One Perfect Knight

by Judith O'Brien

  It was as if the new guy had the magical ability to suck every ounce of positive energy from the room.

  And as Bill was mulling those thoughts, Vern was watching him, an odd smile twisted on his lips.

  "Okay, everyone," Bill announced. "There's enough for all of you, no need to push."

  Still, Vern just sat and watched.

  And waited.

  Lancelot entered the chaos of Julie's office with mild amusement.

  "I'm so sorry," she said, hand cupping the end of the phone. "I don't think I'm going to be able to… Then she held up her finger and spoke into the recover. "Hello? Yes. Of course, we can look into it right away. We'll need added security if they are coming. They do? Great! Just a minute."

  She turned back to Lancelot. "I'm so sorry, but there's absolutely no way I can get away right now. I thought I might, but…"

  He nodded, just as a harried-looking young man with oversized sketches pushed past.

  "Sorry. Um, Julie? Here are the preliminaries for the Shine-All print ads. When you get a chance, can you. "

  She gestured for him to come closer. She flipped through the sketches, then scribbled her signature before returning to the phone call.

  Lancelot turned to walk away.

  "Wait! Just a moment." Again, she cupped her hand over the phone. "Sam called this morning and says he has some new information down at the store. I thought we could go together, but I don't know when I'll get away from here."

  "I'll go, then."

  "Do you mind? I'm so sorry about… hello?"

  With an apologetic shrug, she got back to work and her calls.

  Lancelot made his way through the office, sidestepping the Rollerblading messenger and picking up the stack of papers a young woman with a cup of hot coffee had just dropped.

  As he rode down the elevator, he was very much aware of two things. One, he was not feeling well. Indeed, he was so exhausted he needed to sit down. And two, he did not belong there. Not in her office, certainly not in her time, and perhaps not even i» her life.

  For her sake, he had to decide what to do next.

  Peg had been walking for hours without being aware of where she was going.

  It was a cleansing walk, something she needed to do in order to clear her mind. And as she strolled, the sights and sounds of the city presented themselves as only mild distractions, interesting only in their fleeting presence. Then she could go back to herself, a topic she had managed to avoid for far too long.

  Pausing at a streetlight, waiting for it to change, she took a deep breath and looked around. Somehow she was in the Village.

  She had just walked more than ninety blocks!

  That knowledge pleased her for some reason. Ninety refreshing blocks. Now she was in familiar territory, in the East Village, where all of her favorite funky stores were. She couldn't have planned it any better. What a perfect place on a warm spring day.

  She turned left instead of crossing the street. Cauldrons & Skulls was less than half a block away. In the mood to poke around among old books and bottles, she thought someone there might have more information on Camelot. She hestiated just a moment.

  Had she remembered to bring the wallet with her credit cards?

  Looking down, she began to rifle through her purse and saw the right wallet, and then… she looked up and saw him.

  More important, he saw her.

  "Hello." She smiled. She knew this man. In the jumble of her thoughts, she couldn't recall how she knew him, she just did.

  He seemed busy, with a couple of oversized books under his arms.

  He nodded once and tried to pass right by her.

  "Wait a moment!"

  But instead of waiting, he kept walking.

  Perplexed, she saw him turn a corner at such a brisk pace that he was all but jogging.

  Where had she seen him before?

  Then it hit her, the proverbial ton of bricks. It was the gallant Malvern! The very same man she had spent her adolescence dreaming about that is, until she discovered Mel Gibson.

  Well, she wasn't going to let him get away. He must have come from Camelot, along with Julie and Lancelot. And then another thought crossed her mind.

  What if he was there for her, the way Lancelot was there for Julie!

  It made so much sense that she didn't want to think about it any further, for fear that it would no longer make so much sense. Too often, she had allowed her sensible side to choose the path. Too often, she had missed out on adventure and excitement. For once, she was not going to play it safe.

  It took only an instant for her to decide. And for the first time in her life, Peg did something impetuous and romantic.

  With a thrill of pure delight, she followed the gallant Malvern. She followed him, hoping against all reason that he would lead her to her own destiny.

  Lancelot sensed something was wrong the moment he saw the shop door swinging on its hinges, the bells tinkling softly overhead.

  He stepped softly, not wanting to startle anyone who may have been inside. There was no one behind the counter, no sound other than the bells. Carefully, he separated the beaded curtains and crept into the back room.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and then he saw the crumpled form of one of the brothers.

  In one large bound, he was at his side, gently touching his shoulder.

  The man began to stir.

  "Be easy," Lancelot whispered. "I'm going to see if I can catch who did this."

  He patted the shoulder and began to stand, when the man moaned, "Oh, my head."

  "Please remain silent."

  Then he moaned in a louder voice. "My head!"

  "I know, someone must have hit you…

  "Someone? I know exactly who did this. Wait until I get a hold of that cartoon guy."

  Mel sat up, holding his head, gingerly testing to see if there was any blood. With only very slight disappointment, he shrugged and began to rise to his feet.

  Lancelot had checked the back room, and, as he suspected, there was no one there. "Here, let me help you."

  When Mel was settled back in the chair by the desk, he patted the empty surface.

  "He took them. He took them both."

  Lancelot was about to ask what was taken when the bells jingled in the front.

  "Mel? You back there?"

  "Yeah, Sam."

  Then Sam appeared with a large white bag with grease stains just forming on the sides. "I got you the extra sauce for the-" Then he saw Lancelot and the way Mel was cupping the side of his head. "What's going on?"

  Lancelot began, "I just arrived, and the door was open. Your brother seems to have been injured by a thief."

  "What?"

  Mel nodded. "Yeah. He's right. It was that Malvern guy, and he came in here all nice and pleasant, asked how I was and if the books had arrived yet. Then next thing I knew, I was on the ground, and Lancelot here was saying it was all right."

  "You okay?"

  Mel shrugged. "I'm not bleeding. I'm just beginning to feel the way I did on New Year's Day in seventy-nine."

  Sam winced. "Ouch. Wait a second. I've got some ice in here for the celery tonic." He began to gather ice in a napkin and handed it to his brother.

  Then he paused, hands on his hips, and surveyed the room, the large, empty desk with the magnifying glass pushed to the side, the jeweler's glass on the floor. He shook his head. "He got them, then." He bent over and put the jeweler's glass back on the desk.

  "Sure did."

  "What did he get?" Lancelot asked.

  "The Latin and Italian texts." Sam closed his eyes for a moment. "Damn." He shook his head once more, then looked right at Lancelot. "Mel was translating some old texts. They were the ones on Camelot. The ones with the incantations and spells about how to return."

  Lancelot looked at both brothers, then turned to Mel. "Do you recall any of the details?"

  Mel shrugged. "I was just beginning to make sense of the Latin. It
was all a jumble, a real mess, and then I was on the verge of a real breakthrough. Between the two texts, there was a common thread that was just beginning to emerge."

  "Remember what it was?" Sam asked eagerly.

  "Nah. I would have had it in another twenty minutes. I swear I would have. But no. I saw the pattern, but I didn't have time to figure it out."

  Sam rubbed his eyes, then looked at Lancelot with hope. "Hey, does Malvern know Latin?"

  Lancelot nodded. "I'm afraid it was part of our early training. We all know Latin."

  "How about Italian?" Mel offered.

  "I don't know. It was certainly not required, although some of the other knights had language skills. Of Malvern, I am not certain."

  Mel smiled. "This may not be so bad. As I was going over these texts, I realized the Italian was not meant as a simple translation of the Latin. It was not just a matter of nuances. I'm pretty sure that they were meant to be used together. One would not work by itself-the other version was needed to complete it. If he doesn't know Italian, then he has only half of the stuff he needs."

  "What about the English translations?" Sam asked.

  "Never got around to writing them all down. He may have some of them, but not all, and certainly he would not know where the translations came from, what part of the book. So this may not be so bad."

  A vague sense of cautious optimism was beginning to surface. And suddenly, Sam snapped his fingers. "Mel! I've just thought of something. Remember a few years ago we went to that New Age conference in California?"

  "Don't remind me. What a bunch of fruitcakes."

  "Yeah, but remember that professor from Columbia? He gave you his card. Said he was teaching a course on magic and mythology or something. It's a long shot, but maybe we could give him a call. He might know something."

  "Oh! Nice old guy. Sure, where did I put that damn card? I usually shove them all in this little side drawer here. Can you shine the light this way, Sammy? Okay, here we go." He began to thumb through a stack of torn, yellowed business cards, some with cross-outs, handwritten numbers scribbled on the sides. "Here we go. I…" He blinked and held the card closer. "This is impossible."

  "What? Did you find it?"

  "Yeah, yeah. But this is impossible. I would have remembered. Hell, you probably would have remembered." Then he looked at both men, a strange, puzzled smile on his face. "The man's name is Professor Ralph Myrddin."

  Lancelot slowly uncrossed his large arms, and Sam took a moment to understand. "As in the book?"

  "As in the book," Mel confirmed. Then he pointed to the white bag. "Did you say you got extra sauce?"

  * * *

  Chapter Nineteen

  The day before the Shine-All City Charity Gala, there was so much breathless press coverage that some people were convinced it had already happened.

  There were columns on who was wearing what, designed by whom, accessorized with what jewels on loan from Harry Winston or Cartier or some recently deceased fabulous person's estate. There were gossip tidbits on what couples were going together, who would be sitting at what table of fellow celebrities, and who would be trying to avoid whom under the glare of overhead lights and the flash of the paparazzi.

  Actors, actresses, rock stars, models, producers, writers, directors, titans of business, and celebrities of the moment were all descending upon Manhattan, all touting their pet causes or at the very least their upcoming projects. In short, the glittering world of fame and fortune was consumed with elaborate preparation for this single event.

  One columnist likened the gathering to Mrs. Actor beckoning the fortunate four hundred who could fit into her legendary ballroom in the last century. But that notion was contradicted by a rival columnist who stated flatly that, as a whole, this group was far better-looking than Mrs. Actor's fleshy ton, and furthermore, this was a charity event. So these far-better-looking folks were actually doing some good with their money, besides supporting the piggyback industries that kept them so darned good-looking, such as plastic surgeons, personal trainers, nutritionists, the fashion industry, and the various clinics and detox centers.

  It made the city as a whole feel good to think of itself as one big handsome do-gooder, and the mayor of New York jumped on that idea, stating with characteristic smug flair that New York at that moment was, indeed, the center of the universe.

  Very few people disputed that point when it was learned that Madonna herself would be dressed as Guinevere and Donald Trump, without consulting Madonna, was being fitted for a splendid King Arthur costume.

  And then there was the rumor that a Kennedy—no one was quite sure which one-was going to auction a rare piece of JFK memorabilia. It was all in keeping with the Camelot theme, and everyone was supremely confident that whatever the mystery item to be auctioned was, it would be in the best possible taste.

  No one could wait until the evening itself arrived.

  No one.

  Julie had been trying to reach Peg but with no luck. She assumed Peg was simply embarrassed. After all, she had confessed a lot the other day about her dreams. It must not have been easy.

  It was incredibly early to be going into the office, although if she had never gone to sleep, she still would have been hard-pressed to get everything done. They'd all worked late, and she'd be the first one in this morning. It was only fair, really.

  The security guard waved her on, and she held up her employee card after he had already returned to his tabloid paper and doughnut. Some security. She smiled as she entered the elevator.

  Although it was early, not speaking to Peg was really bothering her. She'd give her a call the moment she got into her office. There was so much to tell her, about that professor at Columbia. Although they had not been able to reach him by telephone, and even the switchboard at Columbia couldn't get through, she was going over later that afternoon with Lancelot to see what they could discover. He might really be the same guy who did the comic book.

  And Peg didn't know anything about the texts being stolen or the importance of the Italian and Latin. She even wanted to let Peg know about how well Lancelot was doing with the people at the shelter.

  He'd been helping the choir, coordinating their little five-minute stint at the gala.

  There was just so much to tell. Hang it if it was barely five-thirty in the morning. The moment she got to her desk, she was going to call…

  There was something very wrong.

  She felt it the instant she stepped off the elevator. The doors closed behind her before she could step back, and she began pushing the down button, hoping another elevator would arrive soon. Because even from where she stood, she could see that someone had been in there.

  The couches in the reception area had been torn open, the glass behind the floor plants shattered. Even the plants themselves had been pulled up from the roots and tossed across the lobby.

  A ping announced the arrival of the elevator, and Julie pounded the dose button, not unclenching her hands until the doors had shut and she was on her way back to the lobby.

  All thoughts of calling Peg had vanished for the time being.

  Lancelot and Julie took one more look at the card with the address of Professor Myrddin.

  "This must be it," she said, glancing at the building on the campus of Columbia University. "I don't know why, but I'm nervous. I mean, if he's the same guy who wrote and illustrated the book, he'll recognize us right away. And he probably won't be too thrilled, either."

  They entered the strange building with "Arts, Humanity, and Mystery" etched over the doorway. "Weird," she mumbled.

  Lancelot smiled. She was keenly aware that he was not feeling well. In fact, he would have been much better back at the apartment, but he had insisted on coming with her. Sam and Mel had also wanted to join them, but they had to fill out insurance forms and complete the police interview from the robbery. Mel's injury was considered an assault, so the police were treating the crime seriously.

  And even as Lancel
ot and Julie had gone uptown, the police were examining the crime scene at Stickley & Brush.

  "This is it. Number seven," he said as they stopped in front of a small door. In gold lettering, it read, "Professor Ralph Myrddin." But the door was so tiny, unlike the other offices or classrooms, that it seemed impossible that anything other than a broom closet could possibly exist in that space.

  Lancelot glanced at her, then knocked once. There was no answer. He was about to knock again when the door flew open.

  "I've been expecting you," he said, an unlit pipe clenched between his teeth.

  "Merlin!" Julie shouted. It was him, the same bulbous nose, the pinkish skull dotted with tufts of cottony white hair. Now he was wearing a battered tweed jacket and a moth-eaten sweater underneath, but there was no mistaking the identity of the man before her.

  It was Merlin.

  Lancelot just stared at him. "I do not understand."

  A couple of students came down the corridor, and Merlin opened his door wide. "Both of you, come in here."

  Amazingly, his office was precisely the same as she remembered his home in Camelot, complete with a long, heavy table topped with various boiling beakers, another table filled with ancient-looking books of crumbling parchment. And in the corner, chattering between seeds, was a parrot.

  "Charo," Julie mumbled.

  "Sir Lancelot, please sit down," he offered, and with only a slight hesitation, Lancelot sank into a deep chair.

  Julie turned from the parrot, recovered enough to ask questions. "Merlin, what's happening? There is so much to tell you, I don't even know where to start."

  "I know, my dear, I know. You did the best you could. Would you like a biscuit?"

  The bird let out a single screech, and Merlin whirled around. "Not you, silly thing. I meant our guests." Then he looked at Lancelot with a brief expression of pity in his eyes and turned again to Julie. "But how are you, my dear? I'm afraid I've put you through a terrible ordeal."

  "Well, I've-" Then she stopped. "You did this? This was all your idea?"

  "Please sit down. You make me nervous standing there. Thank you." He sat down in his own chair, the same battered furniture she recalled from Camelot.