She’d inherited the de l’Oradore family business on his death five years ago. It was a role he had been grooming her for, for as long as she could remember. Her father-his only son-was a disappointment to him. Marie-Cecile had been aware of this from a very early age. At six, her grandfather had taken her education in hand-social, academic and philosophical. He had a passion for the finer things of life and an amazing eye for color and craftsmanship. Furniture, tapestries, couture, paintings, books, his taste was immaculate. Everything she valued about herself, she had learned from him.

He had also taught her about power, how to use it and how to keep it. When she was eighteen and he believed her ready, her grandfather had formally disinherited his own son and named her instead as his heir.

There had only been one stumble in their relationship, her unexpected and unwanted pregnancy. Despite his dedication to the Quest for the ancient secret of the Grail, her grandfather’s Catholicism was strong and orthodox and he did not approve of children born outside marriage. Abortion was out of the question. Adoption was out of the question. It was only when he saw that motherhood made no difference to her determination-that, if anything, it sharpened her ambition and ruthlessness-that he allowed her back into his life.

She inhaled deeply on her cigarette, welcoming the burning smoke as it curled down her throat and into her lungs, resenting the power of her memories. Even more than twenty years later, the memory of her exile filled her with a cold desperation. Her excommunication, he’d called it.

It was a good description. It had felt like being dead.

Marie-Cecile shook her head to shake the maudlin thoughts away. She wanted nothing to disturb her mood tonight. She couldn’t allow anything to cast a shadow over tonight. She wanted no mistakes.

She turned back to the mirror. First, she applied a pale foundation and dusted her skin with a gold face powder that reflected the light. Next, she outlined her lids and brows with heavy kohl pencil that accentuated her dark lashes and black pupils, then a green eye shadow, iridescent like a peacock’s tail. For her lips, she chose a metallic copper gloss flecked with gold, kissing a tissue to seal the color. Finally, she sprayed a haze of perfume into the air and let it fall, like mist, onto the surface of her skin.

Three boxes were lined up on the dressing table, the red leather and brass clasps polished and gleaming. Each piece of ceremonial jewelry was several hundred years old, but modeled on pieces thousands of years older. In the first, there was a gold headdress, like a tiara, rising to a point in the center; in the second, two gold amulets, shaped like snakes, their glittering eyes made of cut emerald; the third contained a necklace, a solid band of gold with the symbol suspended from the middle. The gleaming surfaces echoed with an imagined memory of the dust, the heat of ancient Egypt.

When she was ready, Marie-Cecile moved over to the window. Below her, the streets of Chartres lay spread out like a picture postcard, the everyday shops and cars and restaurants nestling in the shadows of the great Gothic cathedral. Soon, from these same houses, would come the men and women chosen to take part in tonight’s ritual.

She closed her eyes to the familiar skyline and darkening horizon. Now, she no longer saw the spire and the gray cloisters. Instead, in her mind’s eye, she saw the whole world, like a glittering map, stretched out before her.

Within her reach at last.

Foix

Alice was jolted awake by a persistent ringing in her ear.

Where the hell am I? The beige phone on the shelf above the bed rang again.

Of course. Her hotel room in Foix. She’d come back from the site, done some packing, then had a shower. The last thing she remembered was lying down on her bed for five minutes.

Alice fumbled for the receiver. “Oui.Allo?”

The owner of the hotel, Monsieur Annaud, had a strong local accent, all flat vowels and nasal consonants. Alice had trouble understanding him face to face. On the phone, without the benefit of eyebrows and hand gestures, it was impossible. He sounded like a cartoon character.

“Plus lentement,”s’il vous plait,“ she said, trying to slow him down. ”Vous parlez trop vite. Je ne comprends pas.“

There was a pause. She heard rapid muttering in the background. Then Madame Annaud came on and explained there was someone waiting for Alice in reception.

“Une femme?” she said hopefully.

Alice had left a note for Shelagh at the site house, as well as a couple of messages on her voicemail, but she’d heard nothing.

“Non, c’est un homme,” replied Madame Annaud.

“Okay,” she sighed, disappointed. “J’arrive. Deux minutes.”

She ran a comb through her hair, which was still damp, then pulled on a skirt and T-shirt, pushed her feet into a pair of espadrilles, then headed downstairs, wondering who the hell it could be.

The main team were all staying in a small auberge close to the excavation site. In any case, she’d already said her goodbyes to those who wanted to hear them. Nobody else knew she was here. Since she’d broken up with Oliver, there was no one to tell anyway.

The reception area was deserted. She peered into the gloom, expecting to see Madame Annaud sitting behind the high wooden desk, but the was no one there. Alice took a quick look round the corner at the waiting room. The old wicker chairs, dusty on the underside, were unoccupied, were the two large leather sofas that stood at right angles to the fireplace draped with horse brasses and testimonials from grateful past guests, lopsided spinner of postcards, offering dog-eared views of everything Foix and the Ariege had to offer, was still.

Alice went back to the desk and rang the bell. There was a rattle of beads in the doorway as Monsieur Annaud appeared from the family’s private quarters.

“II y a quelqu’un pour moi?”

“La,” he said, leaning out over the counter to point.

Alice shook her head. “Personne.”

He came round to look, then shrugged, surprised to find the lounge was deserted. “Dehors? Outside?” He mimed a man smoking.

The hotel was on a small side street, which ran between the main thoroughfare-filled with administrative buildings, fast-food restaurants as well as the extraordinary 1930s Art Deco post office-and the more picturesque medieval center of Foix with its cafes and antique shops.

Alice looked to the left, then to the right, but nobody appeared to be waiting. The shops were all closed at this time of day and the road were pretty much empty.

Puzzled, she turned to go back inside, when a man appeared out of doorway. In his early twenties, he was wearing a pale summer suit that was a little too big for him. His thick black hair was neatly short and his eye were obscured behind dark glasses. He had a cigarette in his hand.

“Dr. Tanner.”

“Qui,” she said cautiously. “Vous me cherchez?”

He reached into his top pocket. “Pour vous. Tenez,” he said, thrusting an envelope at her. He kept darting his eyes about, clearly nervous that some one would see them. Alice suddenly recognized him as the young uniformed officer who’d been with Inspector Noubel.

“Je vous ai deja rencontre, non? Au Pic de Soularac.”

He switched to English. “Please,” he said urgently. “Take.”

“Vous etes avec Inspecteur Noubel?” she insisted.

He had tiny beads of sweat on his forehead. He took Alice by surprise by grabbing her hand and forcing the envelope into it.

“Hey!” she objected. “What is this?”

But he’d already disappeared, swallowed up into one of the many alleyways that led up to the castle.