CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Falconers are a fortunate breed. Not only do we have the pleasure of our current hawk, but also, increasingly over the years, the memory of former hawks, which were dear to us and individual flights, which are etched in the memory forever.
—Emma Ford, Falconry: Art and Practice
The Old Garden
Twickenham
Richmond upon Thames, London
Isabella woke in darkness. She didn’t know where she was or what had happened. She touched her fingers to her throbbing face. He’d struck her. Why? She stilled. Something was terribly wrong.
Fear swamped her, she was inside a tomb, something black—she was dying.
And then she remembered, saw it all again, and—no, no.
Gil was dead, lying on the kitchen floor, dead, dead, dead, and that obviously insane Laurence Bruce had murdered him and struck her down.
She couldn’t accept it, simply couldn’t, but there was blood, so much blood, and Gil was on his back, his beautiful eyes staring unseeing up at her. His throat, something was wrong. So much blood. And Bruce had struck her. She vaguely remembered the jostle and rumble of a car. The smell of gas and asphalt and—
“You’re awake.”
She jerked her head toward his voice. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. A gag, she was gagged. She was tied down and gagged.
“Don’t struggle. If you fight, he won’t like it. He might punish you.”
The man who’d spoken came into focus. Who might punish her? Dr. Bruce? Yes, of course. But who was this? He stood by the door, hair long and unwashed, his jeans and black T-shirt rumpled and stained. His skin was pale, and he was thin. The words coming from his mouth were no language she’d ever heard aloud, strange garbled sounds that held no meaning, only they did. She realized, somehow, she understood them.
She began twisting and fighting, but the man didn’t move to untie her. He stared as if she were a butterfly pinned to a board. She shuddered. She knew she was as good as dead. As Gil was. Her brain shied away from him lying so still, and all the blood. No, no. She didn’t want to see it again. Was this strange man, his face so pale he was nearly translucent, here to kill her? She swallowed tears, looked away from him, up, at the ceiling. Tall, at least twelve feet, timber beams running across it. Everything was white: the walls, the ceiling, the man’s skin. He still stood silently, watching her twist and turn.
“I was looking at your face. You can understand me.”
She began shaking her head. She could smell him, from that far away. Garlic, cedar, patchouli cologne. And blood. He smelled of blood.
Where was Dr. Bruce? What was happening? Panic rose, and she fought it, hard. She needed to stay in control, or she’d die—like Gil. No, Gil, no.
The man moved even closer until he stood next to her, looking down at her. “How is it you can speak our language?”
Of course she understood him, but she shook her head, felt tears burning her eyes, swallowed. She was gagged, so how could she explain he was speaking Voynichese, the language of the Voynich manuscript?
She hadn’t heard it since her twin sister had caught a flu virus and died, so small, shrunken in the hospital bed, covered with white sheets. She shouldn’t have died, the hospital had said, she shouldn’t have, we did everything we could. But their words were meaningless. Kristiana was dead.
He leaned down and took off her gag. “Speak to me.”
She looked up into that pale, intense face. She knew instinctively there wasn’t something quite right about him. She said, “I was a twin.” A special twin, she thought, but didn’t say it aloud, because, quite simply, she didn’t know what it meant. To him. “Of course I understand you.”
He looked pleased. “And your mother and father were Romanian. Roman was right, perhaps you are the one.”
The one what? Isabella heard a flurry of movement in the hall, and she turned quickly and shrank back.
It wasn’t Dr. Laurence Bruce—no, wait, she recognized the dark intense eyes, before hidden behind the thick lenses he’d worn. No brown beard and hair now. His hair was black, and he was straight and tall. And perched on his wrist sat a small raptor bird. He wore a leather glove that covered his wrist and arm up to his elbow, and the bird was wearing a matching leather hood, with a small plume on top. He gave Isabella a long look, then turned to the pale man who held her gag in one hand and spoke in the same guttural language, twin talk. She knew these might be the last moments of her life, yet she listened as he spoke.
“Look at her, Radu, the one who had our pages. She did not find them by accident. My question is, why did she make such a big production of it at her press conference? What do you think?”
“I spoke to her, Roman. We were talking. She understands me.”
Radu? Roman?
“That’s good, very good. Radu, I need to speak to her now, alone. Please leave us for a moment, all right?”
“But, Roman—”
“Please, Radu, it is important.” He said nothing more until the pale thin man called Radu left the room.
“Now, let’s see.” She watched him take the hood off the falcon and say, in an almost offhand manner, “This is Arlington. She’s a particular favorite of mine.”
Isabella heard him give a whispered command—in Voynichese. The bird spread her wings wide, turned her head, a yellow eye fixed on Isabella. He threw something on her stomach. Then the bird hit Isabella’s belly, a flurry of wings and claws. Sharp talons raked her through her slacks, ripped up her belly. She screamed, tried to pull away, but she was tied too tightly.
He watched her as a scientist would watch an experiment, with only mild interest. He tossed another piece of meat on Isabella’s chest. Arlington was more delicate about it this time, but Isabella still got a full face of feathers. The strange, smoky scent of the bird and the tang of the raw meat made her gag.
The bird stood heavy on her chest, staring at her with its head cocked, and Isabella fought down bile, fought against the fear.
With another scrape of talons, the bird launched herself into the air and landed gracefully back on his gloved arm.
“That demonstration was so you understand I am perfectly serious. If you lie to me, Dr. Marin, I’ll cut you open and let my entire cast in to enjoy a morning treat.”
She was trying to suck in breaths, but the pain in her belly and her unreasoning fear made it difficult. Finally, she stared up at him, silent, as Gil was silent, no, no, she couldn’t think about Gil. But this man had murdered him. “Who are you?”
And suddenly he smiled. “No, I am not Dr. Laurence Bruce, a silly, pretentious little man who has served me well in the past. I am Roman Ardelean. Now, I will ask you only once. How did you come by the lost pages of the Voynich?”
She whispered, “Who is Radu?”
He raised the hood from Arlington’s head.
“No, no, please!”
He studied her terrified face, shrugged. “Very well, I will tell you. Radu is my twin brother. He doesn’t do well with crowds or the outside world. He stays here, where he is safe. He has a good life. He enjoys himself. His computers are his window to the outside world. Though I must say, I was impressed to see him speaking to you. Radu does not like strangers. Now, answer me.” He stroked the neck of the bird, and she preened for him.
“Please, just one more question, and I will tell you what I did. Did you steal the Voynich last year from Yale?”
“No, I did not. Nor do I know who did. I wish that I had now, but of course it’s far too late. No more, tell me how you came by the pages.”
She couldn’t tell him the truth, she wouldn’t, but she knew she had to convince him. After all, she’d practiced her lie so often, it came out smoothly, without hesitation. “I found them inside a book in the museum’s library. The pages were inside Meditations.”
He regarded her for a moment, then said, “That’s a lie, but I will let it go for the moment. How can you understand the language of the pages? Tell me, and don’t lie.”
She realized he’d switched from English to Voynichese. She wished she could pretend she didn’t understand, but it was too late for that. “I can’t explain how I know it, I just do. You know it is twin talk.”
He continued to stare at her, a finger stroking Arlington’s head.
She said, “You are a twin. You can read the Voynich as well as I can. It’s an early medical manuscript, written by twins who were geniuses, twins of Vlad Dracul’s line, one ill, one strong. The entire book is a discussion between them, conversations, about the earth, about herbs and flowers to heal and to maim, and the alchemic relationship between metals and matter, astrology, women, fertility, everything. You know it explains the way blood works in the body, how it nourishes the organs, the brain, the heart. You know it’s an herbal, but it’s also a code. It says for some, drinking blood, if a potion is given first, is necessary to live. I believe the writers, these twins, were probably very misunderstood and very isolated. Feared, most likely because no one could understand them. You and your twin, Radu, are the first I’ve ever met in my life who could read the Voynich and speak Voynichese.”
“I agree with you. I’ve already done your research—I have given the manuscript to many other sets of twins. There was no recognition. The best cryptographers approach it as if it’s a cipher. They look for a key, a code, when it’s a unique language. Your press conference on Thursday—how do you believe your announcement will be received by your peers and other so-called Voynich experts? And your claim that page seventy-four provides a sort of key to help the lay reader understand the manuscript?”
“They’ll probably laugh at me, about all of it.”
“As do I, at least about page seventy-four. I have examined all the loose pages, including page seventy-four. They are more of the same. Why were they torn out? Why was page seventy-four cut out? I have no idea, nor have I been able to find a single clue about it.”
He took a step toward her, and the falcon on his arm leaned toward her, as well. Isabella couldn’t move. “Yes,” Roman said, “Arlington would very much like to visit you again for a bite to eat. A reminder you will continue to tell me the truth. Now, before you tell me why you lied about where you found the pages, tell me, do you believe the twins who wrote it were mad?”
“No. Of course not. They were as sane as I am.”
He slowly nodded.
She was scared, desperate. “Please, you took the pages from my apartment, you killed my fiancé, why did you bring me here? What do you want of me?”
“We need you,” Radu said from the doorway, obviously listening. “We want you to help us.”
Isabella pulled up as far as she could to see him. “How can I possibly help you? I’ve told you everything I know. I’m a twin, I can understand Voynichese and read it, just as you and your brother can. So we are special twins, I suppose, but there’s nothing more I can say, nothing more I know.”
Roman moved closer to her. Arlington spread her wings again, sharp beak clacking at the noise. “Oh, you’ll help, Dr. Marin. Or you’ll wish you were dead, like your unfortunate fiancé.”