The Seventh Sinner Chapter One Jean would never forget her first encounter with Jacqueline Kirby. It was years before she could think about it without blushing all over. An acquaintance which begins with assault and battery, however inadvertent, can hardly be termed auspicious. There was some slight excuse for Jean's behavior. All morning she had been working, or trying to work, in the Institute library. There were distractions. First and omnipresent was the siren call of the city outside the dusty library stacks. April in Paris is famous, but May in Rome has an allure that can distract the soberest student. The city of Michelangelo and the dolce vita, the capital of the papacy and the Caesars--whatever it is you may be seeking, you can find it somewhere in Rome. Jean's prized fellowship at one of the world's most famous institutions of art and archaeology was a poor substitute for Rome on a spring morning; and the call of duty was not as effective as Ulysses' waxen earplugs against the siren's song. Michael was a second distraction, and if he was not as overwhelming as an entire city, he was closer at hand. Michael should have been working too; but his sense of duty was as neglected as his shaggy, shoulder-length brown hair. He dithered aimlessly about the stacks, peering at Jean through gaps in the shelved books and edging up to her whenever she got into a dark corner. Emerging, breathless and disheveled, from one of these encounters, Jean had to admit she wasn't avoiding them as wholeheartedly as she might have done. Michael would leave her in peace if she retired into her office and closed the door. The small windowless cubicles assigned to the student fellows were spartan affairs, with only a desk and chair and a couple of bookcases. The doors had glass panels on the upper halves, but they served the same purpose as the sported oak of Oxford. When the door was closed, the occupant did not wish to be disturbed. Nothing less than a fire or general insurrection justified so much as a knock. As she stood contemplating her own office door, Michael caught up with her again. His arm went around her and Jean came back to her senses with a start to find that her undisciplined body was responding. She pulled away. All she needed was to be caught in dalliance by one of the members of the fellowship committee, two weeks before that committee met to decide on the renewal of student grants for a second year. "All right," she hissed irritably. "I give up. . . . No, damn it, I don't mean that! I mean, let's get out of here." Jean was never quite sure which of them was responsible for the disaster. The Institute's halls were magnificent expanses of polished marble. As Jean emerged from the library she saw that the corridor was deserted--a long, snowy stretch of emptiness, shining like ice and just as slippery. She couldn't resist. She broke into a run, with Michael in enthusiastic pursuit. They turned the corner together. Jean had one flashing glimpse of a face, openmouthed in consternation, and then there was a melee of flailing arms and legs, a stifled shriek, and a dull thud. She and Michael, who had somehow kept their feet, stood staring down at a prostrate, motionless form. "Holy Christ," said Michael sincerely. "Is she dead?" The fallen woman didn't look very lively. Jean had seen her in the library during the past few weeks and had classified her, disinterestedly, as a summer visitor--a teacher or scholar. She usually wore neat tailored dresses and horn-rimmed glasses, and her hair was pulled back into a severe knot at the back of her neck. In her present state of collapse she looked quite different. Ahuge purse had gone flying at the impact, and its contents littered the floor for yards around, like the debris left by a miniature tornado. The demure knee-length skirt had been disarranged, displaying legs that drew an admiring whistle from Michael. A shaft of sunlight fell across the woman's head and shoulders, spotlighting a face whose features looked pallid and austere--high cheekbones, a firm chin, long, curved lips like the mouth of an archaic Greek statue. The hair was spectacular. It had been loosened by the fall, and lay about the peaceful face like a pool of molten bronze, gleaming with amber highlights. "Did we kill her?" Michael demanded. "Don't be ridiculous. . . . I hope not!" Suddenly, without preliminary fluttering or blinking, the closed eyes opened. They were a true, clear green, an unusual color for human eyes. They looked translucent, like seawater, and they focused on Jean with an expression of concentrated malevolence made all the more alarming by contrast with the placidity of the face in which they were set. The woman's compressed lips parted. "Here, too, O Lord?" a plaintive voice inquired. Jean, who had been thinking in terms of concussion, revised her diagnosis. Clearly there was some kind of brain damage. She dropped to her knees. "Don't try to talk," she said agitatedly. "Just don't move. Did you break anything? Did you--" "Did I break anything?" The implacable green eyes moved on to examine Michael, who stirred uneasily. "I have no intention of moving. I may stay here for the rest of the day. It seems to be the safest place. Unless you trample on helpless bodies around here." Jean sat back on her heels. "I think you're all right." "I am all right. Not good, but all right. No worse than usual . . . I talk like this all the time. Who are you?" "Jean Suttman, Michael Casey," said Michael. "Do you want me to help you up?" "No," said his victim distinctly. Michael sat down on the floor. "Who are you?" he asked conversationally. "Jacqueline Kirby." "Hello." "Hello." The Seventh Sinner . Copyright © by Elizabeth Peters. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from The Seventh Sinner by Elizabeth Peters All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
