The Witches of Cambridge (12 page)

“It’s taken me thirty years to build up this collection,” Santiago says. “I’ve been acquiring art for longer than you’ve been alive.”

“Really?” Noa frowns. “But I thought…how old are you?”

Santiago smiles. “A little older than I look.”

“Oh, okay,” Noa says, not wanting to pry. It’s still strange to her that she can’t see inside him as she can with every other person she meets. Strange, but rather a relief.

Santiago crosses the carpet and, when he reaches the closest set of shelves, picks up a wooden object and brings it back to Noa. She takes it from him, tentatively examining the little statue of a naked boy, features carved into his face and what appears to be a shock of dark human hair sprouting from his head.

“It’s a birth baby,” Santiago says. “My mother made it after I was born, to protect me.”

“From what?”

“There’s black magic in Brazil, many people believe in it. We are a Catholic country, but the traditions of our ancestors still run deep in our lands.”

“Oh,” Noa says. “I see.”

“My mother was a powerful woman,” Santiago explains. “Some people were jealous of her power and wanted to hurt her. They knew, of course, that the best way to do that would be to hurt me.”

“Oh,” Noa says again, wondering what the right response to such information should be. “I see,” she repeats, though of course she doesn’t at all.

Santiago smiles, takes the little wooden statue from her hands, and places it gently back on the shelf.

“Would you like a drink?”

Noa nods. “That’d be lovely.”

Santiago walks through the living room and into the kitchen, gesturing for Noa to follow. She stares at the shelves, taking in as many mysterious trinkets and magical treasures as she can before they’re all out of sight.

After the magnificence of the living room, the kitchen is fairly normal, containing all the usual things one might expect and nothing much extra, except for the fact that the cupboards and walls are painted the colors of Santiago’s sunsets: dark reds, deep purples, and royal blues.

“I will make you a tea from Bahia,” Santiago says, opening a purple cupboard and plucking out a small tin. “We use dried leaves from various herbs and then sweeten it with local honey.”

“Lovely,” Noa says again, lacking any better adjectives for a curious concoction she’s never tried and only hopes she manages to consume without throwing up. Noa has never had a particularly solid stomach.

Santiago pulls open a dark red cupboard and takes out a glass jar. He unscrews the lid, dips in one long, thin finger and holds it out so his fingertip, coated in thick honey, nearly touches Noa’s lip.

“It’s the sweetest, most delicious honey you will ever taste,” he says.

Noa looks up into soft eyes. Slowly, she opens her mouth, inviting Santiago to slip his finger between her teeth. Her heart beating so fast she can feel it in every inch of her body, Noa curls her tongue around his finger and sucks at the honey. And it is, indeed, the sweetest and most delicious honey she’s ever tasted.

“Y
OU ARE SO
beautiful, so, so beautiful.”

Noa smiles. She has, indeed, never felt so beautiful in her life. She glances down at her body, at the curves of her breasts, the curve of her belly, the puff of hair between her thighs. She can’t quite believe that she actually offered to pose for a painting—naked—but, fortified by the splash of rum in her tea, she did.

“Tilt your face up, just a little.”

Noa does so.

“That’s it, perfect.”

Noa looks at Santiago out of the corner of her eye, watching him standing behind an easel with a paintbrush in his right hand. His own eyes shift between gazing intently at the canvas and snatching glances at her. Noa conceals an astonished smile of delight. She had imagined—hoped—when she went home with him that they might end up in bed together, but she never for a moment imagined
this.

“Beautiful,” Santiago murmurs again, as if he can’t quite believe it either, “absolutely beautiful.”

As she lies there Noa is amazed at how incredibly…powerful she feels. Just as strong and magnificently powerful as Santiago promised her she was the first time they met. Perhaps this is his gift: an ability to make women realize the gifts they’re hiding from themselves. Noa breathes deeply, realizing that she also feels calmer and more serene than she’s ever known in her life. These feelings are so rare and extraordinary, almost as extraordinary as being painted naked by a virtual stranger, that Noa’s smile spreads right across her face.

“What was in that honey?”

Santiago laughs. “You think I drugged you?”

“Perhaps,” Noa says. “Either way, I wouldn’t mind getting a pot of it myself.”

“We’ll have to see about that,” he says. “Now, I’m afraid you have to stop smiling and stay still, or I can’t paint you.”

Noa swallows her smile. “Sorry.”

“Shush.”

“Okay, just one last thing.”

Santiago smiles. “What?”

“After this, are we going to sleep together?”

Santiago’s eyes widen. “Well, it’s not a compulsory part of the process. But, if you really want to, then I’m sure your wishes can be accommodated…”

Noa laughs at the blush sinking down into his chest. “Well, okay,” she says, feeling a fresh and glorious flush of power. “Let’s see how the painting turns out first, shall we?”

Santiago averts his eyes to the floor and nods.

“Oh, and what about your promise to me?” Noa asks. “Can you cure me of my curse?”

Santiago leans toward his canvas until his nose is nearly touching it. He adds two more strokes, then steps back and smiles.

“I already have,” he says. “It’s done.”

—

George has been walking around in a daze. He’s not sure what on earth’s going on but something has changed. He’s been knocked off center. Drastically. All he can think about is Cosima. Which is really very strange. Somewhere, deep in the uncharted depths of his unconsciousness, he wonders if he might be under some sort of spell. But this question is a faint little light, blinking blindly in a pitch-black ocean, so he doesn’t pay it any attention. And why should he? He’s got far more exciting things, both gorgeous and delicious, to focus on.

“Hey!”

George looks up. “Oh, hi, Kat, sorry, didn’t see you there.”

Kat frowns at him. “I’m not surprised, you’ve practically got your eyes closed. What are you doing, wandering around the streets like you’re stoned?”

George smiles. “I was coming to visit you.”

Kat brightens. “You were? Great. Have you got time for a coffee?”

“Yes, absolutely.” George nods, a little too vigorously.

Kat regards him with suspicion again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Of course,” George trills, “never better. Shall we go?”

“Oh-kaay, then,” Kat says. She grabs George by the arm as he heads off in the opposite direction. “It’s this way.”

“Right, right, of course.”

When they reach Bene’t Street they can see the line of customers stretching onto the pavement out of Gustare.

Kat mumbles a curse under her breath.

“It’s popular today,” George says, hurrying down the street. “I hope they’ll have some cannoli left for us.”

They reach the end of the line and wait.

“Gosh,” George says. “I’ve always loved your sister’s food, but this is crazy.” He grins. “I guess she’s getting famous. It’s a beautiful name, Cosima, isn’t it?”

Kat frowns. “I suppose so.”

“What’s her favorite food?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. She loves bread. Probably walnut and stilton. Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” George says, “just wondering. She spends all this time feeding everyone else, it just occurred to me that I didn’t know what she liked to eat herself.”

They stand in silence for a while.

“This line isn’t moving,” Kat says. “Let’s go across the street.”

George shifts from one foot to the other. “No, let’s wait.”

Kat fixes her best friend with a microscopic stare. “You are acting very strangely. What’s going on? Are you stoned?”

George laughs. “Of course not.”

“Well, I wish you’d tell me, because you’re creeping me out.”

George smiles.

“It’s like you’ve been taken over by zombies or something.”

George giggles. “Don’t be silly.”

“Me being silly? I’m not the one being silly. You’re being strange.”

George shrugs. “Why don’t you go, then? Go and sit in the sunshine and I’ll get the drinks and snacks and meet you there.”

“Where?”

“Wherever you want. How about outside King’s College?”

Kat narrows her eyes. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Of course not.
Now
you’re being silly.”

“I think we already ascertained that was you,” Kat says. “Right, I’m off, I’ll see you in—however long it takes you to get through this insane line. Please be normal when you return.”

George grins inanely again and Kat stomps off down the street.

—

Amandine waits impatiently for Noa, tapping her fingers on the desk, chewing the caps of her pens, pacing up and down on her Persian rug. Noa’s tutorial was set for nine o’clock in the morning. It’s already five past nine. It’s unusual for Cambridge University students to be late; if anything they’re usually early, overeager and overprepared. It’s something, perhaps, to do with being the intellectual cream of the country; such people tend to be highly strung.

Amandine stops pacing to see
The Kiss
, thinking, given the current state of her marriage, that she should probably take it down. Happy memories are all very well and good when you’re happy enough to enjoy them but, being as bereft of cheer as she is right now, Amandine can hardly handle being reminded that she and Eliot loved and found such joy in each other once.

Despite herself, Amandine glances at the painting, letting her gaze fall on the woman’s eyes closed in ecstatic surrender to her lover’s embrace. Unbidden, a memory rises up. Two years ago, on her thirty-fifth birthday, Eliot bought plane tickets to Paris for a long weekend of eating cheese and chocolate, visiting the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay and making love in an expensive hotel room overlooking Notre-Dame. Héloïse, though she protested that she and François wanted to take a Parisian trip of their own, had briefly moved into their house to take care of the twins.

But, when Eliot and Amandine reached the airport, she couldn’t get on the plane. It would have been the first time she’d been away from the boys for more than a day. And, though she trusted her mother, she couldn’t cope with the fact that, should something go wrong, she wouldn’t be able to dash straight home to sort it out. The beautiful thing was that Eliot didn’t argue, not for a moment, not for a second. He didn’t roll his eyes or let a little sigh slip from his throat. Instead, he looked at his wife and smiled and said: “So, where would you like to go?”

They ended up in Waterbeach, a little village thirty minutes from Cambridge. The name was misleading since there was no beach, though it was a very pretty village on the edge of the water. They stayed for three days and nights on a riverboat, rented out to them by two old hippies who camped on the banks of the river. Every afternoon and evening they ate in the village pub, sitting outside under the willow trees, watching the ducks patter past on the lawn.

“Ducks are like us,” Eliot said. “They mate for life.”

“Do they?”

Eliot smiled. “I’m not sure, perhaps I’m making it up.”

Amandine laughed. “But I don’t think most humans mate for life.”

Eliot bent over and picked up Amandine’s blue silk scarf, which had slipped onto the floor. As he hung it over the back of her chair he brushed her arm with his fingertip, from her shoulder to wrist.

“I didn’t mean humans, in general,” Eliot said. “I meant us, in particular.”

“Oh.” Amandine’s smile deepened. “Do you think the boys are running rings around Mum?”

“Of course, and she’ll be loving every minute of it.”

“True…You know, sometimes I see the twins together, chattering away in their own private language, and I wonder how it feels to be so close to someone, to—”

“Hey,” Eliot protested, “aren’t you that close to me?”

Amandine smiled. “Oh, yes, I just meant, it’d be nice to have someone you’d shared your childhood with, someone who’d experienced every little detail you had, all the things that made you the person you became.”

“Well, I know I wasn’t there, but you could tell me about it now,” Eliot said. “I know it’s not the same, but it might help.”

Amandine glanced down at her plate, piercing a piece of potato with her fork. “In ten years we’ll have lived together longer than I lived with my parents. Isn’t that weird? I can’t believe how old we are.”

Eliot laughed. “We’re not old, we’re just well matured.”

Amandine smiled. “Are we?” She ate the potato. “I can’t believe the boys are already two. They’ll be going to Magdalene before you know it.”

“Trinity.”

“How’s about Bertie goes to your college and Frankie goes to mine?” Amandine suggested. “That’d be fair.”

Eliot shrugged. “Or perhaps we shouldn’t be such pushy parents and let them decide.” Then he groaned. “Maybe they’ll rebel against us altogether and go to Oxford.”