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become an acolyte of the diocese, but the Sacred Orders refused to accept him in the priesthood. The distraught fellow attempted to murder the bishop outside his episcopal quarters. The attempt failed, and in due course, he was sentenced. His fist was broken on the stake. His arms, legs, thighs, and loins were broken on special scaffolding. And his body, which was to be reduced by fire to cinders and scattered to the wind, was instead given to me. How one may suffer from the boot heel of the Church. But as you see from this bust, I was able to retrieve some of the …” The Vicomte threw his arm wide. “These are my écorchés . ”
    Staring at the stark remains, Jacques felt his face grow blisteringly hot. Is man no more than this?
    “As to the purpose about which you asked? There is a far greater intention to my work than one would suppose,” the Vicomte admonished.
    Beside him, a menacing figure, possibly once human, was posed midstride, brandishing a large mandible. The pit of Jacques’ stomach grew cold and hard. Yet almost against his will, he found himself following the Vicomte into the larger chamber beyond.
    In its corner, beyond more than two dozen gnarled demi-beasts of exposed viscera and swollen veins, hung the dark scrim. Approaching, he recognized the sweet smell of ambergris before stepping around the curtain.
    A figure with skeletal hands, palms pressed together, reclined in a bath of fluid. The being, slumbering on his back, had not been managed or mangled like the rest. Jacques stepped toward the figure . This once lived as a man; amid all the hellish figures, this one alone is transformed. The face had an enigmatic, almost serene expression.
    Jacques turned upon hearing Fragonard clubbing across the parquet floor.
    “All the other écorchés you have seen are my earliest experiments,” the Vicomte said, “rudimentary labors in progress, really. This is the zenith toward which I have worked. He was created from a devout inspiration of the spirit, born from an experience that changed me once and forever.”
    “I find myself oddly touched by him,” Jacques admitted.
    “That is vastly pleasing.” The Vicomte’s face softened. He made one final review of the chamber, punching his shillelagh in staccato thrusts at airy nothings, then strode toward the door.
    Jacques followed.
     

- 7 -
    DOMINIQUE CASANOVA WAS FASCINATED. She didn’t wish to be. But her kind and inquisitive nature found her houseguest fascinating. Jacques’ stories of faraway places, of charlatans he’d met, of bluebloods he’d known, as well as his variety of occupations—adventurer, gambler, secretary, soldier, preacher, musician, writer—all excited her.
    He talked. And he also listened, though she knew the dullness of her daily routine provided slim fodder for interest. Their conversation and his attentiveness were all too stimulating.
    This morning while he and Dominique shared Francesco’s two-day old bread, Jacques discussed the brothers’ recent trip to Vicomte de Fragonard’s; without mentioning the indecent miniatures, he accentuated his generous gift to the child, the “rewarding time with his brother,” and the Vicomte’s eccentric manner.
    For Dominique, these stories pointed up her separateness, her loneliness.
    Too, she was disturbed by her interest in —her attraction to—her husband’s brother. So that she might not grow further distraught, she determined that her best course was to rediscover Francesco’s charm. And after seven years with a man who seemed more married to his art than to her, she knew she must, without delay, have an answer for her deepest desire of all.
    After Jacques left for the afternoon, Dominique knelt beside her window, anxious to speak with her god. Fingering the ivory cross hanging from her neck, she attempted to hold back her tears.
    “My master, Jesus, I come in humility to ask … not been to confession, and … feel weak. Show me the path … goodness … sweet Jesus,