Just a wooden door with a black glass doorknob, but something about it made her ask Serge what it led to.
“The cellar.”
“Could I see?”
He looked at her as if it was a strange request—and it probably was. So she told him more about her job. And how, as a mythologist, she researched old stories and tried to find their fountainhead. “I seem always drawn to the lower level,” she said. “Caves, cellars, crypts, tunnels . . . Over time we build up and over cities. The most interesting places are often those buried beneath our feet. Digging down, you find the past.”
“Well, there’s not much past down here,” he said as he led her toward a narrow staircase. The steps were marble, chipped and worn. The wooden handrail smooth but gouged in several places.
“The servants lived here, below the house. We use it for storage now. It would be an awful place to ask someone to sleep.”
They walked through a long hallway off of which was one small room after another. At the end they came to an iron door with a large keyhole.
“And through there?” Jac felt a stirring of excitement. The door was ancient. Certainly more than five hundred years old. Clearly this part of the house was the least restored.
“I’ll show you.” From his pocket Serge pulled out a key ring.
Jac was surprised that the door was locked. The skeleton key turned in the mechanism and creaked in a very particular way. Hearing the sound, Jac thought it sounded familiar. Often when she sensed something might have happened before, Jac obsessed over it, trying to figure it out and understand it.
“Don’t worry about what it all means, just live in the moment,” Robbie would tell her. “When you need to know more, it will reveal itself to you.”
But Jac didn’t like not knowing, wondering, feeling lost, imagining what the past foretold and what the future might be. She and Robbie weren’t alike that way. “ My beautiful dreamer ,” their mother had called her son. Jac had her feet on the ground. Even if that ground was deep down in the earth. Which was where they were heading now.
They were descending another staircase. This one was stone and spiral and even more narrow. Twisting, tortured steps turning on one another. The air was colder, and Jac shivered.
“Here we are,” Serge said as he turned on an overhead light—the only modern object in this ancient space. “This is the deepest part of the house. Where they kept wine and cold storage. The temperature never rises above twelve degrees Celsius.”
They stepped into the large cellar. The stone floor was cracked and splintered. The ceiling was all beamed and so low that Serge had to stoop. There were empty niches equipped with hooks lining the north wall. The west wall was outfitted with shelves filled with dusty bottles. Dark glass, covered with cobwebs, glistened in the lamplight. Jac guessed this wasn’t where they kept their drinkable wine. There were so many cobwebs in the corners it was obvious no one could keep up with cleaning. As soon as the webs were swept away, the spiders would spin them again at night. It was like her family’s cellar in Paris, which was not this elaborate or large but just as deep underground.
Suddenly Jac became aware of the scent. She expected to smell earth and mold, but instead was hit with a whole cacophony of wonderful fragrances—flowers and spices, most familiar but some unusual and unknown.
The air, almost freezing a moment ago, was warming and swirling around her. It was the same dreaded sensation she’d had since she was a little girl that foreshadowed the oncoming fugue state. And that, for the last twenty-two months, presaged what Malachai Samuels was certain were memories from her previous lives or other people’s lives.
Oh no. Not here. No matter what was coming—a hallucination or a past-life regression—Jac didn’t want it.
Malachai had taught her a series of quick exercises to keep her in the moment and block a memory
“The cellar.”
“Could I see?”
He looked at her as if it was a strange request—and it probably was. So she told him more about her job. And how, as a mythologist, she researched old stories and tried to find their fountainhead. “I seem always drawn to the lower level,” she said. “Caves, cellars, crypts, tunnels . . . Over time we build up and over cities. The most interesting places are often those buried beneath our feet. Digging down, you find the past.”
“Well, there’s not much past down here,” he said as he led her toward a narrow staircase. The steps were marble, chipped and worn. The wooden handrail smooth but gouged in several places.
“The servants lived here, below the house. We use it for storage now. It would be an awful place to ask someone to sleep.”
They walked through a long hallway off of which was one small room after another. At the end they came to an iron door with a large keyhole.
“And through there?” Jac felt a stirring of excitement. The door was ancient. Certainly more than five hundred years old. Clearly this part of the house was the least restored.
“I’ll show you.” From his pocket Serge pulled out a key ring.
Jac was surprised that the door was locked. The skeleton key turned in the mechanism and creaked in a very particular way. Hearing the sound, Jac thought it sounded familiar. Often when she sensed something might have happened before, Jac obsessed over it, trying to figure it out and understand it.
“Don’t worry about what it all means, just live in the moment,” Robbie would tell her. “When you need to know more, it will reveal itself to you.”
But Jac didn’t like not knowing, wondering, feeling lost, imagining what the past foretold and what the future might be. She and Robbie weren’t alike that way. “ My beautiful dreamer ,” their mother had called her son. Jac had her feet on the ground. Even if that ground was deep down in the earth. Which was where they were heading now.
They were descending another staircase. This one was stone and spiral and even more narrow. Twisting, tortured steps turning on one another. The air was colder, and Jac shivered.
“Here we are,” Serge said as he turned on an overhead light—the only modern object in this ancient space. “This is the deepest part of the house. Where they kept wine and cold storage. The temperature never rises above twelve degrees Celsius.”
They stepped into the large cellar. The stone floor was cracked and splintered. The ceiling was all beamed and so low that Serge had to stoop. There were empty niches equipped with hooks lining the north wall. The west wall was outfitted with shelves filled with dusty bottles. Dark glass, covered with cobwebs, glistened in the lamplight. Jac guessed this wasn’t where they kept their drinkable wine. There were so many cobwebs in the corners it was obvious no one could keep up with cleaning. As soon as the webs were swept away, the spiders would spin them again at night. It was like her family’s cellar in Paris, which was not this elaborate or large but just as deep underground.
Suddenly Jac became aware of the scent. She expected to smell earth and mold, but instead was hit with a whole cacophony of wonderful fragrances—flowers and spices, most familiar but some unusual and unknown.
The air, almost freezing a moment ago, was warming and swirling around her. It was the same dreaded sensation she’d had since she was a little girl that foreshadowed the oncoming fugue state. And that, for the last twenty-two months, presaged what Malachai Samuels was certain were memories from her previous lives or other people’s lives.
Oh no. Not here. No matter what was coming—a hallucination or a past-life regression—Jac didn’t want it.
Malachai had taught her a series of quick exercises to keep her in the moment and block a memory
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