Three Emperors (9780062194138) by William Dietrich Page B

for this. I gave a nudge, and Harry darted past the man’s folded arms and into the barrel-vaulted repository beyond. I’d told Horus that a “wandering bishop” in a wine-colored cassock kept a mechanical parrot on his shoulder that could sing in French and English. This scholar was Primus Fulcanelli, the student of the occult that Duke Josef Schwarzenberg had suggested I seek.
    â€œMy child!” I cried on cue, looking accusingly at the librarian as if it were his fault Harry had dashed past. A man will defer to women when it comes to a four-year-old. The confused clerk hesitated just long enough for me to push past, his hand scraping my cloak in a futile attempt to stop me.
    I trotted until arrested by the library’s beauty. It’s a baroque hymn to the human mind, as stately as a shrine. There are two dozen black pillars, their tops wrapped with gold, twisted in the Solomon design that originated in the Holy Temple of Jerusalem. Ceiling murals celebrate the history of learning. Oriental rugs muffle sound, and heavy oak tables are heaped with opened books. On stands between are globes, clocks, and models of the seven astrological planets: the sun, the moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. There are also seven hells and seven heavens, seven sacraments in the Catholic Church, seven gifts as defined by Saint Thomas Aquinas, seven deadly sins, and seven days in the week.
    Truth is revealed by numbers.
    Harry cornered a scarlet-robed scholar. “Do you have a parrot?”
    Far from being offended, the surprised bishop seemed charmed by my son’s French. “If I did, wouldn’t I be a pirate?” he said in the same tongue.
    â€œI wanted to hear it sing!”
    â€œAnd what crevice did you escape from, little mouse?” I hurried to catch up, my spangled skirt kicking up loose papers as it swirled.
    â€œI’m not a mouse.”
    The man bent. “Really? You are very small.”
    â€œI’m a boy!”
    â€œHarry, leave that man alone.”
    â€œNo! I want to hear his parrot sing.”
    The bishop straightened. “This is your son?”
    â€œApologies, Monsieur . . .”
    â€œFulcanelli. Primus Fulcanelli, a Latin scholar from Rome.” He turned to Harry. “I’m afraid I don’t have a parrot, but I wish I did.”
    â€œHarry, Mama was mistaken.”
    My boy was disappointed. “I saw a parrot in a circus.”
    â€œLook, there’s a model of the planets. See how the balls go round and round? Take a look while I apologize to this man.” I turned to Fulcanelli, balancing between being demure and being bold. “He’s very fond of novelties, a trait of his mother’s. You are a Jesuit, Monsignor?”
    He was intrigued by my intrusion. “That aggressive order was banned from Prague a generation ago. I’m a Catholic bishop without a diocese, and so am called ‘wandering.’ My kind finds other usefulness, often in scholarship, while keeping our connections to Rome.”
    â€œ ’I’m embarrassed to have interrupted you, and yet you may be the answer to my prayers. I need this library for my alchemical studies.”
    â€œDo you? My own intellectual quest has brought me to Prague. And you are?”
    â€œAstiza of Alexandria. I’m a scholar of mechanical contraptions. I told Harry there might be a parrot automaton here.”
    â€œYou said it was a bird!”
    â€œHarry, hush.” Fulcanelli and I studied each other. He was a remarkably handsome churchman, his manner recalling the poise of the swordsman more than the piety of the clergy. And he looked appreciatively at me. I turn heads when I wish, using it as a tool when needed. Bishops have the rank to appreciate beauty without accusation of moral failing. So: he is a prelate, he is a scholar, he is a man. “I’m afraid my boy embodies the last of the Five Processes,” I said. This is energy, my