I rather dimly recalled that St. Augustine had indeed looked into astrology, and had rather scornfully dismissed it as a load of rubbish. Still, I doubted that Louis had read Augustine’s Confessions, and this line of argument was undoubtedly a good one for an accused sorcerer; star-gazing seemed fairly harmless, by comparison with infant sacrifice and nameless orgies.

I was beginning to wonder, with considerable apprehension, just what I was doing in this assemblage. Had someone seen Master Raymond with me in the Hopital after all?

“We have no quarrel with the proper use of knowledge, nor the search for wisdom,” the King went on in measured tones. “There is much that can be learned from the writings of the ancient philosophers, if they are approached with proper caution and humility of spirit. But it is true that while much good may be found in such writings, so, too, may evil be discovered, and the pure search for wisdom be perverted into the desire for power and wealth – the things of this world.”

He glanced back and forth between the two accused sorcerers once more, obviously drawing conclusions as to who might be more inclined to that sort of perversion. The Comte was still sweating, damp patches showing dark on the white silk of his coat.

“No, Your Majesty!” he said, shaking back his dark hair and fixing burning eyes on Master Raymond. “It is true that there are dark forces at work in the land – the vileness of which you speak walks among us! But such wickedness does not dwell in the breast of your most loyal subject” – he smote himself on the breast, lest we have missed the point – “no, Your Majesty! For the perversion of knowledge and the use of forbidden arts, you must look beyond your own Court.” He didn’t accuse Master Raymond directly, but the direction of his pointed gaze was obvious.

The King was unmoved by this outburst. “Such abominations flourished during the reign of my grandfather,” he said softly. “We have rooted them out wherever they have been found; destroyed the threat of such evil where it shall exist in our realm. Sorcerers, witches, those who pervert the teachings of the Church… Monsieurs, we shall not suffer such wickedness to arise again.”

“So.” He slapped both palms lightly against the table and straightened himself. Still staring at the Raymond and the Comte, he held out a hand in my direction.

“We have brought here a witness,” he declared. “An infallible judge of truth, of purity of heart.”

I made a small, gurgling noise, which made the King turn to look at me.

“A White Lady,” he said softly. “ La Dame Blanche cannot lie; she sees the heart and the soul of a man, and may turn that truth to good… or to destruction.”

The air of unreality that had hung over the evening vanished in a pop. The faint wine-buzz was gone, and I was suddenly stone-cold sober. I opened my mouth, and then shut it, realizing that there was precisely nothing I could say.

Horror snaked down my backbone and coiled in my belly as the King made his dispositions. Two pentagrams were to be drawn on the floor, within which the two sorcerers would stand. Each would then bear witness to his own activities and motives. And the White Lady would judge the truth of what was said.

“Jesus H. Christ,” I said, under my breath.

“Monsieur le Comte?” The King gestured to the first pentagram, chalked on the carpet. Only a king would treat a genuine Aubusson with that kind of cavalier disregard.

The Comte brushed close to me as he went to take his place. As he passed me, I caught the faintest whisper: “Be warned, Madame. I do not work alone.” He took up his spot and turned to face me with an ironic bow, outwardly composed.

The implication was reasonably clear; I condemned him, and his minions would be round promptly to cut off my nipples and burn Jared’s warehouse. I licked dry lips, cursing Louis. Why couldn’t he just have wanted my body?

Raymond stepped casually into his own chalk-limned space, and nodded cordially in my direction. No hint of guidance in those round black eyes.

I hadn’t the faintest idea what to do next. The King motioned to me to stand opposite him, between the two pentagrams. The hooded men rose to stand behind the King; a blank-faced crowd of menace.

Everything was extremely quiet. Candle smoke hung in a pall near the gilded ceiling, wisps drifting the languid air currents. All eyes were trained on me. Finally, out of desperation, I turned to the Comte and nodded.

“You may begin, Monsieur le Comte,” I said.

He smiled – at least I assumed it was meant to be a smile – and began, starting out with an explication of the foundation of the Cabbala and moving right along to an exegesis on the twenty-three letters of the Hebrew alphabet, and the profound symbolism of it all. It sounded thoroughly scholarly, completely innocuous, and terribly dull. The King yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth.

Meanwhile, I was turning over alternatives in my mind. This man had threatened and attacked me, and tried to have Jamie assassinated – whether for personal or political reasons, it made little difference. He had in all likelihood been the ringleader of the gang of rapists who had waylaid me and Mary. Beyond all this, and beyond the rumors I had heard of his other activities, he was a major threat to the success of our attempt at stopping Charles Stuart. Was I going to let him get away? Let him go on to exert his influence with the King on the Stuarts’ behalf, and to go on roaming the darkened streets of Paris with his band of masked bullies?

I could see my nipples, erect with fright, standing out boldly against the silk of my dress. But I drew myself up and glared at him anyway.

“Just one minute,” I said. “All that you say so far is true, Monsieur le Comte, but I see a shadow behind your words.”

The Comte’s mouth fell open. Louis, suddenly interested, ceased slouching against the table and stood upright. I closed my eyes and laid my fingers against my lids, as though looking inward.

“I see a name in your mind, Monsieur le Comte,” I said. I sounded breathless and half-choked with fright, but there was no help for it. I dropped my hands and looked straight at him. “Les Disciples du Mal,” I said. “What have you to do with Les Disciples, Monsieur le Comte?”

He really wasn’t good at hiding his emotions. His eyes bulged and his face went white, and I felt a small fierce surge of satisfaction under my fear.

The name of Les Disciples du Mal was familiar to the King as well; the sleepy dark eyes narrowed suddenly to slits.

The Comte may have been a crook and a charlatan, but he wasn’t a coward. Summoning his resources, he glared at me and flung back his head.

“This woman lies,” he said, sounding as definite as he had when informing the audience that the letter aleph was symbolic of the font of Christ’s blood. “She is no true White Lady, but the servant of Satan! In league with her master, the notorious sorcerer, du Carrefours’s apprentice!” He pointed dramatically at Raymond, who looked mildly surprised.

One of the hooded men crossed himself, and I heard the soft whisper of a brief prayer among the shadows.

“I can prove what I say,” the Comte declared, not letting anyone else get a word in edgewise. He reached into the breast of his coat. I remembered the dagger he had produced from his sleeve on the night of the dinner party, and tensed myself to duck. It wasn’t a knife that he brought out, though.

“The Holy Bible says, ‘They shall handle serpents unharmed,’ ” he thundered. “ ‘And by such signs shall ye know the servants of the true God!’ ”

I thought it was probably a small python. It was nearly three feet long, a smooth, gleaming length of gold and brown, slick and sinuous as oiled rope, with a pair of disconcerting golden eyes.

There was a concerted gasp at its appearance, and two of the hooded judges took a quick step back. Louis himself was more than slightly taken aback, and looked hastily about for his bodyguard, who stood goggle-eyed by the door of the chamber.