The Magician's Wife by Brian Moore

turn of the road when, suddenly, they saw the enormous fortress-château of Pierrefonds, rising above the little town of that name. Following the road which led up to the château they came to a gateway, then through a second gateway into a court until, finally, their carriage clattered over a drawbridge to pull up at the main entrance.
    The Colonel helped her down, saying, ‘Let’s not have a guide, shall we? They talk too much. Let me be your guide. I know a few things about this place. Don’t you think it will be more fun to explore on our own?’
    And so, waving aside the servant who waited to conduct them, they passed through a dark vaulted chapel, climbing more than a hundred stone steps to reach a platform which overlooked a view of the little town and the surrounding forest. A cold wind blew through the ramparts as they stood, side by side, looking down. She shivered and turned away. Seeing this, he took off his fur-lined cape and draped it about her shoulders. It was a gesture any gentleman might have made but when he did it he did not release the cape, instead holding it against her body for a long moment.
    ‘I can see that you were made for warmer climes,’ he said. ‘You need the sun, you need space, you need the desert. The desert has a beauty one can’t imagine until one sees it. You must visit Africa.’
    At that, he released his hold on the cape. She pulled it tight about her. ‘Africa? Why would I go to Africa? I don’t understand.’
    ‘You will.’ He took her arm. ‘Let’s go down and look around. The Count de Vogué visited this castle the other day and he tells me it’s not really interesting. A hundred years ago someone managed to buy it for only eight thousand francs. Imagine! Now, as you know, the Emperor is restoring it. Vogué said there’s one astonishing thing, a huge chimmneypiece in the salle des gardes . Let’s find it for our picnic, shall we?’
    Their coachman, summoned by a castle servant, brought the picnic hamper up to the salle des gardes , a huge deserted hall, furnished only with ancient stone benches and dominated by the fireplace, its hearth large as a stable, its chimney forty feet in height, ornamented with carvings of hundreds of squirrels which peered down on them with stony curiosity. The coachman spreading a carriage rug on the hearth unpacked cold meats, fruit, cakes, wine. The castle servant, aware that they were visitors from the Emperor’s série , brought in logs and kindling, lighting a small fire under the great vault of chimney. Servant and coachman then withdrew leaving them alone in the echoing vastness of the hall.
    Through the high narrow windows a late afternoon sun, veiled by cold November mists, filled the shadows about them with a cloudy golden light. Emmeline drew back the hood of her cloak, baring her neck, letting the heavy coil of her hair fall down against her cheek. The fire crackled and blazed, smoke rising in swirls up the blackened chimney walls. She leaned towards it, the golden misty light falling on her shoulders and hair.
    ‘You look like a medieval angel,’ Deniau said. He reached for the wine bottle and sat close to her, handing her a glass. ‘Do you know that German toast, the Brüderschaft ? No? Let me show you. Hold up your glass.’ He leaned forward, entwining his own glass of wine through her arm in a gesture which brought them almost face to face. ‘Now let’s drink,’ he said. ‘It’s a toast to friendship.’
    Embarrassed, for there was something dangerously intimate in this linkage, their bodies touching, his dark, handsome face so close to hers, she drank down the full glass of wine without realizing what she had done. As she withdrew her arm from his he looked at her strangely.
    ‘Friends? Are we?’
    ‘Of course.’ She bent her head, avoiding his eyes.
    ‘Madame,’ he said. ‘You are a mystery.’
    ‘Why?’
    He laughed, and shook his head. ‘I don’t know why. But you are. Your smile is enigmatic as