An Encounter at the Museum

by Claudia Dain

  "No, Papa."

  "Look at it closely. Take your time. If you analyze it thoughtfully, you'll be able to see a feature that is conspicuously present in the painting which shouldn't be. Think carefully, now."

  Isha peered closely at the painting through her little girl's spectacles, the cornflower blue ribbons in her hair floating back against her long brown hair. In quiet contemplation, she gazed at the ostrich and the tiger and the parrots, at the trees and the grass and the sky, and at the nude bodies of the two figures in the garden. After a considerable time, she bounced up and down.

  Sir Rupert leaned down toward her. "Did you find the feature that the artist mistakenly put in?"

  "Yes, Papa! I found it!"

  "Where is it?"

  "Right there!" Isha pointed her little finger in the middle of Eve's body. "They have belly buttons. Adam was formed from the earth, and Eve was formed from his flesh. They couldn't have had belly buttons!"

  Her father smiled broadly, his grizzled beard spreading wide. He picked her up and perched her upon his arm. "What a clever girl I have!"

  Isha smiled at the memory. It made her so happy to have had her father's love.

  Now, as a woman, the painting offered a new poignancy. Eve was painted as a lovely woman, but it really didn't matter if she looked like Quasimodo. Eve didn't have any competition. There were no other beauties to entice Adam's eyes. He would think she was the loveliest of creatures, because she was made for him. Only him.

  How wonderful that would be. She for him, and he for her. Pity there was no one for Isha.

  "Ah, if it isn't my little archenemy now."

  The sound jarred her from her wistful reverie. Before she even turned around, she knew who it was.

  "What are you doing here?" she whispered, careful not to let others see her talking aloud to no one.

  "Following you."

  She turned around and looked up into his face. The sight of him took her breath away. The gold-flecked eyes that looked down at her were languid and amused, as if he possessed some hidden knowledge that she would never know unless she begged him. His square jaw was set against her, as were the massive arms crossed at his chest. Maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her, but his raven's-wing hair seemed to have developed a sheen of some sort which shimmered in the light from the mile-high windows.

  Was it possible he was getting even more attractive?

  "Why? My sister is alone at home. Not a suitor in sight. Isn't that what you wanted?"

  "It's not all I wanted," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "Besides, I wanted to accompany you on your quest to vanquish me."

  "How did you—" She bit back the rest of the question. Of course he knew what she was up to. He was Bad Luck. Her bad luck, apparently.

  His gazed darted to the painting. "So this is who your father named you after. If you ask me, you're much lovelier than your namesake."

  There was an unbidden fluttering at his compliment, but she tamped it down lest she be beguiled once more. "As a matter of fact, I didn't ask you. Please feel at liberty to disappear once more. Preferably, for good."

  "Why must you be so prickly?"

  "Right now? I'll give you one guess."

  He cocked an eyebrow. "I thought you would enjoy talking about your father."

  That cracked her armor. Of course she loved talking about her father. Her mother and her sister would enjoy the occasional reminiscence about Sir Rupert, but not about his work. And never about his passions.

  "My father had a great fondness for this painting. In fact, he took great delight in all of Rubens' works."

  He cocked his head to the side. "Really? Rubens was a gifted painter, I'll grant you. But he was a bit too imaginative for my tastes. I've always found his depictions of angels as chubby winged children to be rather laughable."

  She rolled her eyes. "I'd expect someone like you to be dismissive about things you can't possibly appreciate."

  He cocked an eyebrow. "I'm not being dismissive at all. It's just that angels don't really look like that. If they did, people would probably be more inclined to pinch their cheeks rather than to obey their commands."

  He was right; her father had told her the same thing. Every time an angel made an appearance, his first words were usually, "Do not fear." If anything, Sir Rupert used to say, angels were big and scary, not cute and cuddly.

  She faced the painting once more, her arms crossed at her chest. "A pity you won't do as I command and leave me alone."

  His voice stroked her ears from behind. "Leaving you alone would be a pity indeed. But please don't let me stop you from trying to stop me. I quite enjoy watching you try."

  She whirled on him, ready to strike with the sharp edge of her tongue. Before she could get the first word out, he vanished like a shadow in sunlight.

  Never mind. He may have mysterious magical powers, but every man has his weakness. And she was about to find his.

  The British Museum boasted some of the oldest and rarest printed books known to man. With the exception of libraries in Greece and Italy, England held some of the most ancient manuscripts still extant. Whether newly published or being kept from decay, books on nearly any subject could be found upon the shelves. If one knew where to look.

  The museum itself was shaped like a large square, with a spacious courtyard in the center. That was where the Reading Room was located, a grand circular building with mullioned windows and a glass-tipped dome. The sheer volume of knowledge inside this room took one's breath away. Along the high round walls ran no less than three floors packed floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves. Long tables radiated from the center of the room, like spokes in a carriage wheel. It was cavernous inside, like being inside a three-tiered cake. Just walking the tiers took considerable time, let alone browsing the thousands of books. It was a good thing she knew precisely whom to ask for help.

  Alex Hastings was the Assistant Keeper in the Department of Printed Books. Though it was early in the day, if her experience was anything to go by, Mr. Hastings would already be on the job. He was tall and slender, and his silky blond hair was always slightly rumpled from where he'd tug at it whenever he read. Mr. Hastings was once a student of her father's while he was studying at university, and that semester began Alex's lifelong admiration of Sir Rupert. Alex was in his late twenties, and an extraordinarily handsome man. But his masculine beauty was encumbered by an unfortunate case of social awkwardness.

  Isha found him on the ground floor perched atop the ladder against the high shelves. His tall frame was leaning on the ladder's railing, absorbed between the cardboard covers of an oversized folio. He didn’t even hear her coming.

  "Good morning, Mr. Hastings," she called up to him with a smile. "Ought you to be reading at your post?"

  "Miss Elmwood!" He slipped the folio hastily back onto the shelf, and clambered down the ladder. Self-consciously, he yanked on his plain waistcoat and adjusted his unstarched cravat. "What a wonderful surprise to see you."

  "It's been a long time, Mr. Hastings. How are you?"

  "Can't complain. I've accepted a teaching post at Oxford. Mathematics and astronomy. I'll be here at the museum just a few more months. I start in the new academic year."

  "That's wonderful news! Congratulations! My father would have been very proud of you."

  "I'm flattered." His intense blue eyes crinkled at the edges, and he flashed her an immaculate smile. "He was a great man, your father."

  She nodded wistfully. "A pity you would have to leave London, though. How does your wife feel about moving to the countryside?"

  He shrugged, embarrassed. "Not married. Not yet."

  Isha looked up at his coloring cheeks. "I find it exceedingly hard to believe that a young lady has failed to capture your heart."

  His blond head ducked as he shyly glanced at a spot near his shoes. "Actually, one has. But I regret I've not yet learned how to capture hers."

  Poor Mr. Hastings. He might be a bit gawky, but what he lacked in confi
dence he made up for in brilliance. What on earth could make such an intelligent, good-looking man so ill-at-ease among the ladies? He could have his pick of them…if only he became aware of his innate good looks.

  Dark brown lashes fanned across his high cheekbones. She touched him on the forearm, seeking his eyes. "Any young lady who does not notice you must be as blind as a bat, Mr. Hastings. You are quite the catch."

  "Doubt that. Unless one can turn base metal into gold."

  She tsked. "Nonsense. You are not for the alchemist, Mr. Hastings. Have you declared yourself to her?"

  He shook his head silently.

  "Ah, well, that is the answer. You must muster the courage to state your affections. 'Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.'"

  He grinned. "William Shakespeare."

  "Just so." Isha hoped she got through to him. Mr. Hastings was such a good man. It would be a pity if he were imprisoned by shyness just as he had the opportunity for lasting happiness.

  He sighed. "Continuing in the 'measure for measure' vein, in repayment for your kind words, what may I do for you today?"

  Isha glanced around her. Her tormentor was not nearby.

  "What do you know about…Bad Luck?"

  "Bad luck?" Mr. Hastings gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "Everything. I've been under its lash my entire life."

  Given her present circumstances, she couldn't even smile at that quip. "Not as a concept. I'm talking about Bad Luck as an entity, a person. Can there be such a thing?"

  "Do you mean a literary device? Personification?"

  "Not quite." She needed to tread carefully; otherwise, Mr. Hastings will think her a candidate for Bedlam. "Not anthropomorphism. I'm wondering if there really is someone like…that is, if there is anything among the texts that describes Bad Luck as a living creature."

  Mr. Hastings scratched his head, mussing a thick lock of sun-colored hair. "Hmm. I don't think so. Although I do recall something about one of the Norse gods…what was his name? Loki. Yes, that's right. I think he was the god of mischief or some such thing. Is that what you mean?"

  Isha felt a spark of hope. "Perhaps. Bring me what you have."

  She followed him to a spot along the wall and watched as he hung the ladder in place. He scanned the titles and pulled out a black hardcover book, which he handed to her.

  "If what you're looking for isn't there, Miss Elmwood, do let me know."

  She thanked him and ensconced herself at a remote table. A quick glance around the room told her no one was looking, so she pulled out her spectacles from her reticule and slipped them on.

  Over the next several hours, Isha pored over every book she could find which might lead her to information about Mr. Bad Luck. One book after another, her research led her from Norse mythology to Greek and Roman; through the legends of faeries and pixies; and into the folklore of leprechauns. Neither Loki nor Eris nor Puck offered her any clues to the mysterious man in the red cravat. There was nothing to help her in her quest to even identify the miscreant, let alone defeat him. In frustration, she jerked off her spectacles and sank back in her chair.

  "Time misspent and talent misapplied."

  Her heart skipped a beat. She jerked her head up to see Mr. Bad Luck sitting in the chair opposite her.

  "You startled me!"

  His eyes sparkled. "What are you doing?"

  She closed her book. "If you must know, I'm trying to find out who you are."

  "You won't find your answers here, in—" he turned the spine of her book over, "—Folklore and Mythology of the British People."

  "What choice do I have? You won't even tell me your name."

  "I won't tell you my name because it is unpronounceable to you. But if you want to address me, you may call me Mal-Luck."

  "Mal-Luck," she repeated. How appropriate. "Where do you come from?"

  "Not far."

  She remembered her readings. "Are you some sort of a god?"

  "Only when I look in the mirror." He laughed at his own joke. "No, I'm no god."

  "Then how do you have all these powers? How are you able to appear and disappear at will?"

  "There is much you don't understand. And that is among the things I have no intention of explaining."

  Irritation snapped through her. There was little she hated more than knowledge inaccessible to her. "Are you here to curse me?"

  "Curse? No."

  "You told me that you bring ill-fortune."

  "I bring about change…which some people may find unsavory."

  She pursed her lips. "You seem to derive the most unearthly enjoyment from doing that."

  He smiled broadly. "I happen to love what I do."

  "But why me?"

  There it was again, that look of preternatural understanding. "That is a question too often asked from within the storm. The answer is even more illuminating when the question is asked beyond the storm."

  A question mark curled in her forehead. That was a message for her, but the message was wrapped in riddles.

  "Not everything is as it seems, Isha. As I've been telling you all along, it is not your vision that needs correcting. It's your perspective."

  It was so unsettling how much he seemed to know about her. From his nearness to his handsomeness to his perspicacity, everything about him made her uncomfortable.

  "What do you mean?"

  He stood up. "Come with me. I want to ask you something personal."

  She stiffened. "No. I'm through revealing my private thoughts. I've got nothing more to say to you."

  "Fine." He gripped her by the arm. "Then come and say your nothing over here."

  It was impossible to fight his superior strength. She nearly stumbled as he pulled her out of the Reading Room and toward the hall of antiquities. What must others think of her as she was being hauled across the marble floor by an invisible force?

  Finally, Mal-Luck brought her to the foot of a large statue. "There. What do you see?"

  Isha smoothed out her dress, biding her time until the last of the curious onlookers stopped staring at her in bewilderment.

  The piece must have been new to the museum because Isha had never seen it before. The marble was beautifully carved into the figure of a semi-nude woman, one hand resting on a baluster. She was caught in a moment of denuding—the fabric that was draped from her hips to the floor seemed to still be in the process of falling off her beautiful body, exposing her perfectly shaped breasts. Her other hand was raised to her head, grasping the veil from atop her head and lifting it from her face. The most exquisite feature of the statue, however, was the woman's face, which was visible through her veil. How the sculptor could have managed to create the appearance of a diaphanous veil out of marble through which her face showed was a testament to his masterful artistry and skill.

  "I see a statue. A rather superbly crafted statue." A little plaque on the base read the piece's sculptor and its name: RAFFAELLE MONTI. Veritas.

  "And the woman?"

  Her eyes fluttered from the lovely face, down to the pert breasts, across the narrow waist. "She's…beautiful. Stunning. Rather wish I looked like her, actually."

  "And if you could become as beautiful as her?"

  Hope shot through her. Did he really have the power to do that? In a flash, the possibilities opened before her. "You can do that? You can make me beautiful?" She'd rather be clever and pretty than clever and plain.

  Slowly, he shook his head. "I cannot make you beautiful."

  "Oh."

  "I cannot make you beautiful because you already are."

  Not this again. How can he expect her to believe she was beautiful when everything in her life pointed the other way? "I really wish you would stop saying things that I know to be untrue."

  He pointed to the statue. "This is you, Isha. A beautiful woman, her beauty covered. At least the lady in the statue is trying to remove the veil, whereas you…you don't even know you're hiding behind one."

  "Why are you here? Why are you p
laguing me with all of these—" Emotion was rising in her like a tide. "Can't you see how unhappy you're making me? First you ruin my sister's life, and now you're ruining mine. Why should you seek to make us both spinsters?"

  "Whoever said you were to remain a spinster?"

  If he'd upturned a bucket of ice water over her, she couldn't have been more surprised. "What do you mean?"

  "You're going to marry a very special man, Isha. One who isn't intimidated by a woman who is plainspoken, intelligent, and better read than he is. One who delights in a woman who is warm and witty, but who'll be patient as she learns to fill her own shoes. One who doesn't need to feel superior by choosing a woman that feeds his vanity. Though most men want a woman on their arm who makes other men wish they were him, you will have a man who will make other women wish they were you."

  She shook her head. "That man doesn't exist."

  "But he does."

  Her derisive snort drew the look of a couple who entered the hall. "Then that would really require a leap of the imagination."

  For the first time since she'd encountered him, Mal-Luck's expression darkened. Anger fanned to flames behind his darkening scowl.

  "I've had enough of your disbelief. It's time to remove the veil, Isha. Whether you like it or not."

  A tremor went through her, but this time, there was room to escape. "Leave me alone, won't you? For once and for all, leave me alone!" She shouldered past an elderly couple who stared at her as if she'd gone stark raving mad.

  Isha stomped back to the Reading Room to collect her reticule, which she'd left beside the book she'd been reading. Mr. Hastings approached her table.

  "There you are. I was wondering where you'd gotten to. Is there anything else I can get you?"

  "Yes. A headache powder. And a weapon of some kind."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Isha looked up into his puzzled face. "Nothing. I'm sorry, Mr. Hastings. It's been a disconcerting day. Here's the last book you gave me. Thank you for all of your assistance."

  He took the book from her hand, but remained riveted to the spot. As Isha fished around her reticule for a handkerchief, Mr. Hastings tugged on his waistcoat and took a deep breath.