I made a small, gurgling noise.
"Oh, the patient's center," he said, as though recalling something we had talked about many days ago. "Yes, of course. All healing is done essentially by reaching the…what shall we call it? the soul? the essence? say, the center. By reaching the patient's center, from which they can heal themselves. Surely you have seen it, madonna. The cases so ill or so wounded that plainly they will die—but they don't. Or those who suffer from something so slight that surely they must recover, with the proper care. But they slip away, despite all you can do for them."
"Everyone who minds the sick has seen things like that," I replied cautiously.
"Yes," he agreed. "And the pride of the physician being what it is, most often he blames himself for those that die, and congratulates himself upon the triumph of his skill for those that live. But La Dame Blanche sees the essence of a man, and turns it to healing—or to death. So an evildoer may well fear to look upon her face." He picked up the cup, raised it in a toast to me, and drained the bubbling liquid. It left a faint pink stain on his lips.
"Thanks," I said dryly. "I think. So it wasn't just Glengarry's gullibility?"
Raymond shrugged, looking pleased with himself. "The inspiration was your husband's," he said modestly. "And a really excellent idea, too. But of course, while your husband has the respect of men for his own natural gifts, he would not be considered an authority on supernatural manifestations."
"You, of course, would."
The massive shoulders lifted slightly under the gray velvet robe. There were several small holes in one sleeve, charred around the edges, as though a number of tiny coals had burned their way through. Carelessness while conjuring, I supposed.
"You have been seen in my shop," he pointed out. "Your background is a mystery. And as your husband noted, my own reputation is somewhat suspect. I do move in…circles, shall we say?"—the lipless mouth broadened in a grin—"where a speculation as to your true identity may be taken with undue seriousness. And you know how people talk," he added with an air of prim disapproval that made me burst out laughing.
He set down the cup and leaned forward.
"You said that Mademoiselle Hawkins's health was one concern, madonna. Have you others?"
"I have." I took a small sip of brandy. "I'd guess that you hear a great deal about what goes on in Paris, don't you?"
He smiled, black eyes sharp and genial. "Oh, yes, madonna. What is it that you want to know?"
"Have you heard anything about Charles Stuart? Do you know who he is, for that matter?"
That surprised him; the shelf of his forehead lifted briefly. Then he picked up a small glass bottle from the table in front of him, rolling it meditatively between his palms.
"Yes, madonna," he said. "His father is—or should be—King of Scotland, is he not?"
"Well, that depends on your perspective," I said, stifling a small belch. "He's either the King of Scotland in exile, or the Pretender to the throne, but that's of no great concern to me. What I want to know is…is Charles Stuart doing anything that would make one think he might be planning an armed invasion of Scotland or England?"
He laughed out loud.
"Goodness, madonna! You are a most uncommon woman. Have you any idea how rare such directness is?"
"Yes," I admitted, "but there isn't really any help for it. I'm not good at beating round bushes." I reached out and took the bottle from him. "Have you heard anything?"
He glanced instinctively toward the half-door, but the shopgirl was occupied in mixing perfume for a voluble customer.
"Something small, madonna, only a casual mention in a letter from a friend—but the answer is most definitely yes."
I could see him hesitating in how much to tell me. I kept my eyes on the bottle in my hand, to give him time to make up his mind. The contents rolled with a pleasant sensation as the little vial twisted in my palm. It was oddly heavy for its size, and had a strange, dense, fluid feel to it, as though it was filled with liquid metal.
"It's quicksilver," Master Raymond said, answering my unspoken question. Apparently whatever mind-reading he had been doing had decided him in my favor, for he took back the bottle, poured it out in a shimmering silver puddle on the table before us, and sat back to tell me what he knew.
"One of His Highness's agents has made inquiries in Holland," he said. "A man named O'Brien—and a man more inept at his job I hope never to employ," he added. "A secret agent who drinks to excess?"
"Everyone around Charles Stuart drinks to excess," I said. "What was O'Brien doing?"
"He wished to open negotiations for a shipment of broadswords. Two thousand broadswords, to be purchased in Spain, and sent through Holland, so as to conceal their place of origin."
"Why would he do that?" I asked. I wasn't sure whether I was naturally stupid, or merely fuddled with cherry brandy, but it seemed a pointless undertaking, even for Charles Stuart.
Raymond shrugged, prodding the puddle of quicksilver with a blunt forefinger.
"One can guess, madonna. The Spanish king is a cousin of the Scottish king, is he not? As well as of our good King Louis?"
"Yes, but…"
"Might it not be that he is willing to help the cause of the Stuarts, but not openly?"
The brandy haze was receding from my brain.
"It might."
Raymond tapped his finger sharply downward, making the puddle of quicksilver shiver into several small round globules, that shimmied wildly over the tabletop.
"One hears," he said mildly, eyes still on the droplets of mercury, "that King Louis entertains an English duke at Versailles. One hears also that the Duke is there to seek some arrangements of trade. But then it is rare to hear everything, madonna."
I stared at the rippling drops of mercury, fitting all this together. Jamie, too, had heard the rumor that Sandringham's embassage concerned more than trade rights. What if the Duke's visit really concerned the possibilities of an agreement between France and England—perhaps with regard to the future of Brussels? And if Louis was negotiating secretly with England for support for his invasion of Brussels—then what might Philip of Spain be inclined to do, if approached by an impecunious cousin with the power to distract the English most thoroughly from any attention to foreign ventures?
"Three Bourbon cousins," Raymond murmured to himself. He shepherded one of the drops toward another; as the droplets touched, they merged at once, a single shining drop springing into rounded life as though by magic. The prodding finger urged another droplet inward, and the single drop grew larger. "One blood. But one interest?"
The finger struck down again, and glittering fragments ran over the tabletop in every direction.
"I think not, madonna," Raymond said calmly.
"I see," I said, with a deep breath. "And what do you think about Charles Stuart's new partnership with the Comte St. Germain?"
The wide amphibian smile grew broader.
"I have heard that His Highness goes often to the docks these days—to talk with his new partner, of course. And he looks at the ships at anchor—so fine and quick, so…expensive. The land of Scotland does lie across the water, does it not?"
"It does indeed," I said. A ray of light hit the quicksilver with a flash, attracting my attention to the lowering sun. I would have to go.
"Thank you," I said. "Will you send word? If you hear anything more?"
He inclined his massive head graciously, the swinging hair the color of mercury in the sun, then jerked it up abruptly.
"Ah! Do not touch the quicksilver, madonna!" he warned as I reached toward a droplet that had rolled toward my edge of the table. "It bonds at once with any metal it touches." He reached across and tenderly scooped the tiny pellet toward him. "You do not wish to spoil your lovely rings."
"Right," I said. "Well, I'll admit you've been helpful so far. No one's tried to poison me lately. I don't suppose you and Jamie between you are likely to get me burnt for witchcraft in the Place de la Bastille, do you?" I spoke lightly, but my memories of the thieves' hole and the trial at Cranesmuir were still fresh.
"Certainly not," he said, with dignity. "No one's been burnt for witchcraft in Paris in…oh, twenty years, at least. You're perfectly safe. As long as you don't kill anyone," he added.
"I'll do my best," I said, and rose to go.
Fergus found me a carriage with no difficulty, and I spent the short trip to the Hawkins house musing over recent developments. I supposed that Raymond had in fact done me a service by expanding on Jamie's original wild story to his more superstitious clients, though the thought of having my name bandied about in séances or Black Masses left me with some misgivings.
It also occurred to me that, rushed for time, and beset with speculations of kings and swords and ships, I had not had time to ask Master Raymond where—if anywhere—the Comte St. Germain entered into his own realm of influence.
Public opinion seemed to place the Comte firmly in the center of the mysterious "circles" to which Raymond referred. But as a participant—or a rival? And did the ripples of these circles spread as far as the King's chamber? Louis was rumored to take interest in astrology; could there be some connection, through the dark channels of Cabbalism and sorcery, among Louis, the Comte, and Charles Stuart?