from his practice at the Phoenix Foundation, Malachai was at Blixer Rath as a Jungian therapist, not as a reincarnationist. He never talked to any of his patients about possible past-life episodes. Only years later, reading a magazine article about Malachai, did Jac realize he’d been at the clinic investigating his theory that a high percentage of schizophrenics were misdiagnosed and suffering from past-life memory crises.
Jac folded Robbie’s navy sweater and put it into a cardboard box Serge provided. Then, book by book, she packed up. Melinoe’s phone rang, and she left the room to take the call.
Outside, a steady rain fell, and the moat that Jac could see through the window was so full the water was spilling over onto the mossy bank.
She shivered.
“Are you cold?” Serge asked.
“A little.”
“The sweater?”
Jac picked it up. No reason not to put it on. It would keep her warm. Her brother wasn’t a tall man. Not very broad either. The sweater would only be a bit big. But she couldn’t. She didn’t want to smell him that intensely.
“Do you have any newspaper? I need to wrap up the bottles of ingredients so they don’t break.”
Serge left the room to get some. Jac was alone. She went back to the window and looked out again. The shadows were heavy. There was no way to sense how deep the woods were. She wondered how often Robbie had stood here and looked out. Jac suddenly saw it darken. She saw trees falling and branches breaking in some kind of violent storm. How could the rain have gotten so much worse so quickly? But even as she watched, the view changed again and she was seeing it as she had before. The felled branches and trunks were covered with moss and lichen. They weren’t falling anew. She’d seen the view from a different perspective. Had imagined what it had looked like years ago. Not hard to do when your mind is so ready to play tricks on you anyway. Her imagination was both her heaven and her hell. And right now all she wanted to do was finish packing up and get back to Paris before she had to indulge it anymore.
When Melinoe and Serge returned, he was carrying two rolls of paper towels. Jac began to wrap the bottles, tightening the cap on each one.
“Do you share your brother’s belief system?” Melinoe asked. “Are you a Buddhist also?”
Jac shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I don’t believe in anyone—sorry—anything.” The slip of the tongue had been embarrassing but true. In these last weeks Jac had become aware how little faith she had in anyone. Even Robbie had left her. Abandoned her the way her mother had, the way their father had.
“So you don’t believe someone’s dying breath could contain his soul?” Melinoe asked.
“No.”
“But your brother thought it could.”
“Yes, I know that now. He had his nurse collect his dying breath.”
Jac didn’t know why she’d revealed that to a stranger.
“I wondered if he might.”
“Why?”
“He was so taken with the idea. We’d talked about it at length,” Melinoe said.
Jac was almost finished putting the bottles in the box.
“My brother was a dreamer. Like my father. And like my mother until the dreams broke her.”
“And you?”
Jac shrugged. “I’m not my brother.”
“But you are a perfumer. And, he told me once, a far better one than he was. He was convinced that the solution to the dying breaths would have something to do with scent and essences. He said that alchemy and medicine and scent were closely aligned until the nineteenth century and that he’d done a lot of research suggesting there were ancient ingredients that might have held secrets we’ve become too sophisticated to trust.”
“Yes, that sounds exactly like my Robbie.”
“If he’s right and if you have his dying breath, then perhaps you should rethink your decision. Wouldn’t it be worth a few weeks of your life to find out if it’s true?”
Chapter 11
MARCH 17, 1573
BARBIZON, FRANCE
Time passes slowly in
Jac folded Robbie’s navy sweater and put it into a cardboard box Serge provided. Then, book by book, she packed up. Melinoe’s phone rang, and she left the room to take the call.
Outside, a steady rain fell, and the moat that Jac could see through the window was so full the water was spilling over onto the mossy bank.
She shivered.
“Are you cold?” Serge asked.
“A little.”
“The sweater?”
Jac picked it up. No reason not to put it on. It would keep her warm. Her brother wasn’t a tall man. Not very broad either. The sweater would only be a bit big. But she couldn’t. She didn’t want to smell him that intensely.
“Do you have any newspaper? I need to wrap up the bottles of ingredients so they don’t break.”
Serge left the room to get some. Jac was alone. She went back to the window and looked out again. The shadows were heavy. There was no way to sense how deep the woods were. She wondered how often Robbie had stood here and looked out. Jac suddenly saw it darken. She saw trees falling and branches breaking in some kind of violent storm. How could the rain have gotten so much worse so quickly? But even as she watched, the view changed again and she was seeing it as she had before. The felled branches and trunks were covered with moss and lichen. They weren’t falling anew. She’d seen the view from a different perspective. Had imagined what it had looked like years ago. Not hard to do when your mind is so ready to play tricks on you anyway. Her imagination was both her heaven and her hell. And right now all she wanted to do was finish packing up and get back to Paris before she had to indulge it anymore.
When Melinoe and Serge returned, he was carrying two rolls of paper towels. Jac began to wrap the bottles, tightening the cap on each one.
“Do you share your brother’s belief system?” Melinoe asked. “Are you a Buddhist also?”
Jac shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I don’t believe in anyone—sorry—anything.” The slip of the tongue had been embarrassing but true. In these last weeks Jac had become aware how little faith she had in anyone. Even Robbie had left her. Abandoned her the way her mother had, the way their father had.
“So you don’t believe someone’s dying breath could contain his soul?” Melinoe asked.
“No.”
“But your brother thought it could.”
“Yes, I know that now. He had his nurse collect his dying breath.”
Jac didn’t know why she’d revealed that to a stranger.
“I wondered if he might.”
“Why?”
“He was so taken with the idea. We’d talked about it at length,” Melinoe said.
Jac was almost finished putting the bottles in the box.
“My brother was a dreamer. Like my father. And like my mother until the dreams broke her.”
“And you?”
Jac shrugged. “I’m not my brother.”
“But you are a perfumer. And, he told me once, a far better one than he was. He was convinced that the solution to the dying breaths would have something to do with scent and essences. He said that alchemy and medicine and scent were closely aligned until the nineteenth century and that he’d done a lot of research suggesting there were ancient ingredients that might have held secrets we’ve become too sophisticated to trust.”
“Yes, that sounds exactly like my Robbie.”
“If he’s right and if you have his dying breath, then perhaps you should rethink your decision. Wouldn’t it be worth a few weeks of your life to find out if it’s true?”
Chapter 11
MARCH 17, 1573
BARBIZON, FRANCE
Time passes slowly in
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