Read Online Lucifer's Crown by Lillian Stewart Carl - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lillian Stewart Carl
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lost its edge, or her own?—she walked back toward the house and the task in hand.
Chapter Seven
Thomas shut the door of the manor house behind him, making the knocker creak. Despite glints of sunshine the wind was chill, scented with sea-spray and the tang of cold iron.
The Puckles were doing right by Temple Manor, bless them. They had been only briefly his employees. Now they were friends, eager to feed him sumptuous meals and lend him their electronic equipment. This morning, though, Thomas had purchased his own cellular telephone. He strode off across the courtyard, once again berating himself for believing that he could go through the End Time without incident.
The phone number in his address book for Alex Sinclair had connected him with a fish and chips shop. Alf's Internet terminal had listed several Alex Sinclairs, none of them the right one. Finally, hope failing, Thomas checked the archives of the Edinburgh records office and there found Alex's name. He had died in an automobile crash fifteen years ago.
A series of telephone calls had determined that his other fellow guardians were well, their relics safe. It was Ivan who, through no fault of his own, had lost the Book. And Alex, too, had died without fault, but also without issue, so that the location of the Stone died with him. Although Alex had never been the relic's actual caretaker. Thomas himself only now suspected who was. For a man named Dewar , an old Gaelic word meaning “guardian,” to go missing, leaving behind a woman dead in a significant place, was no coincidence. It was deliberate challenge.
Robin Fitzroy . His enemy's name sliced his mind like a sword.
Just outside the archway a rubber ball flew by his face and bounced off the wall behind him. “Sorry!” exclaimed the MacArthur lad. “I was going in for a lay-up, with that bracket up there as the goal, you know?"
"Hey, Sean!” Maggie's voice came from inside the courtyard. “I'm on the five-yard line!"
"Hail Mary!” Sean returned, and threw the ball toward her.
The American dialect had certainly produced some arresting idioms. “Maggie,” Thomas called, “would you care for a cup of tea? We should discuss your students’ curriculum."
"Oh,” she said. “Sure. I'll get my laptop."
"My cottage is just off the chancel of the church.” As he had feared, Maggie had interpreted his reaction to her name yesterday as dislike, perhaps even professional jealousy. He mustn't become so distracted by his age-old task that he neglected contemporary courtesies.
Rose sat on the bench by the garden gate, writing in a blue copybook. Her cheeks were pink, her hair tousled, her eyes shining like a glimpse of heaven. It might have been autumn on the calendar, not to mention in Thomas's soul, but this vision of spring made his heart leap with joy. He would have knelt at her feet, but Dunstan was already there, grooming his sleek black flank as though visions were an everyday occurrence.
And yet Rose was no angel. She would come down from her pedestal, sooner rather than later—a pedestal provided very little room to move, after all, and the mud beneath was the source of life. But how and when she descended had to be her own choice. He could only pray that she'd taken his veiled warning about Robin to heart, for it was Robin, he felt sure, who'd seen her with his eyes of adamant in the Abbey yesterday morning.
"Hi,” she said.
"Hello, Rose. You're hard at it, I see."
"I'm trying to recreate the notes I took and then lost. Maggie says she free-associates when she lectures, but between us we'll get most of it."
"Maggie's a good teacher, is she?"
"Oh yes. She even knew why there was a bell ringing last night."
Did she now? “And why was that?"
"Ringing a church bell on the night of All Saints’ Day wards off evil spirits. Like throwing salt over your shoulder, except that's superstition."
"One man's sacrament is another's superstition."
Rose grinned agreement. “Were you ringing a
Chapter Seven
Thomas shut the door of the manor house behind him, making the knocker creak. Despite glints of sunshine the wind was chill, scented with sea-spray and the tang of cold iron.
The Puckles were doing right by Temple Manor, bless them. They had been only briefly his employees. Now they were friends, eager to feed him sumptuous meals and lend him their electronic equipment. This morning, though, Thomas had purchased his own cellular telephone. He strode off across the courtyard, once again berating himself for believing that he could go through the End Time without incident.
The phone number in his address book for Alex Sinclair had connected him with a fish and chips shop. Alf's Internet terminal had listed several Alex Sinclairs, none of them the right one. Finally, hope failing, Thomas checked the archives of the Edinburgh records office and there found Alex's name. He had died in an automobile crash fifteen years ago.
A series of telephone calls had determined that his other fellow guardians were well, their relics safe. It was Ivan who, through no fault of his own, had lost the Book. And Alex, too, had died without fault, but also without issue, so that the location of the Stone died with him. Although Alex had never been the relic's actual caretaker. Thomas himself only now suspected who was. For a man named Dewar , an old Gaelic word meaning “guardian,” to go missing, leaving behind a woman dead in a significant place, was no coincidence. It was deliberate challenge.
Robin Fitzroy . His enemy's name sliced his mind like a sword.
Just outside the archway a rubber ball flew by his face and bounced off the wall behind him. “Sorry!” exclaimed the MacArthur lad. “I was going in for a lay-up, with that bracket up there as the goal, you know?"
"Hey, Sean!” Maggie's voice came from inside the courtyard. “I'm on the five-yard line!"
"Hail Mary!” Sean returned, and threw the ball toward her.
The American dialect had certainly produced some arresting idioms. “Maggie,” Thomas called, “would you care for a cup of tea? We should discuss your students’ curriculum."
"Oh,” she said. “Sure. I'll get my laptop."
"My cottage is just off the chancel of the church.” As he had feared, Maggie had interpreted his reaction to her name yesterday as dislike, perhaps even professional jealousy. He mustn't become so distracted by his age-old task that he neglected contemporary courtesies.
Rose sat on the bench by the garden gate, writing in a blue copybook. Her cheeks were pink, her hair tousled, her eyes shining like a glimpse of heaven. It might have been autumn on the calendar, not to mention in Thomas's soul, but this vision of spring made his heart leap with joy. He would have knelt at her feet, but Dunstan was already there, grooming his sleek black flank as though visions were an everyday occurrence.
And yet Rose was no angel. She would come down from her pedestal, sooner rather than later—a pedestal provided very little room to move, after all, and the mud beneath was the source of life. But how and when she descended had to be her own choice. He could only pray that she'd taken his veiled warning about Robin to heart, for it was Robin, he felt sure, who'd seen her with his eyes of adamant in the Abbey yesterday morning.
"Hi,” she said.
"Hello, Rose. You're hard at it, I see."
"I'm trying to recreate the notes I took and then lost. Maggie says she free-associates when she lectures, but between us we'll get most of it."
"Maggie's a good teacher, is she?"
"Oh yes. She even knew why there was a bell ringing last night."
Did she now? “And why was that?"
"Ringing a church bell on the night of All Saints’ Day wards off evil spirits. Like throwing salt over your shoulder, except that's superstition."
"One man's sacrament is another's superstition."
Rose grinned agreement. “Were you ringing a
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