Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

There were two shops and a cafe with a couple of tables and chairs sitting outside on the pavement. Deciding it would good to check she was still heading the right way, Alice went into the cafe. The air inside was thick with smoke and hunched, mulish men with weather-beaten faces and blue overalls lined the counter.

Alice ordered coffee and ostentatiously put her map on the counter.

Dislike of strangers, particularly women, meant no one spoke to her for a while, but finally she managed to strike up a conversation. No one had heard of Los Seres, but they knew the area and gave what help they could.

She drove higher, gradually getting her bearings. The road became a track, and then finally petered out altogether. Alice parked the car and got out. Only now, standing in the familiar landscape, her nose filled with the smells of the mountain, did she realise that she had in fact doubled back on herself and was actually on the far side of the Pic de Soularac.

Alice climbed to the highest point and shielded her eyes. She identified the etang de Tort, a distinctively shaped tarn the men in the bar had told her to look out for. Close by was another expanse of water known locally as the Devil’s Lake.

Finally, she orientated herself to the Pic de Saint-Barthelemy, which stood between the Pic de Soularac and Montsegur itself.

Straight ahead, a single track wound up through the green scrub and brown earth and bright yellow broom. The dark green leaves of the box were fragrant and sharp. She touched the leaves and rubbed the dew between her fingers.

Alice climbed for ten minutes. Then, the path opened into a clearing, and she was there.

A single-storied house stood alone, surrounded by ruins, the grey stone camouflaged against the mountain behind. And in the doorway stood a man, very thin and very old, with a shock of white hair, wearing the pale suit she remembered from the photograph.

Alice felt her legs were moving of their own accord. The ground levelled out as she walked the last few steps towards him. Baillard watched in silence and was completely still. He did not smile or raise his hand in greeting. Even when she drew close, he did not speak or move. He never took his eyes from her face. They were the most startling colour.

Amber mixed with autumn leaves.

Alice stopped in front of him. At last, he smiled. It was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, transforming the crevices and lines of his face.

“Madomaisela Tanner,” he said. His voice was deep and old, like the wind in the desert. “ Benvenguda . I knew you would come.” He stood back to let her enter. “Please.”

Nervous, awkward, Alice ducked under the lintel and stepped through the door into the room, still feeling the intensity of his gaze. It was as if he was trying to commit every feature to memory.

“Monsieur Baillard,” she said, then stopped.

She was unable to think of anything to say. His delight, his wonder that she had come – mixed with his faith that she would – made ordinary conversation impossible.

“You resemble her,” he said slowly. “There is much of her in your face.”

“I’ve only seen photos, but I thought so too.”

He smiled. “I did not mean Grace,” he said softly, then turned away, as if he had said too much. “Please, sit down.”

Alice glanced surreptiously around the room, noticing the lack of modern equipment. No lights, no heating, nothing electronic. She wondered if there was a kitchen.

“Monsieur Baillard,” she started again. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I was wondering… how did you know where to find me?”

Again, he smiled. “Does it matter?”

Alice thought about it and realised it did not.

“Madomaisela Tanner, I know about the Pic de Soularac. I have one question I must ask you before we go any further. Did you find a book?”

More than anything, Alice wanted to say she had. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “He asked me about it too, but I didn’t see it.”

“He?”

She frowned. “A man called Paul Authie.”

Baillard nodded his head up and down. “Ah, yes,” he said, in such a way that Alice felt she didn’t need to explain.

“You found this, though, I believe?”

He lifted his left hand and placed it on the table, like a young girl showing off an engagement ring, and she saw to her astonishment he was wearing the stone ring. She smiled. It was so familiar, even though she’d seen it for a few seconds at most.

She swallowed hard. “May I?”

Baillard removed it from his thumb. Alice took it and turned it over’t her fingers, again discomforted by the intensity of his gaze.

“Does it belong to you?” she heard herself asking, although she feared, say yes and all that that might mean.

He paused. “No,” he said in the end, “although I had one like it once.”

“Then who did this belong to?”

“You do not know?” he said.

For a split second, Alice thought she did. Then the spark of understanding disappeared and her mind was clouded once more.

“I’m not sure,” she said uncertainly, shaking her head, “but it lacks this, I think.” She pulled the labyrinth disc from her pocket. “It was with the family tree at my aunt’s house.” She handed it to him. “Did you send it to her?”

Baillard did not answer. “Grace was a charming woman, well educated and intelligent. During the course of our first conversation we discovered we had several interests in common, several experiences in common.”

“What is it for?” she asked, refusing to be deflected.

“It’s called a merel . Once there were many. Now, only this one remains.”

She watched in amazement as Baillard inserted the disc into the gap in the body of the ring. “ Aqui . There.” He smiled and put the ring back on his thumb.

“Is that decorative only or does it serve some purpose?”

He smiled, as if she had passed some sort of test. “It is the key that is needed,” he said softly.

“Needed for what?”

Again, Baillard did not answer. “Alais comes to you sometimes when you are sleeping, does she not?”

She was taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. She didn’t know how to react.

We carry the past within us, in our bones, in our blood,“ he said. ”Alais has been with you all of your life, watching over you. You share many qualities with her. She had great courage, a quiet determination, as do you. Alais was loyal and steadfast as, I suspect, are you.“ He stopped and smiled at her again. ”She, too, had dreams. Of the old days, of the beginning. Those dreams revealed her destiny to her, although she was reluctant to accept it, as yours now light your way.“

Alice felt as if the words were coming at her from a long distance, as if they were nothing to do with her or Baillard or anybody, but had always existed in time and space.

“My dreams have always been about her,” she said, not knowing where her words were taking her. “About the fire, the mountain, the book. This mountain?” He nodded. “I feel she’s trying to tell me something. Her face has grown clearer these past few days, but I still can’t hear her speak.” She hesitated. “I don’t understand what she wants of me.”

“Or you of her, perhaps,” he said lightly. Baillard poured the wine and handed a glass to Alice.

Despite the earliness of the hour, she took several mouthfuls, feeling the liquid warming her as it slid down her throat.

“Monsieur Baillard, I need to know what happened to Alais. Until I do, nothing will make sense. You know, don’t you?”

A look of infinite sadness came over him.

“She did survive,” she said slowly, fearing to hear the answer. “After Carcassonne… they didn’t… she wasn’t captured?”