I tried not to roll my eyes. Whatever was going on here, it seemed like a whole lot more than just some kind of insane coincidence. “I’m sure he will. Is there a 171 on him, though? Anything at all that’ll give me some idea what he’s done, what he’s studying?”
“Oh, absolutely. Come on in, if you can bear it—”
He rifled through a heap of 171s, finally pulled one out.
“Here it is! If you’ll excuse me, Katherine, I’m supposed to be at some kind of emergency powwow, and I’m already late.”
I trudged back out into the hall, dragging my briefcase. The 171 form he’d given me was green and white, limp as wet lettuce. It was the standard government employment form, with a cover sheet detailing the particulars of the summer internship program. The empty spaces had been filled in neatly with a slightly italicized European hand.
Dylan W. Furiano.
I flipped through the Xeroxed pages. UCLA film school, majoring in film-and-video ethnograhy. Four years at the Lawrenceville School. Elementary education, the Cathedral School in London and private tutors, Florence, Italy. Reads and writes English, Italian, German, French. In case of emergency notify Angelica Furiano, Los Angeles, California, and Sedona, Arizona. I stared at the page for a long moment, then slipped it into my briefcase.
“Ms. Cassidy?”
I started, turned, and saw Dylan. His cheeks were pink and the knot in his tie had slipped halfway down his chest. “Someone fainted! They’re sending everybody down the back fire stairs, but I wasn’t sure where they were—”
I laughed. “Well, you’re certainly having an exciting first day, aren’t you?” I raised my briefcase to point down the hall. “Thataway.”
“I figured you’d know.”
The fire door had been wedged open with a chair. Squeezing past it I looked up at Dylan, his long hair falling into his eyes and his hands swooping to pull his hair back into its ponytail, his face red and glowing as with uncontained excitement. When he’d gotten his hair out of the way he stared down at me, his blue eyes so brilliant it was like the sky reflected there, or the ocean; like some wonderful dream of a warm blue place, some secret haven by the sea and for the first time in almost twenty years I was waking, waking—
“Hey, Ms. Cassidy—?”
I shook my head, dazed.
“Ms. what!” Suddenly I grinned, and nudged him with my briefcase. “Please, Dylan, do me one favor, okay—”
I swept past him, taking the steps two at a time, heedless of the heat or the blood singing in my ears, heedless of anything at all except the sound of him bounding after me, the metal banisters clamoring as he tugged at them. When I reached the landing I paused and looked back, out of breath and panting, laughing, really laughing, for the first time it seemed in decades.
“—Call me Sweeney.”
CHAPTER 16
Black Angels
AT THE DESK IN her room at Huitaca, Angelica Furiano sat writing a letter. It was evening, hot enough that the petals of the oriental lilies in their Waterford vase had crisped into brittle orange tongues, and their leaves all fallen to the floor. In spite of the heat she had turned off the air-conditioning. She liked to hear the night come alive, she liked to hear the sound of small creatures splashing in the shallows of the pool outside, the muted voices of Kendra and Martin wafting up from the gardener’s cottage and the radio behind her playing the Kronos Quartet.
Through the French doors she could see the tiled patio, and beyond that twisted spires of stone still flushed with sunset. Above the nearest rocky tower, named the Devil’s Clock by the locals, the full moon dangled like a lantern hung there by a tired deity. Angelica stared at it, then sighed and looked away.
A small brass tray sat on her worn desk. Balanced on its edge like a cigarette was a smudge-stick of dried sage and coriander leaf bound with hemp, smoke rising from it. Beside it was the lunula. Angelica took a deep breath of the pungent smoke, then picked the necklace up idly. She rubbed the smooth surface with her thumb, feeling the faint impressions of the pattern etched there, the small gaping mouth where the lost portion of the triskelion was missing.
Four weeks from now would be Lammas; four weeks from now she would be Waking the Moon. She stared out at the evening sky, the limbs of the crippled piñon pines stirring gently in the hot breeze; then looked down to read over her letter.
July 2, 1995
Dearest Dylan,
I was so happy to hear your voice last night and know that you arrived safely! I sent the package with your T-shirt and your sandals, also you forgot your glasses case. Don’t worry, I’m sure Sunday will find your notebook.
I got confirmation of my tickets to D.C. for your birthday next month. A limo is supposed to meet me at Dulles, but maybe we can arrange it so you can be there too—I’d love that!
I know you won’t have had the opportunity yet to look for the lunula, but it’s probably a good idea not to wait too long, in case it’s more difficult to track down than I think. I can’t imagine that it’s been moved since June Harrington’s time. Her notebook said it had been misplaced among artifacts from Indonesia and Malaysia, so that would still probably be the best place to start. Please be sure to eat this letter when you’ve finished reading it.
Only kidding! But remember what I said about being careful.
I know you’ll have a wonderful time out there, even though I’ll miss you horribly. Andy Ludwig called, also Serena, and I gave them your number at Dr. Dvorkin’s house. Please be sure to use your calling card, we don’t want him to have to pay for your phone calls! Of course you should always call me collect.
Give my love to Dr. Dvorkin. I love you!
As she reread the letter, the strings in the background soared into a sweet motet. Spem in Alium, Sing and Glorify, Judith seducing and then beheading Holofernes to save her people. Today, men would judge her actions as a crime, but three thousand years ago Diis aliter visum: it seemed otherwise to the gods.
Angelica pushed aside the letter, listening to the immeasurably sad music, the violin straining like a lover bidding a last farewell. She knew it was foolish, writing to her son like this—he never wrote back, preferring the telephone—but it made her feel close to him; alleviated some of the loneliness she felt. Her eyes filled with tears as she stared at a photo of Dylan on her desk. Dylan at four, playing on the rock-strewn beach near Akrotiri on Thera. He was naked, his dark hair burned to copper by the sun, wind-tossed as the waves behind him. His tiny fist held something, shell or stone, he was holding it above his head and laughing. In the background Rinaldo stood knee-deep in the water and smiled, his grey hair a bright aureole. It had been the first time Angelica had visited Thera and seen the excavations at Akrotiri. They had left the island the next day, to return to the villa near Florence, and had not returned for two years.
That was the only other time she had ever used Dylan to smuggle something for her: a thumb-sized seal of the Cretan bee-goddess that she had sewn into the waistband of his training pants. He had been as innocent of the seal’s power as he was of the missing piece of the lunula.
“Oh, Dylan,” she whispered. She moved the photo so that she could see the others behind it. An old Lucite frame held a picture of Hasel Bright, looking so young it almost took her breath away—he’d been a child, really, they’d all been little more than children! Hasel had given her the framed photo after they slept together that once, over Columbus Day weekend.