his breath. The scent was almost agonizing. “What do you know about these?”
“They were an experiment funded by the founders of the Phoenix Club, who were on a constant search for fabled lost memory tools. One was supposed to be a fragrance that helped you enter a deep meditative state.”
“So you could remember your past lives?”
“That was their hope, yes.”
“Like our family legend.”
“What?” Griffin asked.
“Don’t you remember? One of my ancestors supposedly found an Egyptian ‘soul-mate’ perfume in Egypt. And a book of formulas—”
“From Cleopatra’s fragrance factory. Yes, I remember now. Your grandmother told me about it.”
“She loved the legend.” Robbie stopped to inhale the next sample. “You know these are all slightly different formulations of the same scent?”
“Is that meaningful?” Griffin asked.
“I don’t have any idea.”
“Are you getting bombarded by memories?”
“Not from a past life, but these are all familiar scents to me—essentials that go back as far as recorded fragrance history in ancient Greece, Egypt and India. All of them remain major popular ingredients today.” Robbie inspected the flacon, turning it in his hand, peering closely at the engraved markings. “Do you know where these bottles came from?”
“According to Malachai, the Phoenix Club commissioned a French perfumer to work on the formula in the 1800s.”
“The designs certainly fit French perfume bottles of that era.” Robbie removed the one he was holding up to the light. Turning it slowly, he examined the facets until he finally found something. Then he checked the next flacon. And the one after that.
“No one could convince me this is mere coincidence,” he said as he handed one to Griffin, pointing to an area near the bottom. “Do you see that?”
“Those scratches? Wait.” Griffin pulled his reading glasses down off the top of his head, put them on and peered closer. “I see it but can’t make it out. Let me get a stronger—”
“No, I know what it is. It’s a maker’s mark—hard to read unless you’re already familiar with it. Back then perfumers had different flacons made by glassmakers. A customer would pick out the one they preferred and have it filled with the fragrance they chose.” Robbie touched the silver-and-amber top.
“You recognize the mark, don’t you?” Griffin asked.
“I certainly do. It’s an L and E inside of a crescent moon. The numbers underneath are the date: 1831. It’s my family mark.”
“The House of L’Etoile? Your family’s firm? That’s impossible!” Griffin shook his head and laughed. “And to think there are people who doubt synchronicity and the collective unconscious.”
“You’re going to be even more astonished after you see what I brought to show you.” Robbie opened his briefcase, pulled out the file of photos of the pottery shards he’d found in his father’s mess, and handed them to Griffin.
After examining them, Griffin handed the photos back to Robbie. “It looks like late-period Egyptian, but to be sure, I’d really need to see the actual objects. Pieces of pottery aren’t worth much, though. Only a few thousand dollars. Maybe ten, depending on what the inscription says.” Griffin knew about the House of L’Etoile’s financial problems. “I’m sorry.”
Robbie shook his head. “ Pas de probleme. I didn’t imagine these were worth enough to solve the crisis we are having. I told a friend of mine who is a curator at Christie’s about them, and she said pretty much what you said. If they were genuine, they’d be an interesting artifact, but pottery shards are not very valuable.”
“Then why do you want me to look at them?”
“I want you to help me translate them.”
“They’re probably just inscribed with a prayer for the dead.”
“I’d like to make sure.”
“Why’s that?”
“I found them in the workshop. And I’m sure they have something do with that soul-mate
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