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Rosanna flew down the stairs of the tower, which had afforded her weary eyes only fleeting sanctuary from the tasteless fashion ensembles of the Dark Lady, for indeed she had found herself trapped in this dark castle overrun by the Dark Lady's worshippers, their minds clouded by ripped bodices, overwrought adjectives, and layer upon layer of elaborate subordinate clauses. At the heavy tread of footsteps below, Rosanna frantically assayed each door in the corridor until at last one yielded beneath her trembling fingers, yet even as she tumbled into the convenient broom closet, upsetting a pail and several mops, the horde of pursuers had attained the hall. As she crouched among the cleaning supplies, her generous, curvaceous bosom heaving, straining against her lacy camisole, she heard their leader shout, "Find the reviewer! I am certain the wench is here somewhere!"
1.
"The joke mail," Gerda said dourly, flicking a postcard out of her daily mail heap toward the trash. The card slid over the desktop to collide with my rump, which had been parked on that corner of her desk. "It is not amusing. They think -- what? To waste the time of the worker peoples."Gerda's marxist uprising was lost on me. I'd been wasting the time of the worker peoples myself all week, hiding in their offices to avoid Herr Doktor Anton Zachariah Schmidt, director of our glorious National Museum. I automatically scooped up Gerda's contribution to the revolution, which had failed to scale the barricade of my behind. We sell postcards like this in our own gift shop; the picture on the front was some sort of folk costume on a mannequin. If the local dirndls that I adored had been redesigned by prudes, they might have looked like this: a high necked, long sleeved, long-skirted black dress with a black apron to boot. But what made it stand out were the sinuous curves of colorful, bright embroidery that flowed over the shoulders and edged the apron, and that towering, looping, starched confection of fine, white lace that sat on the mannequin's head. Just what I needed to see: another folk costume that probably looked adorable on the natives. Thanks to my hearty Scandinavian ancestors, I'm nearly six-foot and generously proportioned, so "cute" is the last word that springs to anyone's mind. Actually, no words at all spring to most men's minds; they empty out completely when they get to my chest.I flipped the card over to see which museum had produced it -- and was immediately rendered speechless by the address on the back. "Brunnhilde Karlsdottir," it said, care of the National Museum in Munich. The postage was French, the date on it obviously wrong. The message? "C'est cele qui tant digne d'estre amee, Qu'el doit estre rose clamee."
I didn't have time to work up a suitably operatic storm of rage because while I was distracted my doom had descended upon me. Here was the proof that I could never be a professional detective: I'd let myself be trapped in an office with only two doors, one leading into Schmidt's office, the other now filled to bursting with Schmidt himself.
"Vicky! Liebchen!" he caroled. "At last, I have found you!" That red, puffing face, which made him look more like Father Christmas than ever, told me he'd already visited my (empty) office in the central tower.
"Sorry, Schmidt, just heading out -- running late, so busy, no time!" I balanced on the balls of my feet, preparing to make a break for it the moment he'd cleared the door. In most offices, I understand, it's considered bad form to bowl over your boss, but Schmidt continues to find me brilliant and fascinating no matter what I do. This is his problem, not mine.
"Nein, nein," he said, standing stolidly in the doorway and wagging his finger at me. Schmidt may be foolishly convinced of my charm, but he's had years of experience with wrangling employees. He had no intention of giving me an opening to escape. "You must hear of this. I have had a reply!"
"Listen, Schmidt --" I pleaded.
"As I have told you myself, you are far too modest. She has found your manuscript sehr interresant!" Schmidt said happily. He lifted what appeared to be an airmail envelope. "She looks forward to meeting this writer."
"My . . . what?" No. He couldn't possibly mean what I thought he meant. "Schmidt," I said slowly, patiently, "what did you do?"
"Aber natürlich, I have sent the most recent of chapters," he said proudly. "You see, liebchen, she has called them a 'talented contribution to the genre.' Yes, that was my opinion as well."
"Shut up, Schmidt," I mumbled. Schmidt is an internationally respected authority in art history and a wizard of museum administration, but his taste in popular literature is atrocious. He likes his horrors penny dreadful, his mysteries hard-boiled, and his romances sodden with smut. I'd been catering to his latter interest by tossing out chapters of an absurd, endless romance novel for several years now. Schmidt's never questioned my output during work hours; he just assumes I'm so gifted that journal articles and fiction flow from my brain with equal alacrity.
Gerda knows better. She's always looked askance at my frivolous ways, so it came as no surprise that she was looking beatifically smug. After all, she'd been the one to bring the initial fatal inquiry to Schmidt's immediate attention when she'd spied it in her mail pile; Schmidt's all-time favorite romance writer (after me, of course) had written to the museum in advance of an upcoming research visit. He'd leapt on the acquaintance like my Doberman pinscher Caesar on a raw steak. As for the author, I don't even have to identify her -- everyone's heard of her. She has reserved seating on the best-seller lists these days. She'd even been tapped to write the sequel to Darcy's Naked in the Ice, and Schmidt had been as rapt over the publicity uproar as my uncles back in Minnesota for the NFL playoffs.
He'd written her back immediately. They'd corresponded. I'd initiated evasive tactics to avoid getting involved with any of it. So this was partially my own fault: I should have been paying more attention. Schmidt, bless his innocent, lecherous heart, had been so blinded by the barely clad bosoms that he hadn't even noticed that my most recent output was a parody of this woman's last book, Passion of the Dark. Hell, I'd even modeled the villainess on the author herself, complete with the glasses, the hats, and the weird outfits. From Gerda's expression, obviously she'd figured that out a long time ago, so what were the odds this woman hadn't? I'd be nothing but a handful of stale nachos to an author who was infamous for chewing up and spitting out her competition.
In two weeks, I had to be out of town.
"So when she arrives, we will --"
I ruthlessly cut Schmidt off in mid-spiel. "No, listen, Schmidt. You said in two weeks, didn't you? I'm already booked to present at a conference that week."
"Was ist's?" Schmidt and Gerda were both staring at me, with equal astonishment.
Gerda's eyes narrowed. She said, in a terrible and precise tone, "Bitte? I would know of this, I believe. Such things must be reported to me. You did not report this. It is impossible."
"Vicky, I am not aware of any significant conferences this month," Schmidt said, frowning thoughtfully. That was bad. He has a damn near eidetic memory, so he'd know, too.
I hastily slipped the incriminating postcard into my pocket. "It's the, ah, the preservation and curation conference in Rennes," I told him, hoping like mad I'd guessed correctly.
Gerda glowered, but Schmidt said, "Ah, that one? Yes, I know the director there." Of course he did, I groaned to myself. Schmidt knows everyone. Still, I was relieved to hear that my informant hadn't steered me wrong. "But liebchen, it is only small, so you must cancel. I will myself call and explain --"
"How can you suggest that?" I pulled myself up to my full height, a tower of scholarly virtue. "How would that reflect on the reputation of our National Museum? On our staff?" This is Schmidt's weakest point; I'd gotten my job in the first place after a hard lean on that reputation, hadn't I? "That would send a clear message to our peers that we don't consider them or their minor conferences worth our attention," I pointed out sternly.
"Ack, das ist recht," Schmidt muttered, looking troubled. "Yes, yes, it is important to maintain these ties, and our museum's reputation is --"
"However," Gerda spoke up again, insistently, "there is no record."
I often notice what Gerda is wearing because she has a habit of wearing outfits that would look great on me -- and had looked great on me when I'd worn them -- but look terrible on her. While I dream of being small, cute, and cuddly, she dreams of being tall, blonde, and buxom. So I couldn't help but notice what Gerda was wearing that day: a beautiful, peacock-blue silk scarf with silver fringe, which, as usual, made her look mousy and washed out. A scarf that she adored beyond reason. A scarf that she'd sighed over for months, whenever we'd passed that shop window on our way to lunch.
A scarf that I'd bought her for Christmas last year. Of course, I would never stoop to manipulating my co-workers to suit my own purposes; but needs must when Schmidt's at the wheel -- he drives like a maniac. I stared at her and tugged at my shirt collar, a gesture Gerda couldn't miss. One Bavarian Stand-off, now in session.
"Herr Direktor Doktor Schmidt," she said stiffly. "The fault . . . is mine. You will pardon this error, I hope. I am recalling now this conference. Fräulein Doktor Bliss did tell me of this. I did not enter it properly in the schedule."
Now Schmidt was gawking at Gerda, who was flushing a deep, unattractive shade of red. As everyone knows, Gerda is the deity of office efficiency. She does not make mistakes. I'm sure more improbable events have occurred, though none came to mind at the moment; it looked like I'd have two weeks in France to think of one. However, her pointed use of my full title like that didn't bode well for my future, so this year Gerda's Christmas scarf would outshine last year's, even if I had to raise llamas in my backyard and spin the wool myself.
"So," Schmidt was saying, disconsolate, "I see that it cannot be helped. Vicky, I know what sadness must fill your heart to miss such a prestigious visit to our National Museum."
"Oh, yes, I'm shattered," I assured him hastily. "Truly. But, like you said, our obligations to our peers are . . ."
"Ack so, but do not worry," Schmidt told me. He patted my hand kindly. "Papa Schmidt will obtain the autographed copy for you as well."
After I retreated back to my tower lair, I ferreted out the contact information from an old journal and made the calls. They'd had a suspiciously convenient withdrawal from their program and were spread thin as it was, so they were more than pleased to have a last-minute replacement. Gerda routinely lurks on my line during all my outgoing calls, so I didn't worry about them getting my registration promptly. Karl, our janitor, would throw himself to the ground and kiss my feet if I foisted Caesar off on him again for an extended play date, and Clara, my Siamese, might deign to allow Schmidt to coddle her for a week or so, though she'd make certain I suffered for it later. Now all I had to do was dash out a paper on -- something.
I pulled out that postcard and examined it again. The strange date on it was the first day of the conference. As for "Brunnhilde Karlsdottir," she was another well-known writer of overblown romances who'd crossed spears with the woman I was anxious to avoid. Like me, Karlsdottir specialized in medieval Europe, but her vision of the period was, as Schmidt put it, "most excellent imaginative!" Meaning just what you'd think it means. I'd made a festive bonfire of her last book. "So just what are you trying to imply, huh?" I snarled at the card.
The verse? That came from the Roman de la Rose. I accepted my latest floral tribute with all the surly gratitude it deserved.
2.
When I walked out the doors of the train station in Rennes, I was so preoccupied staring at the low clouds and wrinkling my nose at the overwhelming odor of diesel exhaust that I didn't even notice the student propping up the wall. Or rather, I hadn't paid him any attention until he'd caught my wrist, yanked me around, and planted an exceptionally noisy set of quatre bises on my cheeks. He tried his best -- two kisses were as far as he got before he had to dodge my right hook.
"Violent women won't get passes from men who wear glasses," he murmured, pushing his heavy horn-rims back up his nose. "You could show more respect for the local customs."
"How was I supposed to know it was you?" I said, even though I'd know "Sir John Smythe," or whatever the hell his name really is, anywhere. He couldn't disguise those long lashes or the shape of his nose. This time, I saw, he was sporting a mop of badly cut black hair and a long, scruffy, tweedy coat that made him look like he'd been lurking around waiting for the coded directions to his cell meeting.
"I sent thee late a rosy wreath," he said with an aggrieved air.
"Which I might have never seen if it hadn't been for Gerda's bad bankshot at the garbage. Was there some special reason why didn't you send that postcard straight to me? So let's hear it," I ticked them off on my fingers, "what are you planning to steal, who's going to object to it, and why are you involving me?"
"Nothing, no one," he said, "and for the pleasure of your company. If the damsel desired a rescue, the offer was on tap. That was all that I'd envisioned."
I did notice that he hadn't answered my first question, and that aura of injured innocence he was radiating meant the sneakiness was definitely afoot. Prying the details out of him was going to take time, but fortunately for me, I'd had plenty of experience in that area now. "So the reason you kindly decided to meet me at the station?"
"To give you a lift to your hotel," he said. I held out my suitcase, and he stared at it. "A fine, healthy specimen such as yourself," he said, surveying the health slowly from head to hoof, "can manage splendidly on her own. Come along." With that, he turned and slouched down the street.
"I hope you'll be more a gentleman after the shooting starts," I snapped. I was following along behind, refining my ultimate vengeance, when he stopped so abruptly I walked straight into his back. Not in line with my plotting, but it'd do in a pinch. "So sorry," I said sweetly, "sometimes we fine, healthy specimens can be a teensy bit clumsy."
He glared at me. "I'm now questioning how much of a pleasure it will be if you intend to spend the entire week poking and peering into dark corners for imaginary villains."
"Imaginary?" I shouted. "My imagination isn't that wild."
"Having seen you in action, I'm inclined to disagree," he said archly. "I did mean what I said. A vacation of sorts. Only this and nothing more." He pulled a set of keys from his pocket. "Our transport."
I scanned the street. Nothing on the street resembled that sleek black BMW he'd had in Germany. "Where?" I said.
"Right in front of you."
The only thing right in front of me was . . . "My god, you must be joking?" It was a battered gray box with an oval country sticker on the back that read "B.Z.H."
"Not in the least," he said shouldering me aside to lift the rear hatch-door into the air. "The Renault 4 is not only a classic, but this particular vehicle has been generously placed at our disposal for free. He'll have no use for it for, er, six months remaining." He pointed at my suitcase. "If you would."
I dumped my suitcase and my overnight bag into the back. "So this vacation of yours . . ." I'd only seen one street of this town so far, and I was being underwhelmed by the gloom and the sogginess.
"My impression was that you wished to avoid reappearing in Munich for, what was it? A week or more?" I nodded glumly. I didn't bother to ask where he got his information; in this particular case it had been to my benefit. "You're scheduled to present on the second day, I believe. If you'll make your excuses and slide out of the conference after that, I shall be more than willing to provide for your entertainment."
"Two weeks of that?" I gaped at him.
He coughed. "For you I'd make every effort, but not even I have that sort of stamina," he told me dryly. "No, I meant the grand tourist experience. It's the end of the season here, so most of the locations will be relatively uncrowded. We're too late to see any of the pardons, the church festivals, but we'd make many of the sites before they tuck themselves in for the winter."
"What, in your opinion, constitutes a grand tourist experience?" I asked. "And why here of all places? I'm ready to wring as it is." The ongoing misting drizzle from those low clouds had managed to soak down my coat in only the amount of time we'd been standing on the street.
"Oh yes," he said placidly, "it's quite damp here. Wind and fog as well. You'll find similar conditions on both sides of the Channel, you know. I do hope you came prepared to be drenched and wind-blown."
"Charming." Other people took vacations in warm, sunny climes. I wound up in what was starting to sound suspiciously like a swamp.
"Those who've been reared in such places are accustomed to it," he said. While I was filing away that tidbit, he went on, "As for the tourism, knowing you, you've already decided what you'd like to see."
I looked away guiltily. I'd had my hands full evading Schmidt's prying and getting everything arranged for this spur-of-the-moment escape. I hadn't really had any chance to raid the library to learn more about what I'd find on the other end of that train trip. "What does my waiter recommend?" I said instead.
"Ah. For madam's consideration, then," he said in plummy tones, "our menu offers two main courses. You may choose which you prefer." He held up a finger and recited, with elaborate nonchalance, "Option one, for devotees of the fearless knight and courteous lord, and all other things Arthurian. Strolling among the verdant shades of Brocéliande, presently known as the Forest of Paimpont. This would be the legendary home of Vivian and Merlin, and you'll find there several castles that are not open to the public. However, you can make up for their lack of hospitality with the castles at Homburg, Vitré and the Loire Valley as well as the walled city of Nantes. And, er, whatever else presents itself."
I did want to see Nantes, no question about that. But the early renaissance castles really were outside my favorite period -- which he knew very well. As for the rest, legendary kings and fantasy fairies and magicians had never appealed to me very much, and I'd never bothered to spend much time on them. "What's my second option?" I asked.
"Option two?" No, definitely not my imagination -- he looked relieved. "Well," he drawled, "option two is not for the faint of heart." He reached into the pocket of his seedy coat, slid out a folded map, then proceeded to fan himself with it gently. "It may be far too much effort for someone who seeks merely to sun herself on some southern beach like a lizard." He sighed. "I can love both fair and browned to a crisp . . ."
Meaning I was supposed to pick option two. "Just gimme the damn map," I snapped, snatching it out of his hand. As I unfolded it over the damp hood of the car, I did notice the absence of any marks for those sites for 'option one.' I couldn't repress the note of incredulity. "You've marked the entire province?"
"Like anyone with taste, I prefer my architecture in a more classical vein. However, I'm given to understand that there are those who have an unnatural fixation on these structures." He tapped on the map and murmured, "Medieval. Cathedrals."
Bastard. "Yes, some people do like them," I said airily. I felt a bit irritated at being so transparent, but I couldn't deny that my inner Caesar was already wiggling his tail and standing in an expanding puddle of drool.He was still pointing to circled cities. "Here. Also here, here, here . . . option two would be the 'Tro Breiz,' the traditional pilgrimage to the seats of the seven bishoprics of medieval Brittany. Each has its cathedral, you know. Also, along the way, here, there is a castle, here a walled city, and here the famous prehistoric monuments, of course. Just before you enter the Monts d'Arrée, you'll find a clutch of churches with les enclos paroissiaux, which, as you doubtless realize, are to be found nowhere but this region --"
"Stop, wait," I said, feeling a bit lightheaded. My normal, sensible resistance was crumbling under his ruthless onslaught. "But how do you intend to --? You can't be serious."
"Oh, but I am," said the vile seducer of a maiden's heart, resting his chin on my shoulder. "It's perfectly feasible if you bear in mind that you can't spend the entire day cooing over crude carvings."
"I do not coo," I pointed out loftily. "I am a respected art historian. Mine is an intellectual appreciation for the art of the period." I took a deep breath. "All right. You're the driver, just, just . . . drag me back to your rolling junk heap when my time's up."
"Right. You, in turn, must solemnly swear not to kick me."
I peered at him -- and past him. The backseat of the car had a pile of books. "Are those all for me?"
"When you become bored with my repartee," he said, "you can look up the sites and save us time by determining precisely what you wish to see." He added hastily, "If you have any tendencies to carsickness, do speak up in time to be chucked out the door."
"So what's in this for you?" My thumbs and an assortment of less visible body parts were pricking with suspicion. This was all too well prepared. "What do you want to see?"
"I appreciate your concern for my welfare," he said blandly, "but I'm already looking at it."
To my profound irritation, my face felt hot. All of this was a pretty good act, and I might even have been convinced back when I first met him. Back when I first met him, he'd been pulling a scam that ripped off half a dozen museums. He'd also been blond. "Would you care to explain why you're dressed like that?"
"Because I also would like a vacation," he said, sighing. "Avoiding unexpected, unpleasant encounters would be a step in that direction, wouldn't you agree?"
"Oh." It actually made a twisted sort of sense when you took into consideration the sort of people John generally did business with. "You'd said that you were leading an exemplary life these days."
"The fatted calf has been slaughtered on my behalf," he said without further elaboration. "But my past associates have no such aspirations. As you may have noticed."
Damn good point. I shrugged, resigning myself to letting "Jacques" or whatever variation he came up with next squire me around for a week or so.
"That seemed remarkably easy," he said, frowning. "Are you feeling well?"
"Shut up." I shook his map at him. "I want to see all of these. Everything. So let's see you prove this disaster on wheels can get me there."
"Ma belle dame sans merci," he sighed. "I'll drop you at your hotel. You can walk from there to the uni."
"Uh, does that mean you're not --?"
"I have other fish to fry, as your people quaintly put it. I'll be seeing you in two days. Besides," and here he gave me a stern look, "I'm aware of the riotous goings-on at these conferences, but should a scholar of your stature be luring innocent students back to her hotel room?" After a few moments, he reached over and gently closed my open mouth. "The last word," he murmured to himself. "How marvelous."
3.
I stuffed my hastily folded skirt into the suitcase, just as Schmidt was insisting, "Vicky, if you are not to remain for the full conference, then --"
"See, that's what I'm trying to explain here, Schmidt. I'm really, really interested in seeing those collections, so I'm considering taking the rest of my accumulated time on top of this." I had my fingers crossed while I piled this on; that had to count for something, or so I told myself. I pressed the phone to my ear and stated, "The amount that's left in the conference account ought to cover the extra travel just fine." That muffled, choked sound assured me that Gerda had gotten the update, too.
In truth, I really had already made a few good contacts, and the smaller museums sounded like they had things I wanted to check out; their curators would be back on their home turfs by the time we swung by, probably. But the main object here was to forestall Schmidt swooping down upon me like the Great Speckled Bird with anyone else in tow, so I changed the subject smoothly: "How is Clara doing? Is she being good?"
"Ack, Vicky, she is a cat of such elegance," he said admiringly. "So well-mannered. When the fresh fish that I am shredding for her each night --"
"What?" I blurted. "Schmidt, I left cat food for her."
"Aber natürlich, but I have talked of this with Gerda, and she has told me that the fresh fish is best. Also the small tins. I did not realize that the cat food was sehr teuer," he said wonderingly, "but it is good. Clara is loving it very much."
"I'm certain she is," I said grimly. Schmidt might be rolling in money, but I sure as hell wasn't. Now Clara would never give me a moment's peace if I didn't offer up fresh fish and gourmet cat food, too. This one had all the makings of a stand-off that I couldn't win.
"Liebchen, just now you were laughing? Tell Papa Schmidt what is drollig."
"Not me, Schmidt." No, the last laugh this time definitely hadn't been mine. I sighed. "At any rate, I probably won't be around, so don't worry if you call and they tell you I've checked out. I'll try to wrangle some overnight invitations," I added, saintly, "to conserve the museum's money." As long as that money stayed available, I'd be above petty expense account padding.
"I still think it best if you come back," Schmidt said. "She will be stopping by for lunch today, and will be in Munich all week. If you come back now --"
"Then time's a-wasting, Schmidt -- you shouldn't be on the phone with me!" I said. "You should be getting ready! Right now! Gosh, I hadn't realized, I'm so sorry for taking up so much of your time here. I know you're anxious about all this, so you'll want to get right on that. Absolutely. Right now. I'll, uh, try to check in again later if I'm free." Poor Schmidt never got a word in, and I was off that phone in record time, huffing a little from the effort.
Behind me I heard the applause. "That door was locked," I pointed out unnecessarily, going back to my packing. One sour glance told me that the scruffy student from earlier in the week had returned for an encore performance.
"Nicely done," he said. "I'm relieved to know that Our Man in Munich won't be boarding the next plane to save you from your perilous fate and barge in at awkward moments."
"Oh, but Schmidt adores you," I said in a syrupy tone. "He's going to be crushed if he figures out that he's missed meeting his idol." Schmidt had convinced himself that "Sir John" was some sort of secret agent leading a thrilling life of danger and intrigue. I'd yet to figure out how Schmidt worked the whole antiquities angle into this fantasy, but I had no doubt the reasoning was suitably weird and convoluted.
"I can hardly object when my merits are appreciated as I justly deserve." I rolled my eyes, and he said wonderingly, "Is there anything left in your home that you didn't manage to fit in?"
I ignored that, and likewise he deflected my strong hints that I wouldn't object if he were to carry the suitcase in question; instead, he shoved his hands in his coat pockets, rocked back on his heels, and said, "No no, comrade, I support your cause of liberation, and wouldn't dream of oppressing you in such a fashion."
So I stumped down to his mobile tin can with purse, overnight bag, and suitcase, looking for all the world like a beleaguered slave following her indolent rajah. I discovered that my faithful suitcase -- scuffed, battered, and covered with peeling stickers -- would have to share the back-end with an elegantly understated dark green case with gold latches. No baggage handler would have dared to mar that finish with a sticker, much less bounce it off the tarmac.
His suitcase was sneering at mine, I swear it. This trip seemed to be off to a typical start.
"I've an errand before we leave town," he informed me. This turned out to be a visit to a second-hand shop on the outskirts of the city. The proprietor behind the counter roused herself just long enough to rattle out the perfunctory sing-song of "Bonjour-Madame-bonjour-Monsieur" before lapsing back into torpor.
"So is this what you do in your spare time?" I hissed at him, "you aren't . . . one of those flea market aficionados?" I wasn't certain how I felt about this horrifying revelation. My Aunt Erminetrude was physically incapable of driving by a flea market or a rummage sale sign without stopping. A simple run to the grocery had the potential to become a grueling day-long expedition into the Minnesota wilds.
"Well," he said diffidently, "the stock at the Fergamo shop owed not a little to my own contributions."
I recalled Rome and the antique shop in the Via delle Cinque Lune where I'd first encountered him. It had been filled with rococo gewgaws and heavy baroque furniture. "I thought most of it was tacky."
"Carefully selected to appeal to the passing tourist," he said in an offended tone, "even those who take after the proverbial bulls in china shops." I didn't regret damaging that lamp -- it had been incredibly ugly, after all -- but I graciously refrained from pointing that out. Instead, I concentrated on the contents of a glass case, opaque with dust, that contained a stuffed squirrel. Or it could have been an iguana. I still hadn't decided when he nudged me on the arm.
"Here you are," he said, handing me an object that he'd rooted out from the back of a shelf of assorted knickknacks. "Go, pay our lovely hostess."
At that, the proprietor of the shop stirred to sudden life. I hastily lowered my voice. "Me? This is your shopping trip. Pay for it yourself."
"Tragically, I find myself short of francs. I cannot even afford this modest treasure." After eyeing the price tag, I decided that it wasn't worth an argument. I paid.
John snagged the receipt the instant I'd signed, and he tucked it away into his own wallet (which was blatantly not empty). I turned his latest acquisition over in my hands, a cylinder-shaped leather case with a hinged top and a latch to hold it in place. It must have been made to hold a spyglass or something similar. It was a lot heavier than it looked, but I wasn't inclined to pick at the leather to see what was underneath it because the interior was lined with a ragged, repulsive velvet that smelled strongly of rotted horse glue, one of those unlovely odors you get used to in my line of work.
"It reeks," I pointed out, dropping it back into the bag then scrubbing my hands on my jeans.
"Well, never mind," he said cheerfully, "we'll simply toss it in the boot with the baggage." And he proceeded to do so, while I watched open mouthed.
"So was there an actual point to buying that?" I demanded.
"Supporting the local economy is every tourist's duty," he pointed out piously. "You never know when you'll need a . . . er, whatever that is. I've no idea." He shrugged and opened the passenger door. I looked at the door; I looked at him. Sudden chivalry on top of mysterious purchases wasn't suspicious, oh no, not at all.
"You're up to something again," I said. I resolved not to budge an inch until I had some answers. "What is it?"
"'Avez-vous vu Fougères?'" he said.
"Huh?" I gaped at this apparent non sequitur.
"That was Balzac's question. Like others, he was fascinated by Fougères. The castle -- or perhaps fortress would be more accurate. Once the frontier between France and Brittany, it was taken after a prolonged siege and razed by Henry II, rebuilt over the twelfth to fifteenth centuries, then subsequently captured at some point by -- oh, everyone. Perhaps we should give it a go as well." He leaned over the door, and rested his chin on his hands. "You could climb the seventy-five steps of the Mélusine Tower and gaze down upon the city. However, the first step must take you to the car."
"I'm not that easy," I said. An obvious decoy like that didn't make my knees buckle. Well, not quite.
"We could, of course, stand here, grow ever damper, and discuss the matter at tedious length, but Fougères will take up a great deal of our morning, and after that is . . . hmm, what was it that came next?" He paused to contemplate his immaculate nails. "Oh, that's right. Mont Saint Michel."
John never fights fair. "I'll get it out of you eventually," I said, trudging over to the car.
"I've every confidence in your ability," he said, swinging the door shut after me. "Guidebook there on the floor -- take care to fasten the seatbelt."
Once we'd escaped the city's traffic and had merged out onto the highway, I had to concede that the car's appearance was deceptive. "Eppur si muove," John had commented -- and move it did, fast and smooth with an oddly quiet engine.
"As one would expect of a professional," John said, pulling back on the gearstick jutting from the dash, "which is why I took the trouble to request the loan."
"A professional what, exactly?" When I didn't get any answer to that but a raised eyebrow, I decided to sulk for a while and survey the scenery.
"So how was the conference?" he asked at length.
"I wouldn't have minded staying," I admitted. "Everyone from out of town got a guided tour of the museum, the old town, and the cathedral. Their museum has more emphasis on culture than ours, but it's a nice change of pace." Then it struck me what the next question would probably be. To head it off, I immediately grabbed my purse and started digging. "Actually, I got quite a few business cards, I can show you --"
"My apologies for missing your presentation," he cut me off smoothly. I should have known it wouldn't work. "What was the topic?"
"Strategies for Enhancing the Museum Experience for the Modern Youthful Visitor," I mumbled. I ignored the way the corner of his mouth began to twitch. That had been all I could slap together at the last minute, but I had no intention of going into that. After a few moments of silence, I added lamely, "I had slides."
He said, tone perfectly bland, "In other words, your paper was a discussion of how to keep the little fiends from pawing the paintings and scaling the statuary when their doting mums refuse to control them."
"It was well received, you know," I said defensively.
"Dear girl." He grinned. "Unfortunately, I can well imagine."
"As we all realize," I said, folding my hands primly, "the youth of today are the contributors of tomorrow, making this a relevant, timely topic."
"Yes. Indeed." Then he mused aloud, "As it happens, I spent many hours in museums myself as a lad. One might even go so far as to say I felt the first frissons of my true calling amongst those quiet corridors."
That kind of contribution we could all do without. Based on this new data, I suddenly had no compunctions about banning children outright, and I was just about to share my new scholarly insight when he pointed ahead. "There we go, our next target in view. You can see the steeple of Saint Sulpice, which is hard by the castle."Further reflections on museum management could wait for another day. I had a granite fortress to besiege. I'm a professional myself, which means when I'm the one doing the climbing and the pawing it's not the same at all.
4.
"Yes," John said dryly, "it should be clear to everyone now that you are a respected art historian, and yours is an intellectual appreciation for the art of the period." He nodded politely to several other passing tourists who were edging past us with alarmed looks.
"Oh, shut up." So I'd wrapped my arms around one of the lovely, slender cloister columns, what was wrong with that? It was an absolutely adorable column. "You only steal stuff nobody really needs," I said. "Well, I really need this."
"The column, the cloister, or the entire monastery?" John inquired, folding his arms. He seated himself on the stone ledge on the opposite wall in the corridor and turned his contemplation to the small garden.
"Yes," I said.
"Naturally I'm flattered at your estimation of my skills, but . . ." he waved a hand, "Mont Saint Michel might be a trifle more than I can manage. And wherever would you put it?"
"In the backyard," I said, "with my pony." The pony in my backyard was Caesar, and I was certain he'd share.
"You may embrace the stonework for," he checked his watch, "five more minutes, but then the dragging commences. We've a few more rooms to see yet, and the cathedral at Dol-de-Bretagne is next on today's itinerary."
"What's the rush?" I demanded. I wasn't pouting, not exactly. I did feel rushed.
John simply brushed off the question. He walked over and calmly began to disengage my arms from the column. "You wanted cathedrals, and we've yet to see one."
"I'm flexible," I said. "This is good enough."
"I can attest to your flexibility -- just as I've no doubt I'll be hearing that same refrain many times over the coming week." He patted me on the head like an indulgent uncle and began herding me toward one of the narrow windows set in the wall. "Let's look at the bay."
True to his promise, John picked up my fuming self and carried me bodily from the cathedral of Saint Samson in Dol, and I couldn't kick him like I wanted to.
"Biting, hitting, and lawsuits are also proscribed," he informed me cheerfully. "Dr. Bliss is permitted, however, to stupefy me with more lecturing and thereby make her escape, if it comes to that."
"Have I been that bad?" He hadn't seemed bored when I'd launched into impromptu rambles on windows, rood screens, chapels, clerestories, buttresses, and spires. I was certain I could rely on John to let me know the instant he was finding me a bore -- he'd been quite prompt about that in the past.
"A little din can't daunt my ears," he said, "and to be immersed in the wisdom without paying the course fees appeals to my veniality."
"What doesn't appeal to your veniality?" I grumbled to myself, snapping my seat's buckle into place. John's specialty might be classics, but he wasn't, in fact, as uninformed as he'd been professing about the art and architecture here. The comments he'd made and the questions he'd asked made that glaringly obvious to me. Nor was this the first time he'd seen these places; I'm not intimidated by European driving habits, but not even I could have woven my way in and around and out of these towns as easily as he'd done. Yet he hadn't made any mention of previous visits.
"We're not staying here tonight?" I asked, when I saw him directing the car back to the road out of town. "It's already dark."
"Saint Malo," he said. "We'll stay there overnight, putting us on site in the morning. The cathedral of Saint Vincent is there, and you might find the old city and ramparts worth a look as well."
I sighed and untied my boots. I'd chosen my office's location to discourage visitors, but there had been other benefits to running those flights of stairs daily. I wasn't out of shape -- but a castle, monastery, cathedral triple-crown right out of the starting gate had taxed my endurance. Even John was looking a little worn, which made me wonder again at the schedule he was setting out. Could there actually be someone on our tail? Or was there something later in this trip that he was more interested in?
I was considering how to begin the interrogation, when John slid a small, narrow brown envelope from inside his jacket and handed it to me. "That reminds me," he said, "before we reach the hotel, if you would be so kind."
"What's this?" From the weight, I could feel that something heavier than paper was stuck in the bottom, so I peeled up the flap and shook it out into my hand. I picked up the small object and held it up to the window for a better view by the lights along the highway. My mind emptied out rather abruptly at that point. It was a plain gold band, with a smooth, fitted section of red stone, which might have been ruby. When my mind began operating again, it spun madly in place like a top, before falling over with a clunk.
"We will have rings, and things, and fine array," he said, sounding amused.
"No way. I'm not the one who needs a disguise here." I dropped it back into the envelope and shoved the whole mess back against his chest with enough force to elicit a puff. "Keep it."
He didn't take it from my hand. "You're accompanying me, I'm accompanying you. We're going to be sharing a room across the countryside in several more traditionally minded locales, so I'd prefer that --"
"No. No, damn it."
"All right," he said. He didn't sound particularly upset. "But might I inquire as to the reason for the vehemence? It's merely a ring, and a loan at that -- I do expect you to return it. I'm not about to demand rites, marital, legal, or sacrificial, to go along with it." He dipped his hand back into his pocket and pulled out another envelope. "The other one I'll wear myself, so it's not as though --"
"No. What's more, I never said I wanted to share with you. I want my own room." Yes, I had been looking forward to sharing a room and everything that went with it -- but that was before he'd pulled this stunt. I wasn't going to pass as another of his forgeries. Especially not when I hadn't sorted out my feelings about this murky idea in reality. This was digging in too close to a tender part of my emotional anatomy.
"Well, then, that's that, I suppose. I foresee no problem here."
"No?" That left me even more confused.
"Not at all." He gave me one of those grins that made me almost take back on the spot every word I'd said. But 'almost' was the operative term. Principle matters to me, even if it doesn't to him, and I wasn't going to back down. But he hadn't taken back his damned envelope; rather than leaving it in the car overnight, I resorted to shoving it in my purse.
To my surprise, he didn't take us to a hotel; on the outskirts of the city he pulled up alongside a small shelter marked for the city's bus service. Then he got out, walked around the car, opened my door, and handed me out to the curb. "This is a bus stop," I said stupidly.
"Indeed it is. One can rely on an academic for astute observations." While I was scowling over that, he was pulling my overnight bag from the back seat; he walked it over to the bench. "Everything you'll need is in here, correct?"
"Everything I need for what?"
"Excellent." He rubbed his hands together briskly. "Well, then. You certainly have no need of an escort. If you ask the driver which stop you require, I'm quite certain you'll have no problem locating it. I'll be along to collect you in the morning."
"Wait, finding what? Collecting me where? What's going on?"
He leaned forward, kissed me lightly on the cheek, and said, "I salute your plan to conserve your museum's budget. Commendable really, and I'm more than willing to assist. Just follow the markers with pine trees. Youth hostels can be quite comfortable. At times." He walked back around the car, adding, "You have until ten o'clock to find it."
He got back in the car as I still stood there speechless. The car door slamming shook me out of it. "Hold it, you bastard, is this some kind of a joke?" I shouted. He gave me a jaunty wave -- and pulled away from the curb.
5.
The bunks nearest the door were draped with black leather, courtesy three German women who had roared up earlier as part of a motorcycle group. The bed nearest the bathroom was occupied by a scowling, tanned girl of indeterminate nationality. The two lower bunks in the opposite corner contained a pair of small, silent girls who, I assumed from those snatches of whispered conversation earlier, were Japanese. Everyone had roundly ignored everyone else. So, entering into the spirit of the international youth communal experience, I'd taken an upper bunk as far away from them all as I could get.
The conference fund might not stretch enough to cover this stalemate for a few weeks, not to mention that I had no idea where John had decided to go to ground for the night. Which meant that if I wasn't where I was supposed to be in the morning, I didn't know how else I'd get picked up. Bastard. He'd effectively boxed me into this corner. I had no doubt that he was warm and comfortable, wherever the hell he was. But what else was I supposed to do? I wasn't going to just fall in with his latest . . . whatever it was that he was up to. No, I certainly was not going to pretend to be married to someone who, after all this time, had never deigned to tell me his real name. If he didn't trust me that much, then how stupid would I be to trust him?
That he'd seemed to take the whole idea so lightly had smarted, too. More than I wanted to admit.
The thin mattress felt like a slab of wood. "I really am too old for this," I groaned to myself. I burrowed down into my rented sleeping bag with the penlight from my purse and clicked my ballpoint. Part of the reason Schmidt hadn't instantly overruled my plans had been my earnest assurances that I'd be working hard on his behalf even on vacation.
Rosanna knelt on the stone floor, her bearing proud. She refused to be intimidated by the hostile, unforgiving gazes of the other women in the sultan's seraglio.As I mulled over Rosanna's latest predicament, I had trouble reading my own wavering writing; even inside the sleeping bag, I was shivering. No, it wasn't my imagination -- the air was distinctly frostier than it had been at lights-out. I flicked off my flashlight, and poked my head out. Leaning over the edge of the bunk, I could see the faint steam of my breath in the dark room. Outside it was pouring rain, and the window over the far wall was standing wide open.
"What on earth?" I muttered. But before I could get myself unzipped and untangled, Girl of Indeterminate Nationality let out a whoop of rage, followed by a string of incomprehensible curses in what could have been Spanish. She launched out from under her blankets, stomped to the window, and slammed the sash down. Oblivious to the sleepy chorus of Was, Was ist's, scheisse, she headed back to her bunk.
Slowly, slowly the temperature began to crawl upward again, and relieved, I went back to my notebook. That pale skin and tawdry yellow hair, you are not worthy to be our beloved's bride --
This time I actually heard the window sliding up. I peered over the edge of my bunk just in time to see one of the Japanese girls retreating soft-footed back to hers. Ah ha. Predictably, a few minutes later the shout rang out again.
It was going to be a long night. A very, very long night. Some reassessment, I concluded, was in order.
Rosanna quailed in terror before the other inmates of the sultan's seraglio . . ."So how was your evening?" the offensively chipper bastard who hadn't spent a night bunking among lunatics asked me the next morning. I intercepted his latest attempt to bestow quatre bises by shoving my palm in his face. Without missing a beat, he went on blithely, "The youth hostel in Saint Brieuc, you'll be delighted to learn, is a genuine fifteenth century --"
I waved my hand in front of his face, damned gold ring already in place. "Feed me," I demanded. "Now."
"Surely not that bad?" He had the gall to look sympathetic.
"I don't want to talk about it," I snapped at him. "Get me out of here."
"Er, you don't appear to have had much sleep," said the Supreme Master of the Obvious. "Are you going to be all right today?"
"Yes, fine." Other than my spirit, which had been broken at the hostel wheel. I sighed. "Just no more seraglios."
"Is this a code?" He looked at puzzled.
"It is. Cracked into plain English, it means if you don't feed me breakfast this instant, I will be forced to resort to chewing on your leg."
"Understood." And, apparently, he really did understand because he mercifully refrained from further comment until I'd downed a large cup of coffee topped with a towering cliff of Schlag. He'd chosen a café that was used to odd tourist requests.
"All right," I told him magnanimously after he'd leaned over the table to wipe the cream off my nose. "Now you may speak."
"'Her distains are gall, her favours honey'," he murmured. "I'll have to remember the coffee cure in future. It has miraculous properties."
"It is a holy, healing liquid, yeah." That he assumed there was a future in which he'd be pouring more caffeine into me, I gave a free pass for now. To my relief, he didn't ask anything more about the night before; instead he began to chat amiably about what we could do for the rest of the day.
"After you've finished devouring that galette, you can see a bit more of the Intra-muros, the old town enclosed with the walls. We can walk on the ramparts, then work our way down to the beach of Bon Secours. The tide is out, so I thought we'd hike out to the old National Fort and take in the view."
I nodded, forking in whatever it was he'd had put in front of me. It tasted good and there was plenty of it, so I had no cause for complaint on that score.
"Your second cathedral is here as well, Saint Vincent, so we can stop by there on our way out of town," he said.
"After that?"
"I'm considering the scenic route down the Rance valley. Depending on circumstances, we'll stop in Dinan. In any event, we'll be heading back to the gulf coast for yet more scenic route, which will take us to the Cathedral of Saint Brieuc in Saint Brieuc, Saint Tugdual in Tréguier, and Saint Pol-Aurélien in Saint Pol-de-Léon. How does that sound?"
I stifled a yawn. I had the distinct impression that "depending on circumstances" meant "if you're still awake." He was expecting me to sleep through most of the scenic route, and he probably wasn't far off base. I'd do my best to prove him wrong, even if it only made me feel cranky. This unfamiliar version of John Smythe in conciliatory, considerate mode was getting on my nerves.
He towed me around the old city for a while and then onto the ramparts, but I still felt like a limp rag. "The grandes marées, the spring tides in these parts, roar over these walls up to ten meters in the air. It's a pity we're too late for them. I'm certain a good dousing would wake you up." It didn't strike me as a half-bad idea at that moment, either. We worked our way down to the beach, and watched a few apparent corpses floating in the seawater swimming pool that had been left filled by the receded tide.
"Those old guys seem to be having fun," I said, wistfully thinking of warm, sunny beaches again. The latest rain hadn't continued past the early morning, but the chill still hung in the salt air.
"Your corner of the American wilderness has nothing resembling a seacoast, does it?" John said, amused. "Bear in mind that, as they'd no doubt be delighted to inform you if you were to ask, young people today have no stamina. The waters of the Channel in the autumn are a bit chilly."
From there, we took the long walk over the sands to the National Fort, which was only accessible by foot at low tide. We picked our way through the boulders, following the arrows painted on the sides. John watched me scramble gracelessly (and unassisted) over a boulder; just as I landed on a flat, wet patch of sand, he observed, "I'm told that quicksand forms in the bay around Mont Saint Michel at low tide."
"I'd make sure to drag you in with me," I huffed at him. All the same, I was relieved that Sympathetic, Considerate John had retreated and Drawling, Obnoxious John had made his triumphant return. I was more comfortable with the latter, though what that says about our relationship is probably better left unexamined.
The hike only took about twenty minutes, and we dutifully paid our francs for entrance. "Built during the town's piracy era," John said, "late 1600s. I doubt they could have imagined that its primary value would one day be for sightseeing."
"Different eras, different uses. I'm valuing it just as it is," I said, trying to tame my hair. I didn't mind the stiff breeze; rather, I was grateful for it clearing out some of the remaining mental cobwebs. "You can see everything from here." The view from the fort gave us the city, the river mouth with the city of Dinard on the other side, the smaller islands, and ships of all sizes and types moving smoothly through the water.
"Out of sight, but directly out there is Jersey. Hence the ferry," John said, pointing. "Beyond that, England."
"Yes?" But he didn't respond to that. Instead, he walked over to stare at the massive city ramparts again. I tagged along after him, waiting for the rest of . . . whatever the thought was. I could sense that something was brewing.
"How have you found Saint Malo so far?" he said at last.
"Well," I said, "I haven't seen much of it yet, and we haven't been to the cathedral. But the old town and the ramparts are wonderful. I can see why it draws so many sightseers."
"It's a reproduction, you know," he told me. "The city of Saint Malo was occupied by the Germans during the Second World War, and it was destroyed by the Allied bombardment. Nearly everything you've seen thus far was reconstructed or rebuilt."
"Well, yes, I realize that, but --"
"So I suppose my question for you would be, does that affect its value, in your view?"
"What? Value?" I looked at him.
"In a technical sense, you could say it isn't as authentic as, say, Dinan, which we'll be seeing later. As an historian, would you consider that to affect its worth?"
"You know, this strikes me as a damned odd time to launch into another 'Where's the harm?' argument." My incipient good mood vanished. With us, this was a time-worn, frayed topic. In the ordinary way, spending time with John would be classified as a colossal mistake: I'm museum staff, and he's professional thief who specializes in ripping off museums -- "now retired" if you believe him, and I'm not certain I do. But his modus operandi was liberating the originals from museums and replacing them with reproductions. I have no idea how many museums in the world are displaying the forged antiquities he left behind, but I wouldn't be surprised if any guess I hazarded was an underestimate. John was apparently very good at his job; I'd witnessed for myself that even people who loathed him wanted to work with him.
Even now, if I were to catch him so much as breathing on a display in our National Museum, I'd slap a bow on him for the cops. At times, he seems to have all the moral sense of a concrete slab. It's not that he doesn't understand my point of view -- 'Stealing is wrong' isn't a complicated idea, after all. He just dismisses it as some sort of hopelessly unrealistic, academic abstraction.
"Er, no, I hadn't planned on it," he said, looking disconcerted for a moment. "No, I suppose it is related. I should be used to you haring off in directions I hadn't anticipated by now."
"Then maybe you should be clearer about what you mean," I warned him.
"So it would seem. In this case, I hadn't been indicating the monetary aspect of value, although it is pertinent," he said, sighing. "I've read your work on the Reimenschneider reliquary, you know."
It took me a few moments before I realized what he must mean: the jewels. Back before I'd ever met John, I'd played a central role in recovering that shrine, which had been lost since the sixteenth century. I'd also, as noted in at least one of my articles, been the one to persuade Irma, the heir of the Scloss Drachenstein, to remove the enormous emerald, ruby, and pearl and sell them separately -- to replace them with paste copies. She needed the money, and at least three-quarters of the potential thieves would be dissuaded; the shrine lost none of its beauty or historical significance without them.
"Okay," I said, dragging my hand through my hair and looked at the city on the bay. I wasn't in the best mental space for this sort of thing at the moment, but he seemed to be genuinely curious about what I thought, so I wanted to answer. "There's an essential, fundamental difference between reproduction and restoration. Reproduction, as you know very well, is a new creation that imitates an original. I suppose," I mused aloud, "an equivalent would be one of those historic theme parks. No reproduction can ever be exact, so it's impossible to say what sort of details might be overlooked in the process.
"Restoration, on the other hand, pertains to the original. It's not always a good idea because it always involves interpretation, which is highly individual and subject to change over time. And there are also judgments being made about what's worthwhile, aesthetics depending on time and culture. Anyway . . . I'd consider this city a restoration rather than a reproduction, mainly because they reused the existing materials whenever possible. Also, they adhered very faithfully to the original model rather than 'correcting' it to be more in line with modern needs and tastes.
"Depending entirely on the situation, both reproductions and restorations have value," I finished up. "Reproductions can have a lot of educational value, not to mention becoming a draw for tourism. I don't look down on the idea of tourists -- they're the ultimate source of my salary, after all."
John was looking thoughtful at this, so I charged right ahead. "Which brings us to the more important question, which is why are you asking?" I added, "And fobbing me off with a 'no reason' isn't going to work."
"I do have a reason for asking," he agreed, "and I assure you that the reason will become quite obvious. However, not just now."
"You're asking me to wait." I drummed my fingers on the wall. "How many years are we talking, here?"
"Wait as I'm willing to do, myself -- only not years, mere days. 'Love's best habit is in seeming trust'," he said wryly, "isn't it?"
I caught my breath. He'd just pulled the trump card, that topic we'd both been adroitly side-stepping from the moment I'd walked out of that station: a hotel room in Bad Steinbach, certain sentiments I'd elicited from him but had yet to reciprocate. Damn. Well, he wasn't demanding a lifetime commitment -- even the ring had been declared to be a loan -- only a minor concession on my part. "All right," I said. "I hope I won't wind up regretting this."
"No cause for concern," he told me. "I use only silken lines and silver hooks of the highest quality."
And how was that reassuring?
6.
"Who am I supposed to be," I said, irritated, "the trophy wife?"
We'd left Saint Pol-de-Léon and the coast along with it, settling in Morlais for the night. The next day I discovered that the vaguely louche student, whom anyone might have suspected me of cradle-snatching, had handed me over to this man: a middle-aged, graying gentleman, who walked with a slight but discernible limp. "I think it will speak well of my character that I have won your hand," he informed me, straightening his tie.
"Your character. Right." I have no illusions about my appearance; people are more likely to mistake me for an envoy of the Swedish Bikini Team than an ex-college professor. "Let me guess. Military, retired?"
"Something along that line," he said agreeably. But the lopsided grin was all John Smythe.
"So why are we leaving the suitcases here? Aren't we checking out?"
"We'll need more than one day to do justice to the area, so we'll head back here when it gets dark."
The area in this case was a circuit of churches in rural Finistère made up of Saint Tégonnec, Guimiliau, Lampaul-Guimiliau, Landivisiau, La Roche-Maurice, Landerneau, Le Martyre, Sizun, and Commana; each town had its granite church, dedicated to the town's saint, complete with a bell tower. And all of these churches were characterized by attached enclos paroissiaux, those walled parish enclosures found nowhere else in the country. These had been built between the eleventh to fifteen centuries, and they all shared the same basic elements: a triumphal arch over the entrance; a calvary monument, decorated with sculptured figures and topped by three crosses; and an ossuary intended to hold the bones of the local dead, who were dug up whenever the cemetery had reached capacity. The latter had no doubt been a useful feature during the plague years, but most of them were now used to house small exhibits.
But, beyond the basics, all bets were off. Over the centuries, the churches in the area had competed madly, each attempting to outspend and outdo the others in its own special way. Some had higher bell towers, others more triumphal arches; some had extensive porches, others exotic stonework; some had pulled out the stops on their interiors, with complex stained glass windows and elaborate wood carvings, gilded, painted, polished.
Each church was unique, inside and out. And, naturally, I found every one of them fascinating.
"You were right," I said, when we'd only gotten as far as the church at Guimiliau, with its massive porch and baptismal font. "This is going to take more than a day."
"I'm often right," he said, "yet somehow this goes unremarked."
"Hush." I pulled up the rain-hood on my jacket and turned my attention back to the huge calvary in the yard, which had, according to my guidebook, over two hundred separate figures to enact the variety of scenes.
"Ah, here we are," John said, pointing the cane he'd been dragging about since Morlais at one particular group of figures on the lower level. "The just reward of Catell-Gollet, a precautionary tale for all women."
"Excuse me?" I said, flipping through my guidebook. I hadn't gotten to that section of the monument yet.
"Allow me to elaborate," he said kindly. "Poor Lost Catherine was indulging in a bit on the side, and lied about that in confession. Then she stole a consecrated host for her lover, only to discover that he'd been the devil himself in disguise. Here we see her being dragged into the mouth of hell by an assortment of delighted demons."
"Wonderful," I said, slapping the book closed.
"In another version," he went on blithely, "she disregards all well-meaning advice about propriety and sets out to the dance alone. The only man who steps up to partner this saucy single wench turns out to be -- ah, I know this will come as a shock -- the devil in disguise. He proceeds to dance her off her feet until she expires, at which point we return to this charming tableau."
"Are you having fun?"
"These gothic horrors comprise your favored period, not mine," he pointed out. "In any event, this applies only to would-be strumpets. A respectable married woman such as yourself is exempt."
I kicked him. I realize that I'd agreed not to, but this was a well-meaning gesture on my part to aid his disguise. He had to put that cane to a legitimate use for a while.
"It's not," he said, "a good idea to disable one's driver."
"I've been paying attention," I told him. I sketched out the motions of shifting of that dashboard gearshift. "I think I can drive it if I have to."
"Ah, mutiny is it?" he asked, sounding pleased. "'My hopes do rest in limits of her grace; I weigh no comforts unless she relieve'." If you'd like to tie me up and imprison me as your abject slave, I won't object too strenuously."
That figured. But I condescended to let him continue ferrying me from church to church for several days, and I'd had my nose buried in a guidebook when he took the turn off the expected route.
"Okay," I said, flipping pages, "so next are the spires to die for. Pleyben, and then . . . Le Faouët? With the groovy rood screen?" Yes, I admit that Schmidt has been a hideous influence on me in some respects.
"Groovy," he repeated, shaking his head sadly. "We'll get to those in good time."
"Detour?" I was staring out the window now, thoroughly confused. "We're off the main route."
We were into the Monts d'Arrée now -- and, I surmised, either inside or near the Regional Natural Park of Armorica. The road had taken a steep climb that didn't appear to bother the car, and our surroundings were rock, rock, and more rock, with the occasional thickets of pines, fields of rolling, high grass, and tufts of something like purple gorse. It was rather lovely in that way desolate places often could be. In a magnificent show of patience that he damned sure better have appreciated, I didn't ask where we were going. Eventually, we descended gently into a valley between the hills with a village. "Trogabr," the small roadsign informed me. In comparison with the others, this town was rather small but otherwise typical. The older homes along the main street had those same thick granite walls and steeply sloping roofs as the others; the newer buildings housed a handful of shops.
"Are those sheep?" I said, pushing aside the window panel to peer up at the dots on one of the far hillsides.
"No," John said, pulling up at a building just before we entered the village. "And here we are."
"This is their church?" I couldn't disguise my disappointment. The squat concrete box with its metal roof and rectangular tower was easily the ugliest example of ecclesiastical architecture I'd laid eyes on since I'd left the United States. Its only attractive point was the granite wall that ran alongside it. "Don't tell me that you brought me here to see that?"
"You might," he said, "consider where we are and what you've seen up to now."
Whatever point he was trying to make here was a mystery to me. Instead of explaining, John put the car back into gear and rolled down the main street. We stopped near the café. Like most such places, it served multiple purposes, both diner and the bar. A small group was already installed at the table by the front window, and, no surprise, an open-mouthed silence reigned from moment we walked through the door. I didn't need psychic powers to predict what everyone's favorite topic of conversation was going to be around here for the next month.
John went straight to the counter, and I listened with increasing disbelief to the rapid babble. If I understood this correctly -- he was asking about the curé? But, how fortunate, the man told him, the curé was here waiting for his lunch. Sure enough, at a table along the back wall, a rail-thin, gaunt man on the far side of fifty clad in the usual black-and-collar was hastily rising to his feet. "C'est le professeur," the proprietor announced loudly to no one in particular, and I felt the attention around us sharpening as the introductions were exchanged.
"An authority but so young," the curé marveled in slow, careful English. "Professeur Bliss, I am most happy to make your acquaintance. I am Father Robert. Welcome to Trogabr." God help me, he did look grimly delighted; I gritted my teeth and wondered what, exactly, my advance publicity department had told him that I was an authority on.
"I'm very pleased to meet you as well," I said lamely. I perched on the proffered seat and vowed to tough this out. Then I'd extract retribution from the guilty party. Slowly. Painfully.
"I am surprised still that you want to see our church when there are the others," he said gravely, as I perched on the offered chair. He couldn't possibly be more surprised than I was.
"But we're interrupting your meal," John interjected smoothly, overriding the subsequent polite protests and my own attempts to get a word in edgewise. Then, to my horror, keys were being produced and handed over the table, then Father Robert was most sincerely hoping I'd have a wonderful visit, then John was squiring me back out the door. The buzz of conversation kicked in before it had even shut.
And I still had no idea what was going on, beyond the obvious: John was acquainted with these people somehow, and he was using me to con them -- again. Visions of Karlsholm and poor Gustaf Jonsson, upon whom John had foisted me as a long-long cousin, were dancing in my head.
"Hold it. Stop!" I hissed at him, as soon as we were out of window-range. The only thing saving him from another healthy kick was my certainty that we had an unseen, fascinated audience. "Explain what the hell that was all about."
"What do you mean? Professor Bliss wishes to see their fine local church, and everyone's more than willing to let her," John replied breezily. "They rarely get visitors in these parts, you understand."
"Why is Professor Bliss the last one to know it?" I demanded.
"Because," he told me patiently, "Professor Bliss promised me in Saint Malo that she would wait for her answers."
Oh. "But those are the keys," I pointed out, feeling dazed."Other churches have loaned us keys when a guide wasn't on hand," he reminded me. "And I, for one, didn't wish to interrupt the man's meal on our account. As I'd said."
"No, those are his keys," I insisted. "He handed over the key to his church, to his office -- is that a car key?"
"So it is," he said, examining the ring. "Well, not everyone has your mistrustful, cynical nature, my darling," he told me serenely.
"My god," I groaned, "what have you been telling these people?" I'd heard "Monsieur Bliss" clear as day back there; the only one who'd be left hanging out to dry was me. I'd been led around just as deftly as everyone else, even though I knew better. "You know what? I don't care what's going on. I've had enough." I started jerking at the ring, trying to get it off my finger." Whatever you're trying to pull on these people, I refuse to play your shill, or whatever you guys call it. I am not cooperating. I am going to go back in there and try to apologize."
"Do restrain your impulsive leaps for a moment." His hand closed over mine. "Our car is still sitting back there on the street, so it's not as though we haven't left a suitable hostage in exchange." Before I could ponder the resale value of my toothbrush, he went on, "You're one of those tedious sorts who prefers to see and decide for yourself, rather than simply taking my word for it."
"You're saying we're not here for them, we're here for me?" I breathed in, trying to stay calm. "Because there's something I want to see."
"Good lord, whyever else?" He had the temerity to sound a little insulted. "All else being equal, I'd rather be contemplating heathen temples on the temperate hillsides of Greece. Not trudging about in the rain, courting a head cold, to view these endless examples of morbid ecclesiastical excess." He sighed hugely. "To be honest -- and yes, I do have a vague understanding of what that entails," he said, eyeing me, "my sincerest hope has been that a surfeit of cathedrals might induce you to foreswear them ever after."
"Not a chance," I retorted. Well, whatever he was up to, he seemed pretty confident it wouldn't result in me refusing to speak to him again later.
"Well," he said mildly, "it was worth the attempt. Not to mention the unspeakable hardship of enduring over a week in your company."
"I noticed how ill-used you looked last night."
"It has ever been the sad fate of man, to fall into the grasp of insatiable women." He was piffling on with examples that ranged from Calypso to praying mantises, and I was ignoring him, when we came to the wall of the churchyard.
"This is a lot older," I said to myself, running my hand over the granite. Under the moss and lichen, a carving of vines ran the length, about shoulder height; it had to be centuries older than the church. When we'd passed through the wide, uneven opening, it only took one quick glance at the graveled space before me with its tidy patches of flowers, to send my thoughts veering in a new direction. "Was this was another parish close?" I turned and took in the surroundings, comparing it with churches we'd seen. It wasn't nearly as large as the others, but . . . "That shed against the side of the church was the ossuary. That mound over there couldn't be --"
"The tower, yes," John said. "I believe it's relatively intact under all that shrubbery. If you've been longing to snuggle architecture that's normally far beyond your reach, now's your opportunity."
He didn't have to tell me twice. I'd already trotted over to shove aside bushes and tear at vines; I came face to face after a few moments with the nose of a smug ox, one of the four evangelists. The more I pried away, the more I could mentally compare it with the others. "Okay, these additions are gothic, I think," I was muttering to myself, "but this basic shape is earlier than . . . why on earth haven't they tried to fix this?" I sat back on my heels and answered my own question. "They can't afford it."
John settled himself comfortably on a square block of granite that had once been part of a wall; he busied himself with lighting a cigarette. "This isn't the wealthiest part of the country these days, you realize. They set aside the rubble for another day."
"The massive lump over there under all those old tarps could be the calvary."
"No idea, but you may be right."
"So what happened here?" I waved limply to encompass the damaged enclosure and the ugly cement box squatting beside it.
"The region's unlucky proximity to England," he said. He blew a thin steam of smoke into the persistent drizzle. "As for the particulars in this case, I don't know. A demonstration for uncooperative locals, a bit of vandalism by bored troops,' he shrugged, "it hardly matters now. It's not an uncommon tale -- far more important monuments than this have suffered worse fates. You can ask the curé, if you're curious. He did say he'd catch up with us after he'd finished his lunch if we hadn't brought back the keys by then."
I knew that wartime occupations were hell on architecture, but I always found these signs of senseless pettiness disturbing on a fundamental level. This had stood for centuries . . . I gritted my teeth, and wiped my palms on my jeans. "So next up is the ossuary."
The ossuary, which wasn't nearly as large as the others we'd seen, wasn't locked. Inside was nothing but dank darkness, a dusty stone floor -- and in the corner beneath the small barred window, a figure squatting in the corner. I shrieked in surprise and backpedaled right into John.
"Oof, easy," he said, grabbing me before I could knock him over. "Surely you're used to him by now."
"Used to -- what the hell is that?"
"The Ankou," he said, "'Death with his mace petrific, cold and dry'. Our most recent encounter with him was that carving on the ossuary at La Roche-Maurice, as I recall."
"Oh." The local version of death personified. "I've never seen one this large," I said sheepishly. I approached the statue gingerly. This was a life-sized figure of painted wood; the pale skull peering out beneath the flat, wide-brimmed hat had an incongruous pipe hanging from his toothy grin. One bony ankle rested on the opposite knee, and a scythe lay across his lap, clutched in a skeletal hand.
"So another pleasant surprise."
"Not pleasant exactly, but definitely . . . interesting." This figure had another odd feature: It wasn't seated on a chair, but sideways on an animal, mostly hidden by the folds of its cloak. "A donkey?" I wondered aloud, tilting my head for a better view.
John made an amused noise. "You'll know exactly what it is once we've been the in the church, I assure you. More bits to see inside." John smiled agreeably, and held out his arm. "Shall we have a look?"
At first glance, the inside seemed as unprepossessing as the outside, and they'd installed pews here, padded for less austere modern posteriors. But the "more bits" turned out to be many of the wood carvings from the original structure -- they must have had the good sense to tuck them away before the building had been toppled.
"A goat?" I leaned forward to peer at the ledge of the right retable, the decorated panels that flanked the altar. "Okay, that is definitely a goat."
"The legend of the local saint, Henboc'h." John said, looking over my shoulder. "One of the many farm-league fellows hereabouts who didn't make the cut for the majors. Most of them have highly specialized areas of expertise."
"So here's the guy with a goat," I said, following along the tale spelled out by the carvings, "and . . . well, after that, he seems to star in a miniature manual on goat husbandry."
"And one might conclude that the evidence of his sanctity was his unparalleled ability to make them behave."
"But down here it's just the goats by themselves, and they seem to be . . . oh, wow." I'd never seen anything like this in a church before. I blushed. "But that would be a modern misinterpretation of this, ah, symbolic tableau, of course."
"Of course." John agreed blandly. He patted me on the head. "Again, you could always ask about it. A fascinating article just waiting to be written."
"Fascinating," I echoed. I tried to picture Father Robert gravely, painstakingly explaining the symbolic significance. I voted nay.
That was the left retable. The right was devoted entirely to Biblical tales, and all of the figures were, as customary, dressed like typical Bretons of the period -- merchants, farmers, priests, lords. But the goats had strayed over to this side as well; they danced and frolicked in the background or alongside the figures in each scene. Even in the Last Supper, the face of a tiny kid peeped out from under the tablecloth. And I could recognize the same talented carver's hand in all of the other carved pieces as well.
Here's the thing. Manuscript illustrations and architectural decorations from the Middle Ages do have flashes of humor -- or even snide political commentary, as with that send-up of Henry IV on the Saint Thegonnec calvary -- but for the most part they were intended to be beautiful, devotional, and educational. But this church was something else again. This tiny parish hadn't even tried to compete in opulence; rather, they'd wandered down a goat-track of pure whimsy. I'm as passionately devoted to medieval art as any normal person, but one thing I'd never come to associate with it was adorable. I had a wistful desire to gather it all up and take it home; instead, I had to content myself with a few photos that couldn't do it justice.
But I could understand why none of this had merited a mention in any guidebooks. The church itself was an eyesore. No one looking at it from the outside could ever guess what it held. I straightened back to my feet. "So if this was built over the old foundations, the crypt should be the basement."
"Deduction correct," John said jingling the key set.
"You already know what's down there." I've never been very fond of underground places; after a taste of being buried alive once, my dislike had edged into a phobia. So this wasn't the time to play games with me. "Was the screaming back there that hilarious?"
"What? No, nothing like that," he assured me. "The reliquary they trot out for the pardon each summer, among other things." He nudged my shoulder. "It's those double-doors over there. Would you like me to go down first?"
He'd offered, so I let him -- the monsters could munch him first, and I might even applaud. But the stone stairs that led downward turned out to be unexpectedly broad and well-lit, and the crypt itself also fell short of expectations. The heavy vaulting overhead was hung with rows of perfectly ordinary fluorescent fixtures, lighting a wide room about the size of the church above us, with thick stone columns down the center. It had linoleum flooring, and plaster walls hung with the pardon banners. It could have been an ordinary church basement in Minnesota.
The wall nearest the stair had a set of deep wooden shelves, one of which held a painted wooden box in pride of place. "This is the reliquary?" I examined the designs. Sure enough, more goats.
"I know you'll be disappointed to hear it, but none of your exotic hearts, or lungs, or other body parts this time," John said. "I understand that it holds a coil of miraculous lead rope that has shown amazing curative properties for livestock."
I was still examining this when I heard the scrape of metal behind me; I turned to see what he was doing and realized for the first time that the far wall wasn't a wall at all. Huge wooden panels were slotted into grooves in the floor, and John was forcing one of them aside. Beyond it was space.
"There's a switch on the wall there," John said. He dusted off his hands. "As you can see, the builders here evidently enjoyed making large holes in rock. Certainly there's a great deal more space underground than above. This goes back quite far, so I'd recommend staying here in the lighted area." He gestured. "So here you are: Everything you need to furnish your medieval rural household, handily collected together in one place. Several households, I would think."
I flicked on the light and couldn't help a small gasp. The space beyond seemed to be filled with furniture and crates. Stacks of large, heavy, dark furniture of the kind I'd never seen outside a museum or a private collection. I stood there blinking at it stupidly. God only knew what was farther back.
"But what --?" To my ears, my voice sounded as cracked and thin as my thoughts at the moment. "What is all this doing down here?"
"Well," he said, "they did use this as a shelter during the war, but I'd hazard that locals from this region have been stowing their valuables down here for quite a long time. Centuries, perhaps. Though, judging from the damage to some of the pieces, the farmhouses they originally furnished are likely long gone." He queried the ceiling plaintively, "But wait . . . where are the usual complaints? The accusations concerning my motives? Could it be . . . this falls securely within her field?"
I spared him an acid glance. For a few more seconds, I hesitated. John didn't normally bother with pieces this large, not when the world was filled with plenty of smaller articles that were easier to turn into profit, but.. . . "Actually," I said, "furniture authentication is a very specialized line of work --"
"As I'm well aware," he said. "To answer the question you're not asking, No, I've made no contributions to this particular pile. Satisfied?"
"Well. Yes, fine." I looked over my shoulder at the stairs guiltily. "Do you think anyone would mind if I --?"
John snorted, clearly amused. "If anyone minded, we wouldn't be carrying around their keys, would we? Have at it."
I found the missing canopy to the baptismal font upstairs behind a stack of chests, and I leaned over to tell John. He was fiddling with something on the lower side of an enclosed bed, a huge, box-like structure standing against the far wall. I walked over and prodded him with my toe, "Hey. What are you doing? And do you think they have any clue what they've really got down here?"
"Well," he said, checking his watch, "you might ask our host more about that. He should be along --" As if he were answering his stage cue, Father Robert was calling down the stairs to us.
"At my age, I am not happy with those stairs," Father Robert told us glumly. He'd settled himself, upright and stiff, upon one of the storage space's carved chests, the wide book he'd carried down with him laying in his lap. I blinked -- in this light, he really did look remarkably like that Ankou in ossuary. The skeleton had had more expression, though. "This church is one of those in my care now. However, it is a secret that I am most fond of this one." His face cracked briefly for the thinnest of smiles. "It is charmante, I think."
No argument from me there. "Completely unexpected," I admitted, without elaborating on the full extent of that.
"Hmm." I thought that sounded pleased, but it was hard to tell -- this man could make a killing at poker. "I am happy that you could visit. Monsieur Bliss had told me on his previous visit in the spring that his wife would find this of much interest."
"I try to keep abreast of all my darling's interests," John said artlessly. At that moment, I was genuinely torn between kissing Monsieur Bliss or killing him. I settled for ignoring him.
Father Robert was staring gloomily into the unlighted depths. "I am here since 1968, but one day I retire. I want to do more for this parish before that time," he said. He made a curt wave at the ceiling. "The church in this condition, it was not intended to be permanent, you understand. Also, the Regional Natural Park is recent, and there are the regulations now. Also, the questions of money . . ." He began to drum his fingers on the book.
I didn't want to harp on the obvious, but any one of the enclosed beds down here could foot the bill for a lot of repair work. "Is that the inventory?" I said.
"Ah, yes," he said, handing me the book. The leather was crumbling on the spine, so I opened it carefully. The most recent addition had been a chair, five years ago. "They tried to keep a record of what is down here, but I do not believe it to be complete. The space here, it is very extensive. It dates before the original church, I believe. There is a second entrance on the hill behind. That one has been closed off since the last century."
"Earlier than the church?" I stared at him, turning over the implications of that.
"This has been used to store the crops, and the people have used it for other things also." His deadpan shaded into thoughtful. "I have wondered whether a small exhibit . . . but it has always been the matter of how to go about this."
"I can think of dozens of museums, including ours, who'd love to have a shot at this place for their own collections," I assured him. "But even if you kept everything, I don't see why the museums here wouldn't be willing to advise you on evaluation and arrangements," I said gently. "Another exhibit in this area would be an additional tourism draw, so they'd benefit, too."
He nodded once, curtly. "Yes, I thought that as well. We have made such inquiries." Now I couldn't mistake the irritation. "It is not clear who to approach. They are very busy, it seems."
I shifted my gaze away, disconcerted. Because I knew exactly what he was talking about -- I'm a past master of the brush-off myself. We get calls and letters all the time from people who want us to pick through their trash. Everyone is convinced that the junk in their attic from Great Aunt Gertrude is secretly worth millions. Schmidt has a bad habit of dumping all of those inquiries on me.
I wouldn't have spared this place a glance myself if my chauffeur hadn't shanghaied me.
"De toute façon," he said, "very few of the tourists come to this village, so it has been my pleasure. Also, I have read your articles. Très intéressant."
My articles? "Er, thank you very much," I told him. I shot a glance at John, who'd become fascinated with a spot on the ceiling. No pressure tactics here, oh no.Well, why not? A little intercession on their behalf from the Assistant Director of the National Museum in Munich couldn't hurt. I had a folder in my handbag that was filled with cards from museum staff from this part of the country. It wasn't as though I didn't have the time to make a few calls, not when my job description was "Whatever Schmidt asks me to do -- unless I don't feel like doing it."
That was what I was thinking to myself as I leafed through the book, squinting at the spidery script of the later entries, while John chatted amiably with Father Robert about local agriculture. Or at least that's what they'd been discussing when I'd stopped paying strict attention. Suddenly, my ears were assaulted by a terrifying, wheezing death-rattle.
It was the sound of Father Robert laughing. "Mais je l'ai trouvé très romantique quand même," he told John. "La Passion de l'Ombre, c'est tout à fait merveilleux."
7.
Through the remainder of our church tour through Pleyben, Le Fouët, and Plouay, I'd been mightily distracted by sulking, and by the time I collapsed on that blessed bed in Vannes, I was ready to tackle the problem head on. "All right. Leaving aside the unexpected horror of stumbling over Schmidt's spiritual twin --"
"She has many devoted fans, doesn't she?" John peered at me from beneath the towel he was using to scrub his head.
"And the even less thrilling revelation that you've read all of that woman's books, too --" He grinned at me, and I scowled back. I finished stiffly, "The main issue here is that those people had this odd belief that I'd be coming before I even got there."
"The powers of prayer?"
"Give me a break -- he'd read all of my articles!"
"Yes, so you see there's no reason for jealousy," he told me reassuringly. "Ah, writers are so sensitive."
"I'm not jeal -- don't change the subject!" I had worked myself into a healthy seethe now. "Not only that, but I got the singular impression that 'Monsieur Bliss' had led them to believe I was going to be championing their cause."
"Well," he said comfortably, "you did tell him that you'd put in a few good words for them where it might be helpful. I hardly think that they would be expecting a hands-on approach."
"Hands-on approach?"
"Taking in hell hounds and feline fiends is one thing, entire villages is another," John said, dismissive. "At any rate, we can look into the cathedral here tomorrow, then the stone monuments. The pilgrimage portion will end with Quimper." He added in pious tones, "It's vitally important to finish the Tro-Breizh once you've started, else you'll have to finish it in the afterlife, one coffin's length every seven years."
"Look," I said, ignoring the prattle, "it's not just out of the question, it's beyond the realm of possibility. I work in a different country. They don't even know me, so why would they trust me over someone local?"
"Your professional demeanor and bright-eyed, bouncing American enthusiasm -- and, er, other attributes -- offset that quite well. You radiate an aura of winning sincerity. If I were still in the game, you'd be useful to have along indeed."
"If?" That reminded me of something I'd forgotten. "What the hell did you put in your coat pocket back there?"
He blinked, but recovered instantly. "What d'you mean?"
I knew it. He hadn't been expecting that. "I can tell when you're trying to shift my attention somewhere else, you know." That wasn't strictly true, but I'd just happened to be leaning over that chest in time to see him tucking something into the inside pocket of his overcoat by that enclosed bed. "So what was it?""Nothing of concern at the moment," he said, sounding annoyed.
I steepled my fingers. "All right. I only have the car and your suitcase to toss, right? Not a lot of territory. It's doable."
"I meant what I said." He dropped down to sit on the bed beside me. "I'd every intention of discussing the matter later, so leave it for then. You've been wandering in a haze all day as it is, so I'd prefer that you devote your thoughts to more pressing concerns."
"What exactly do you consider a more pressing concer -- oh."
"Exactly. Do pay attention."
I shoved his hand away. "I'm going to be blunt here. I'm not even interested in that when I know you're lying to me again."
"But I'm not," he said, reapplying himself to work. "You see through my every clever ruse, so there's no point, is there?"
"You're such a liar -- ah."
"'Therefore I lie with her, and she with me'," he said, "'And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be'."
8.
"Pointe du Raz," John said, with a sweep of his arm, "the farthest point west in continental Europe. Somewhere beyond this sea is your own, your native land."
"Very nice. I'm still hungry," I pointed out. Grand gestures are all well and good, but (as I'd been bringing up for the past half-hour), breakfast had been a long time and several cities ago. My tour-guide, who'd emerged from the hotel in Vannes as his normal, blond self at last, had bought food in Quimper after I'd racked up my final cathedral, Saint Corentin. I wanted to eat. From what I could see, this must-see of the dedicated sightseer consisted of a parking lot and a gravel road.
"I'd expected better than bellowing for Brotzeit from someone with such an overactive imagination," he said, tugging on the parking brake. "Schmidt has been a bad influence. You have no romance left in your soul."
I snorted. "Schmidt's so brimming with the 'romantical feelings' we need mops. But I'll think about acquiring some after there's food in my stomach."
"As you're the most concerned with the food's welfare, I'll graciously allow you to carry it." I didn't mind being porter for the day again; the sun had finally decided to put in another guest appearance, and the wind wasn't that cold. I wasn't unhappy to be there.
We crunched down the graveled road toward the cliff, and John contented himself with strolling along beside me with a tarp. We stood aside to let a few helmeted cyclists labor their way past us, and John pointed out where he'd like to set up our base camp. Wind aside, there were worse places for an impromptu picnic.
While he fussed with the bags, I hiked closer to the edge of the cliff to look out at the lighthouse. Below me I could hear shouts, and saw a few teenagers picking their way downward toward the Atlantic, which was bashing itself furiously on the rocks. I have certain problems with underground places, which was why I'd firmly struck that tumulus at Carnac off our sightseeing list, but high places don't bother me a great deal -- I'm fond of climbing on things. Need the wall of your compound scaled in a daring escape attempt? I'm available at reasonable rates.
"So I want to go down there, too," I announced after I'd returned back to the spot where John had dropped a tarp on the springy turf plants. I collapsed down beside him. "They've got life preservers fastened to the cliff face, so that means they expect people to go down."
"I am unsurprised that you draw the wrong conclusion from that message," he said. "Please bear in mind that I've no intention of diving in to haul out your corpse."
I stuck out my tongue. I picked up one of the baguettes and idly bounced it off my toe while I watched him root through the collection of bags. "What're you looking for?" I asked finally.
"I was certain there was a knife here somewhere . . ."
"Oh, should have said something. I've got a Swiss army knife in my purse," I said, reaching for it.
"I thought you wanted to eat this week," he said. He tends to exaggerate like that. It only took me eight minutes to find it.
"What is this?" he said wonderingly, picking up one of the items I'd dumped to get it out of the way.
"Cat toy," I said, snatching it out of his hand and stuffing it back into my purse.
"And these?" He poked at the pile warily.
"Electrician's tape, seam ripper, tire-pressure gage for my Audi, and none-of-your-business. Hands off." I began to return my myriad useful items to my bag while he occupied himself with the bread. "Come the revolution," I crooned to myself, "you decadent types will regret not being a practical peasant like me."
"Au contraire. Come the revolution, I shall be far way and gathering speed while you're still wedging in the kitchen sink."
He munched away on bread and paté while I continued to scoop loose items back where they belonged. Then my fingers wrapped around something unfamiliar. I picked it up, and turned it over in my hands. It was something longish, narrow, and heavy wrapped in a piece of padded cloth. It felt like a flashlight, but mine was smaller. "This isn't mine," I decided.
"I wonder that you can tell," he remarked dryly. "But you're correct. My addition to your fascinating collection."
"Oh?" I unwrapped the cloth -- and caught my breath. I'd never seen anything like this before, not outside a museum or private collection. It was a cylinder, and grimy as it was, I could tell that it was gold. The surface was covered with an intricate, swirling design that brought to mind the roadside calvaries. Gold wires had been carefully worked into imitations of chain-stitching and fused over the surface to make it resemble the decorations on those women's costumes in the museums. On what must have been the cap, four small cabochon stones had been fixed. I rubbed one, and saw red, both literally and figuratively.
I knew where this must have come from.
However, this was John, after all, so it pays to be certain. I resisted the urge to press in a thumbnail into the metal to test it; I had a more accurate method for authenticating this particular piece. I hauled myself to my feet, faced the drop-off to the cliff, and jerked my arm back into my best first-baseman's wind-up. I'd done my time with the summer softball league when I was in high school, so my best wasn't bad.
One glance told me all I needed to know. John's face had gone gray.
Score for the home team. Satisfied, I dropped back down to the tarp. "So it's real," I said. "Huh."
"What's this?" he said acidly. "This past week, I'd gained the impression that you art historians could feel the aura of authenticity through your fingertips. Was I wrong?"
I tutted at him, and went back to examining it. "It doesn't really resemble the predominate trends of the period."
"No, it doesn't. Hence additional value," he said. "However, if you really don't want it --" He reached for it.
I cradled it to my ample bosom, ready to shriek in my most maidenly fashion for the other tourists wandering around in our vicinity. But his movement lapsed into a resigned shrug; then he stretched out on his back and tucked his hands behind his head, turning his attention to a deep scrutiny of the cloud patterns.
One of the week's minor mysteries was now solved. "It's too corroded to take off the cap. I wonder if there's anything inside?"
"No idea," he said, with a trace of sulkiness. "But I'd recommend a proper cleaning before attempting it."
I nodded absently, then I leaned over to ruffle his hair. "Do I get to hear the rest? How did you know it was there?"
That was when he told me the story of a friend of his ("We were at school together"), who'd had an extended sojourn in that same village when he was quite young, courtesy misunderstood directions, a mother's stubborn refusal to turn back, a father's placid disinclination to insist otherwise, and, ultimately, an engine that decided the matter by going on strike. "It was not," he informed me gravely, "uncommon for those parents to find themselves such situations. You might even say it was typical. Or so I am given to understand."
"I see."
"Yes, well, our intrepid hero found himself bored and at loose end for a rather extended period of time, and, er, amused himself in the usual fashion."
"In other words, this would be a little fiend whose mum wasn't controlling him?"
"Er, one might put it in those words."
"One did put it in those words, I seem to recall."
"Oh. Yes. Fair enough."
The young fiend, or rather friend, in question had, while prying where he shouldn't have been in the first place, noticed that a panel well within his reach was slightly off-center and slightly loose, and had in the natural course of events found something tucked within it of interest.
"And what did he do then?" I prompted.
"He put it back. He adjusted the panel so that it served the purpose for which it had been intended. He felt disinclined to share this particular discovery with anyone else." John sighed. "Or so I am informed. Hence my own more recent visit to the environs, to discern whether this tale of youthful daring-do was still relevant to modern concerns."
"I . . . see." I thought maybe I did, too. I could understand the appeal of having a secret like this, something that no one else knew. "Your friend was very kind, putting it back where he'd found it."
"Was he?" he asked. "He was being dragged about by parents who'd no doubt have questioned his latest acquisition."
"Still, I think so." That this 'friend' had never gone back later to waft it away for a quick sale also said something, but I wasn't sure what just yet. That I was sitting here now holding it in my hands said something else in addition.
"So now you're a patron of small villages in the middle of nowhere."
"Not as such." He laughed. "I think of myself as a patron of professors who look smashing in negligees."
"And how many professors would that be?"
"At latest count? One. Should I be working harder?"
"Your continuing existence depends on your laxity in this matter."
"I'll take that under advisement."
I set the cylinder aside, and went back to chewing reflectively on my piece of baguette. "Now I wonder if anything else was hidden in that furniture," I mused aloud.
"Who can say? This was once a fairly wealthy region -- enough to indulge in the sort of competitive church building that you've seen." John shrugged. "In any event, I believe you understand the full parameters of the problem. These days, the mere hint of a find sets people to digging up fields and draining bogs. Objects such as these are worth a great deal more than any furniture that might be hiding them." He gave me a long, hard look. "That Schrank that darling Friedl and her inamorato Freddy chopped to splinters in Bad Steinbach might serve as an excellent exempla. You seemed to be shocked by that outcome; I can't pretend that I was."
I groaned -- point taken. That Schrank stood in my own home only after the painstaking restoration efforts of Herr Müller. I'd doomed that particular antique to a future as firewood by incautiously expressing too much interest in front of two greedy people who were trying to locate a cache of gold jewelry. Gold in any form tends to trigger a descent of the buzzards. "If I return this to them . . . they'd want to display it. They don't have anything like the security to keep it safe."
"Naturally. They wouldn't have to worry about it for much longer after that, no," he said, finishing my thought. "The next time it disappears will be the last time." He pulled out his wallet and sorted out a slip of paper. "No one is aware that it was there, so I foresee no difficulty with you simply taking it home to enjoy. To that end, here you are: the receipt for your find. Provenance established, all above board and proper."
I stared at the paper. I'd seen it before; it was the receipt from that junk shop in Rennes for the leather case. The proportions weren't exactly the same, but if I dissembled the leather and discarded what had been underneath, no one would question it. People were always finding valuable articles and rare documents tucked into the backs of old frames or lining old trunks. This wouldn't be any different would it? The light dawned, a harsh, unforgiving glare.
"No, I -- wait." I rubbed my forehead, trying to sort this out. I wasn't trying to rationalize keeping this myself, though I knew he was right about everything else. But if I kept it, how did that make me any better than one of the thieves who might steal from a display? And if there wasn't some extra special penalty involved somewhere for stealing from a church, there ought to be. "This isn't yours to give."
"Isn't it? If anyone else had known it was there, they'd have taken it out long ago. And I do assure you no one will think to verify the small details. Whether the fit with that case is exact will matter not in the least. In these instances, what they wish to believe matters far more."
"That's . . . not the point." What mattered more to me was finding pieces. The glow of discovery. The authentication. Releasing the first journal articles. Even if I'd found the Riemenschneider reliquary by myself, without any witnesses, I wouldn't have spirited it off for myself. The same would have been true with the Trojan gold or any of that lost horde in Karlsholm. However . . . maybe if I were truly being honest with myself, I'd admit to that covetous thrill of holding something like this in my hands. Yes, I did work in a museum, but even I couldn't indiscriminately fling open the cases and finger the displays whenever I liked. Not if I wanted to keep my job, which I very much did. But this particular feeling wasn't one I was proud of; boiled down to essentials, it was the same motivation of the private collectors who paid people like John to steal the contents of our museums.
So I suppose that it came as no surprise that he'd recognized it in me; he'd seen it before in so many others. Which led me to an even less pleasant notion. I shifted around so that I had a good view of John. "Is this supposed to be some sort of test? Is that what you're doing?"
"A test?" He looked surprised, and, for once, I thought it might not have been feigned. "No. Not at all. But you might say that I am curious."
"Curious about what?"
"About you," he said simply.
"Me?" I squeaked. "Unlike some people, I'm a totally open book!"
"Are you?" he said, looking away. "On the face of it, you're honest, hardworking, loyal to a fault, and kind to dumb animals who've done sod all to deserve it." John wasn't particularly fond of either Caesar or Clara, and the latter had made it clear her feelings were bloodily mutual. "But I've also observed that you won't hesitate to pass yourself off under false pretenses or fabricate tales or put the screws to others when it's to your benefit."
For a moment I was furious -- but only for a moment. He really had seen me at my worst. I'd told John exactly how I'd gotten Schmidt to offer me a job. I'd forced an admission out of John that he hadn't been willing to make -- without offering up the consolation prize of those same words from myself. He was right, wasn't he?
I found myself surreptitiously twisting that ring on my finger. How well did I really know him? I knew that I wanted him -- we'd had several trysts in which we barely left the hotel rooms. Otherwise, the most time we'd spent in each other's company we'd both been in varying degrees of mortal peril; even now, my memories seemed to have a suspect sheen of adrenaline-fueled glamour. This past week had been the longest peril-free period I'd ever spent in his company. Hadn't I felt relieved to find out that we got on well together, bar the usual squabbling?
If that was the case for me, why had I assumed it would be different for him?
"So at times one wonders how you look at the world," he was saying. "There's no passing or failing grade involved with that, either way." Then he picked up my hand and lifted it to his lips. "Well, I leave it to you. As for the rest, "'You by me, And I by you; this is your hand in mine, And side by side we sit: all's true.'" he recited. "There now. I think that much we can agree on."
9.
To be perfectly honest, it came as no surprise to me when I woke up in that hotel room in Brest alone. On the table I found paperwork informing me that I'd been booked to join a group tour to Plougastel-Daoulas that left not long after checkout.
What I did not find was a receipt for the hotel room. John had cut and run again without settling the bill -- consider it his version of a sentimental gesture. In the realm of small favors, at least I wasn't being rousted from bed by the police this time.
As for the tour, it was filled by an Australian singles club -- not one of them under the age of 55. Once again I had reason to silently curse my benefactor: I found myself uncomfortably popular with the male members of our expedition. That is, until I acquired a pair of short, bustling bodyguards. The Mrs. Benton and McDonal took it upon themselves to adopt and defend my overly-patted derrière for the afternoon.
"They're all beasts, of course," Mrs. McDonal informed me placidly.
"Husband couldn't make it, dearie?" Mrs. Benton asked me sympathetically.
"What?" That was when I realized that I was still wearing that damned ring of his. "No," I told them, "he had to skip town in a hurry." Mrs. McDonal nodded wisely, and Mrs. Benton looked confused. I didn't bother to expand on that.
As for Plougastel-Daoulas, it has another spectacular example of the sort of calvary monuments that we'd seen in each of those walled enclosures, hence the sightseeing jaunt. With over one hundred and eighty figures and even more elements, it was worth a special trip. I assumed that was why he'd left me the ticket.
But I couldn't help thinking about the one that had gotten away -- the calvary under that tarp in Trogabr that I hadn't gotten to see. I wondered what it must look like. And that, in turn, brought forcibly back to mind the additional weight in my purse. So I hadn't really been listening to our guide's indifferent, droning lecture when Mrs. Benton beside me muttered, "My word, that's not pretty, is it?"
"Quite nasty," Mrs. McDonal agreed with her serenely. "No doubt it was made by a man."
"What is?" I asked them, blinking. As one, they pointed to one particular group of figures. I stared at it, confused, then it dawned on me what I was looking at: another rendition of Catell-Gollet, which I'd last seen on the Guimiliau monument. Here was Catherine being towed into a hellmouth again.
So that ticket had been another kind salute to my favorite era after all. I vowed to come up with a suitable, artistic revenge.
I found an open seat on an international flight that had stopped over for refueling, and I headed back for Munich that evening. There were other towns I would have loved to have visited, and I knew that no one was expecting me back yet. I wasn't sure why the allure of sightseeing had dimmed; normally, I'm happy enough to be a single tourist without anyone else's complaints and demands to distract me.
No one around me was awake, no one noticed when I took off the ring and dropped it into my purse.
Rosanna fought her captors spiritedly but to no avail as she was dragged before the presence of the Dark Lady herself, eyes cold above the glinting spectacles that had descended down her nose. The excess of marabou teased Rosanna's nostrils, and she sneezed ferociously, repeatedly, and it was through the watering eyes of sinusitis and despair that she glared at her fated rival.
"Take her to . . . The Chamber," the Dark Lady intoned. Before she could mount any resistance, Rosanna found herself whisked into a vast, shadowy, dusty space. She combed aside her attractively disheveled tresses, only to discern, as her gaze grew acclimated to the somber light, the towering, teetering piles of tomes, doubtless filled with the eldritch lore of the ages which had enabled the Dark Lady to compose her screeds of unendurable banality. "If you ever wish to be held within the muscular arms of your swain again," the villainess commanded, "you will organize all of these volumes in alphabetical order upon those shelves! And then --" Rosanna gasped in purest horror as the woman flung up her hand for it was filled with small, rectangular sheets of parchment -- "you will record, for each work, the particulars of its author, title, and publication on these mystical cards and file them by author, title, and subject," she pointed a well-manicured, sharpened claw to a cabinet filled with narrow drawers, "there."
"No," Rosanna cried out, her slender fingers clutched before her generous bosom, "no!"
10.
Even though I'd successfully evaded her visit, I couldn't escape the rave reviews of the woman's latest work. They were being dinned in my ears nonstop from the moment I'd arrived back at the museum.
-- Anton Schmidt, Director of the National Museum: "She is sehr extraordinary, the bee's ankles!"
-- Gerda, Secretary to the Director: "Competent, organized" and "her handbag is more excellently equipped."-- Karl Feder, Inspector, Munich police: "An admirable woman and most attractive indeed."There was only one less enthusiastic review in the bunch.
-- Karl, Janitor of the National Museum: "A cat lover, I think."
"It's the 'bee's knees' Schmidt, and nobody says that anymore." I sighed. While I'd been off barreling around the country on the other side of Europe, the National Museum had been hit by a gang of crooks intent on nabbing a few of the most valuable, one-of-a-kind oddities from the Graf von und zu Gefenstein toy collection. As for who'd sponsor that kind of caper, working at this museum had educated me years ago that private toy collectors could be just as nuts as any other antiquities fanatic.
"It was our great fortune, Vicky, to have someone with such honed detective instincts! She knew that something was not right immediately," Schmidt burbled. "They have not all been apprehended, but none of the exhibits were lost in the end. Is this not wunderbar, as I have said?"
"Yeah, it's great Schmidt, great." I leafed through my now-autographed paperback of Passion of the Dark, and winced at the inscription. It said, simply, "Good luck" followed by an indecipherable scrawl.
"Yes yes, as you see, she also personally has signed your book," Schmidt said, beaming. "It is a charming thought, nicht?"
It was my book, too -- the ratty, penciled-over copy I keep locked in the lower drawer of my desk for cribbing from when I'm stuck for inspiration with Rosanna. I didn't have the heart to tell Schmidt that the sentiment was most likely intended as ironic. As it was, I was only putting up with Schmidt's hovering because it fended off Gerda, who'd been seized by a similar desire to share, only hers was a burning missionary zeal to reorganize the museum's entire reference library "for the enhancement of the productivity." No corner of our castle had been overlooked by the romance novelist's evil eye.
That night, at the time when Caesar usually takes me for my mad gallop through the neighborhood, I steeled myself against his pouting and pushed him into the backyard instead. So when the phone rang, I was standing by to pounce on it before the answering machine could take the call.
"What the hell were you thinking?" I yelled. "That I wouldn't find out?"
"'Hello' has already gone out of fashion," said the sneaky bastard. "I'm behind the times."
For the next several minutes I made it very, very clear to him why I was somewhat upset.
"Ah yes. The difficulty, from their perspective, is that you possess an uncanny instinct for stumbling over and spoiling others' best-laid plans. You've become rather well known for it in some circles. You might be surprised."
"Oh really? Gosh, I'm filled with remorse."
"Yes, I'm familiar with your caring spirit," he said. "In any event, they seemed convinced that you'd interfere in some unpredictable fashion with what ought to have been a fairly routine operation. That's why they approached me with the proposition of spiriting you off to parts . . . elsewhere."
I knew it. "You liar. You told me that you weren't --""I owed favors to a few past associates, that's the extent of it," he cut me off. "And I assure you that no laws were broken in the making of that trip, at least not by me."
"I think you're forgetting something here."
"Not at all. You have the receipt, don't you?"
While I was choking on my outraged response, he went on, "'Let fortune's wheel at random rin.' I made no promises or guarantees that you'd leave the museum. If you hadn't intercepted the postcard, if you hadn't interpreted it in the proper vein, if you hadn't accepted the implied offer, if you hadn't decided to stay . . . They found that an acceptable compromise and were willing to pay the expenses."
"So you think that absolves you of any responsibility?" That was a rhetorical question; of course he did. And only someone who knew me pretty damn well could have put it together. I didn't know whether to feel flattered or utterly betrayed. "So you saw no problem with letting them hit our museum. My god, do you know what could have happened?"
"I didn't 'let' them anywhere," he said. "They had already made plans to target that collection, and they were going to do so. In that respect, your presence made no difference."
"You could have told me about it, but you didn't." Now that I knew, I wished I hadn't known. His view of ethics seemed to be set at a permanent tilt off normal, but I suspected he'd take it as a compliment if I pointed it out. "So now what? They're going to want to find you and extract a few pounds of flesh? Somehow I'm not unhappy to hear it."
"What?" He laughed. "Not at all. 'The wheel is come full circle.' Worst sort of luck, really. Even they realize that they ought to have heeded my sage advice."
"Which was?"
"Like repels like."
I silently chewed on that a few moments. "Care to explain," I said slowly, "what you meant by that?"
"I warned them that only an imminent confrontation with another such creature as yourself could have driven you from your den with such precipitate haste," he said smugly. "Of course I was correct."
I expressed my feelings warmly and at great length and detail, and all the while he murmured infuriating, soothing "Yes, yes" noises that only encouraged me to yell louder. In the end, however, even I ran out of enthusiasm on that topic -- there was something else I wanted to talk about more.
"They had an excellent collection of furniture, didn't they?" he said. "At the Breton Departmental Museum in Quimper, that is. Where you brought up Trogabr with no one, I noticed."
"Thank you," I said. It wasn't grudging this time. I meant it.
"For what?" he said lightly. "All that I did was drive. I thought other sites for comparison might help in any decisions, and -- well, you do tend to become more observant of detail when you're suspecting me of nefarious doings." But then he muttered under his breath, "Although your interpretation of what you've observed often leaves something to be desired."
I decided to magnanimously overlook that. There aren't that many truly novel opportunities in the field for a specialist in medieval art; we pick over the existing corpus like starving crows and have been known to brawl over potential finds, like the tussle over the Riemenschneider reliquary. He'd dropped something that he'd silently held onto for years right in my lap; then he'd stepped back and given me plenty of space to think it over. In spite of everything, I couldn't help feeling scholarly warm and fuzzies.
"Assuming his brain will return from the Planet of Romance one of these days, I'm going to consult with Schmidt."
"I see."
"No, you don't," I said to that doubt in his voice. I rubbed my forehead, trying to think of the best way to explain. "Schmidt is a kook, but he knows everyone, he's got tons of experience with preservation and museum management, and he's got reputation to burn. He knows I can't run his errands until the stars burn out, and he'll see that this is an unheard of opportunity to apply a lot of what I've learned here."
That's why you gave it to me, isn't it? I thought, but I didn't say it.
"One of the only benefits of having everyone here so preoccupied," I told him. "I've had a little time to think this through. A lot of the initial planning and preparation involves research, and that's I what I do anyway. I'm willing to coordinate, and Schmidt and the museum here are ideal resources. I'd be an idiot not to use them. Beyond that, Trogabr will have to organized the lion's share of the work themselves -- which will given them an even larger stake in the outcome."
I sketched out a long-term strategy that included everything from locating a prehistory expert to evaluate what lay beyond that "other entrance" to getting a competent, honest appraiser to examine and catalog those stacks of furniture in the storage area.
"Once you start moving on this, it'll attract attention," he pointed out. "Not all of it will be the sort of scrutiny you'd like."
"I know, believe me." This took trust on my part; I thought I might be ready to start shuffling in that direction. "I wondered if you'd be interested in advising about security, since you know too much about circumventing it. And maybe even helping place some of the less valuable pieces, once the ownership questions are cleared up -- this is going to take money."
"Dear girl," he said, amused, which in John-speak was a yes. I still had qualms, but they were offset by relief: If you can't beat 'em, recruit 'em.
"It looked to me like they have more than enough room underground to house a small museum. If that other entrance were used, it wouldn't impact the church," I said. "But the primary problem here is image. Above all else, that church has to be rebuilt. The Natural Park's regulations on new buildings might be waived for that kind of restoration work. And the park itself is lovely. It has hiking trails in their vicinity and even menhirs."
"Right then. Now it's my turn to ask -- aren't you forgetting something?"
"No," I said, sighing to myself, "no, I'm not. It's going to be 'rediscovered' later, after everything has been sorted out. That is when the publicity will do them the most good." I made my voice sound firm about that. Yes, I'd regret giving the cylinder up, but it had to done. "And if anything else like it turns up, that'll be gilding the rose, won't it?"
"Well, then," he said. "I'll wish you the best of luck with the Herr Direktor Doktor Schmidt."
"Don't worry, I won't have any trouble. I'm making it absolutely clear that this one belongs to me. It's mine. With proper Schmidt management, I can keep him from running wild through the countryside."
"Because you've had so much success with that before," he pointed out.
But I was sure this time. "I'm going to get my way. I have a lot of experience with that."
"Truer words." He laughed. "Well, then I do look forward to seeing how you manage."
"Yes, you'll see," I said sweetly. "And next time, I'll be the one extending the invitation to you. I like to keep abreast of my darling's interests, too, you know."
Sentimental feelings only go so far. I hadn't properly rewarded him for poking me with medieval misogyny, and I had a ring to return -- with interest. So he'd wanted me paying attention on that trip? I had been. I'd seen more than enough to tell me what topic I'd slighted in my John Smythe studies, which was why my desk now sported a small but growing pile of books. I picked up the two from the top, weighing where to begin: Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur or the Lais of Marie de France? Next time, I'd be in charge of our itinerary.