The Third Uncle

Chapter Fifteeen:You never really know your friends from your enemies

Chapter Fifteeen:You never really know your friends from your enemies until the ice breaks.

   St-Etienne-du-Mont shook from within and without. The bell tower rocked on its foundation, chiming a discordant song that showered over the parish. The loud ringing sliced jaggedly through the storm that whipped black hail around the gothic and renaissance facade. The pouring rain jumped suddenly, as violet lightning struck the roof. The water rushed down, and around the marble lacework like electric veins until it spewed from the mouths of the protruding gargoyles.

   Inside the crypt not a person noticed. 

   Not even the doppelgänger noticed.

   For when she raced at Antonio, two things happened. She lunged up through the air, with a squeal of delight, stretching out her tiny fingers like ten, tiny ivory daggers, sneering as they dug into his pink, fleshy neck, and then - 

   She was surprised.

   A silent, and suddenly violent and billowy concussion ripped her back and away from her prey just as she was shrieking in triumph. 

    All of this happened in as much time as it took Antonio’s cane to crash down onto the sarcophagus four times.

   The explosion seemed to come from everywhere, a thunderhead had blossomed in the crypt, and though nothing was destroyed, everything had changed. The air was suddenly fused with a thousand foreign perfumes. Oriental perfumes that clouded the darkness. The scents swirled and suffocated the damp, mildewy smells of decay and age. The doppelgänger sat up in shock and clawed at her nose, pinching her tiny nostrils shut with such violence that they bled little rivers that dripped down her chin. 

  The opaque scents simmered, and choked the crypt with incredible bouquets. Cherry blossoms, thought Francesca, then, jasmine, she coughed, as the fragrant odours spun around her. Amber, and vanillas, the smell of the forest in autumn, tobaccos, iris, and the unmistakable scent of the Damask rose.

    The scented air conspired to smother the mausoleum and its occupants into insensibility.

    Antonio waved a handkerchief in front of his face, clearing away the fragrant whorls, as Gaspard held a protective sleeve in front of his and Francesca’s face. Rudolpho, however,  turned his large nose into the cloud, snuffling through his moustaches, and looked as if he quite liked the new aromas. 

   The doppelgänger clearly did not. 

   She pulled herself up to her knees, making ineffectual sweeping gestures to clear the odiferous cloud away. 

   Her eyes stung.

   She peered into the haze, trying to understand what had happened. A gentle light covered everything, a warm, periwinkle glow that stole throughout the mausoleum. Her eyes flicked around the room, searching, darting, until she spotted Francesca partially hidden away behind the boy. Next to them she saw Rudolpho brandishing his sword protectively over Antonio ... and next to them, there was a woman.

   The woman sat, or rather, she reclined across the sarcophagus next to Antonio, lounging and looking a little bored. She had almond shaped eyes, the muddy green colour of the Seine. Her long blonde hair fell heavily over her forehead, partially hiding her thinly painted eye-brows and cheek-bones that were almost too high for her tiny face.

  She too was quietly looking around the room. Her eyes dancing as they took in the various tombs, broken sarcophagi and crumbling bricks that littered the damp floor. She twisted her body, stretching, and then cocked her head to one side as if listening for something before she spoke.