter tone.

  “But instead, she says something like, everyone’s life is short unless you’re immortal like Merry, you have to take what you can get, here’s hoping your uncle didn’t waste his life.” Alejandro stares at me with an expression that invites incredulity. “Can you believe it? So callous and cold. We had some angry words, then I left. And good riddance.”