“Are you working on any particular myth?” Bullock asked.
“Not yet. I’m going to wait until I get there and see what we find.” As she spoke, the ring distracted her. She was conscious of its heft and how the metal felt against her skin. Jac usually wore earrings but not rings. They somehow looked wrong on her, and she always worried she was going to lose them. But this one looked as if it had been designed for her. It was different-she felt as if it had just been found, not lost.
“Where was this ring discovered?” she asked the curator.
Bullock looked at the card from the ring’s tray. “At a burial site in the British Isles.” She raised her eyebrows. “Nice coincidence.”
Malachai’s favorite refrain repeated in Jac’s head. There are no coincidences.
Bullock was still speaking. Jac concentrated on what the curator was saying.
“Like the Egyptians, the Celts, especially the noble class, were buried with their personal and household goods, including weapons and chariots. It’s one of the reasons we have so many antiquities from that time.”
“When you believe the soul is immortal and the living and the dead exchange places all the time, burials take on a different meaning,” Jac said, as she started to pull off the ring and felt a pang of-what was it? Melancholy? For a moment the emotion threatened to overshadow the thrill of examining the rest of the items. Bullock hadn’t noticed-she was reaching for one of the other items-so Jac left the ring on and took the sword that the curator was handing her.
“This is a treasure,” Bullock said. “The artistry is highly evolved for the period.”
The hilt had been stylized into the form of a human warrior. His carefully carved face featured almond eyes and articulated hair.
“It’s beautiful,” Jac said.
“Probably the best one of its kind that’s been unearthed.”
“Do you know where this was discovered?”
“In Switzerland. Proof of the Celts’ expansion as well as their sophistication. We received it in 1999.”
Jac held on to the sword. Mesmerized by the verdigris, she examined the way the copper’s oxidation had created green crust circles and swirls that were as artistic as the weapon maker’s design.
Then Jac heard a sound. Was the rough clanging a bell ringing? She raised her head and listened. It was so far off. Too distant to hear clearly. Slowly she became aware there was a scent in the air now that hadn’t been there a moment before. She was sure of it. Sniffing, she smelled burning wood, smoke, incense and something sweet. What was it? She sniffed again.
“Do you smell something?” Bullock asked.
From the way she’d asked the question, Jac knew the curator hadn’t. It wasn’t that unusual for Jac to sense a scent others couldn’t. Her nose was better trained and so more attuned. Before this past summer, it wouldn’t have bothered Jac. But in Paris whenever she’d smelled an aroma no one else could, it had led to a hallucination. The return of the condition that hadn’t plagued her since the summer she spent at Blixer Rath perplexed and depressed her.
Since returning to New York in June, though, she hadn’t had a single episode and had stopped worrying about them. But if they were back… Jac hadn’t been able to control the incidents in Paris; would she be able to now?
Suddenly the telltale shivers that presaged an episode ran up and down her arms. Painful, cold pinpricks warned her a flare-up was beginning. The smells around her intensified. The light dimmed. She tried to fight back against the attack, but the shadows continued to descend.
Jac’s thoughts began to waver as if she were leaving her own mind and traveling into someone else’s. She looked around. The white walls were now dripping thick rivers of red. Seeping onto the floor, the blood was pooling. It smelled so sweet. Pitiful keening filled the air. A woman’s grief-stricken cries, so piercing they hurt Jac’s ears.
Summoning all her conscious strength, she tried to realign herself with reality. It was imperative to break through the nightmare vision. She feared disappearing into one, never to return with her faculties intact.
At the clinic, Malachai had taught Jac exercises to help her find her way back to her own mind. Her sanity commandments, she called the string of instructions.
Silently, she intoned them now.
Open a window. Get fresh air.
There wasn’t one in the room. Move on to the next step.
Take long, concentrated breaths. Count… two… three… four.
Jac inhaled. Counted… two… three… four. Did it again. And again. She smelled something manufactured. Something real. Of the present. A too-sweet gourmand perfume. Bullock’s cologne. Good. She was returning to the moment. Now she had to stay there and keep her mind from spiraling out.
Give yourself a task.
She’d try to identify the notes in the curator’s scent.
Jac inhaled again. Found them, then named them: musk, benzoin and caramel.
She was feeling better. Now to control her shaking. Jac carefully put down the sword she’d been gripping, inhaled again and counted… two… three… four. And again. Much better now.
How long had the episode lasted? It had seemed like five minutes or more, but Jac knew from recent experience it was probably only seconds. Glancing over at Bullock, Jac didn’t think the curator had noticed. She was still talking as if nothing eventful had occurred.
“There are still a fair number of Celtic tombs being found. Since so many were covered with funeral mounds, land configurations give them away. Over the years, they can be disguised and then come to light when the landscape changes for one reason or another. There was a recent find in Scotland discovered when part of a forest was cleared.”
Bullock got up and for a moment cast a shadow on the ring. When she moved and it left, the copper seemed to glow brighter. It was surely her imagination, but it felt to Jac as if the metal was warmer than it had been. And after a few more seconds it seemed almost hot. By the time Jac took the ring off there was a faint mark on her finger where it had been. Like a reverse sunburn. The rest of her hand was paler and the band under the metal was tan. Her skin stung a bit but she refrained from rubbing it. It must be that she was having an allergic reaction to some special solvent the museum used to clean or protect the metal.
But for the rest of the afternoon and all of that night, the band of burned skin on the forefinger of her left hand stung. Two days later at the airport on her way to England, when she handed the flight attendant her boarding pass, Jac noticed the discoloration was less pronounced, but it was still there.
Seven
SEPTEMBER 5, THE PRESENT
THE ENGLISH CHANNEL
With the tourist season over, there were but a dozen passengers on the ferry. The boat rocked in the choppy sea and the wind blew wildly, but Jac was enjoying the crossing. She’d spent a few days in London, first sleeping off her jet lag, then doing more research. This morning she’d taken a pleasant four-hour train ride to Poole and then a short taxi to the ferry station. The three-hour-and-forty-five-minute trip to the island was half over. Jac had been alone on the upper deck the whole time until a few minutes ago when a woman joined her. She appeared to be in her mid- to late sixties. A silk scarf, tied under her chin, kept her auburn hair from flying in the wind. Under her rust-colored cashmere jacket, she was wearing a matching sweater. Black slacks and low-heeled black boots completed the outfit. Very well dressed for a boat ride, Jac thought.
As the woman walked toward a seat, the boat pitched and she stumbled.
Jac was out of her seat quickly. Reaching the woman before she fell, grabbing her arm, offering support.
“Are you all right?” Jac asked.
“I’m fine, dear. Thank you.” Then she looked down and noticed her bag’s contents had spilled and were rolling about. The boat was still pitching.