Scrivener’s Tale. Fiona McIntosh
I shall order then.’ He signalled to the waiter, who arrived quietly at his side.
‘Sir?’
‘Two kir royales.’ The man nodded and Reynard turned back to Gabe. ‘Ever tasted one?’ Gabe gave a small shake of his head. ‘Ah, then this will be the treat I’d hoped. Kir is made with crème de cassis. The blackcurrant liqueur is then traditionally mixed with a white burgundy called Aligoté. But here they serve only the kir royale, which is the liqueur topped up with champagne brut. A deliciously sparkling way to kick off your birthday celebrations.’
The waiter arrived with two flutes fizzing with purple liquid and the thinnest curl of lemon peel twisting in the drinks.
‘Salut, Gabriel. Bon anniversaire,’ Reynard said, gesturing at one of the glasses.
‘Merci. A la vôtre,’ Gabe replied — to your health — and clinked his glass against Reynard’s. He sipped and allowed himself to be transported for a moment or two on the deep sweet berry effervescence of this prized apéritif. ‘Delicious. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure. It’s the least I can do for your hours of work on my behalf.’
‘It’s my job. I enjoy searching for rare books and, even more, finding them. You said there was a favour. Is it another book to find?’
‘Er, no, Gabriel.’ Reynard put his glass down and became thoughtful, all amusement dying in his dark grey-blue eyes. ‘It’s an entirely different sort of task. One I’m loath to ask you about but yet I must.’
Gabe frowned. It sounded ominous.
‘I gather you were … are … a clinical psychologist.’
The kir royale turned sour in Gabe’s throat. He put his glass down. At nearly 25 euros for a single flute, it seemed poor manners not to greedily savour each sip, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to swallow.
He slowly looked up at Reynard. ‘How did you come by this information? No-one at work knows anything about my life before I came to Paris.’
‘Forgive me,’ Reynard said, his voice low and gentle. ‘I’ve looked into your background. The internet is very helpful.’
Gabe blinked with consternation. ‘I’ve taken my mother’s surname.’
‘I know,’ is all that Reynard said in response. He too put his glass down. ‘Please, don’t become defensive, I —’
‘What are you doing looking into my past?’ Gabe knew he sounded annoyed but Reynard’s audacity made him feel momentarily breathless, its intensity bringing with it the smell of charred metal and blood. He had to swallow his instant nausea.
‘Let me explain. This has everything to do with your past but in the most positive of ways.’ His host gestured at the flute of bubbling cassis. ‘Why don’t you drink it before it loses its joie de vivre?’
‘Why don’t you explain what you want of me first?’
‘All right,’ Reynard said, in a voice heavy with a calming tone, all geniality gone from his expression. ‘Do you know what I do for a living?’
Gabe shook his head. ‘I don’t do searches on my clients.’
‘Touché,’ Reynard said evenly. ‘I am a physician.’
He hadn’t expected that but betrayed no surprise. ‘And?’
‘And I have come across a patient that I normally would not see but no-one else is able to help. I think you can.’
‘I don’t practise any longer … perhaps you’d noticed?’
Reynard smiled sadly as if to admonish him that this was not a subject to jest about. ‘She is willing herself to death. I think she might succeed if we can’t help her soon.’
‘Presumably she’s been seen by capable doctors such as yourself, and if they can’t —’
‘Gabriel. She’s a young woman who believes she is being hunted by something sinister … something she believes is very dangerous.’
‘That something being …?’
Reynard shrugged. ‘Does it matter? She could be afraid of that glass of kir royale. You of all people know how powerful irrational fears can be. If she believes it —’
‘Then it is so,’ Gabe finished for him.
Reynard gave a nod.
‘Why did you search for my background in the first place?’
His companion sipped from his flute. ‘Strictly, I didn’t. I was researching who we could talk to, casting my net wider through Europe and then into Britain. Your name came up with a different surname but the photo was clearly you. I checked more and discovered you were not only an eminent practitioner but realised you were my bookshop friend here in Paris.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry that you are not practising still.’
‘I’m sure you can work out that my life took a radical turn.’
Reynard had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘I am sorry for you.’
‘I closed my clinical practice and don’t want to return to it … not even for your troubled woman.’
‘I struggle to call her a woman, Gabriel. She’s still almost a child … certainly childlike. If you would only —’
‘No, Monsieur Reynard. Please don’t ask this of me.’
‘I must. You were so good at this and too within my reach to ignore. I fear we will lose her.’
‘So you’ve said. I know nothing about her. And frankly I don’t want to.’
‘That’s heartless. You clearly had a gift with young people. She needs that gift of your therapy.’
Gabe shook his head firmly. ‘Make sure she has around-the-clock supervision and nothing can harm her.’
Reynard put his glass down, slightly harder than Gabe thought necessary. ‘It’s not physical. It’s emotional and I can’t get into her mind and reassure her. She is desperate enough that she could choke herself on her own tongue.’
‘Then drug her!’ Gabe growled. ‘You’re the physician.’
They stared at each other for a couple of angry moments, neither backing down.
It was Gabe, perhaps in the spirit of change, who broke the tension. ‘Monsieur Reynard, I don’t want to be a psychologist anymore. I haven’t for years and I’ve no desire to dabble. The combination of lack of motivation and rusty skills simply puts your youngster into more danger.’ He picked up the glass and drained the contents. ‘Now, that was lovely and I appreciate the treat, but I’m meeting some friends for dinner,’ he lied. ‘You’ll have to excuse me.’ He pulled his satchel back onto his shoulder, reaching for his scarf.
Reynard’s countenance changed in the blink of an eye. He smiled. ‘I almost forgot. I have something for you.’ He reached behind him and pulled out a gift-wrapped box.
Gabe was astonished. ‘I can’t —’
‘You can. It’s my thank you for the tireless, unpaid and mostly unheralded work you’ve put in on my behalf.’
‘As I said earlier, I do this job because I enjoy it,’ he replied, still not taking the long, narrow box.
‘Even so, you do it well enough that I’d like to thank you with this gift. Your knack for language, your understanding of the older worlds, your knowledge of myth and mystery are a rare talent. It’s in recognition of your efforts. Happy birthday.’
‘Well … thank you. I’m flattered.’
‘Have you begun your manuscript?’
Gabe