by Magnus Flyte
Max’s Czech wolfhound entered the room, with what looked like a small chew toy in his mouth.
“Moritz, put that down,” Max ordered, and the dog opened his maw obediently. The damp Chihuahua yelped and skittered under the bed.
“Will you be attending Elisa’s funeral?” Sarah asked, as Max turned and began kissing her shoulder.
“Too distraught,” he said. “Oh, that reminds me. The police turned over Elisa’s personal effects to me, and there was something I wanted to give you.” Max turned to the bedside table and began rummaging in the drawer.
“I don’t want anything that belonged to that woman,” Sarah said.
“It didn’t belong to her,” Max said. “It belonged to the 7th.” He put something small but heavy in Sarah’s hand. She looked down.
It was an Aztec amulet vial on a thin gold chain, with a strange warlike figure on it. Beethoven’s gift to his Lobkowicz patron. And now a Lobkowicz was giving it to her.
“How . . . ?” Sarah began to ask.
Max shrugged. “Elisa must have stolen it.”
“It belongs in a museum,” Sarah said, tracing the pattern of the Aztec god on its surface. “It belongs in your museum.”
“Yeah, well, there wouldn’t be a museum or a me,” Max said, fastening the chain around her neck where it glowed darkly, “if it weren’t for you.”
“Max, can I ask you something?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“What did you have Nico take to Venice? You had something put in the safe at the Hotel Gritti Palace. I read the letter, actually. Remember? Jana gave it to me to give to you . . . ?”
“My little Nancy Drew,” growled Max, diving below the covers.
“What was it?” Sarah sighed happily. “No, really, Max. Tell me.”
He popped up from under the sheet.
“A book,” he said. “By one Zosimos of Panopolis. He wrote the oldest known books on alchemy around AD 330.”
“No more alchemy,” groaned Sarah.
“This one’s not about alchemy, it’s about the Golden Fleece,” said Max.
“Really?” Sarah sat up. “What does it say?”
“I don’t know yet. I haven’t f
ound anyone who speaks the language it’s written in.”
“What language is it?”
“No one can figure that out. There’s someone in Venice I want to show it to, but he’s away for the summer. For nÀow it’s sitting in a hotel safe.”
“So the quest for the Fleece isn’t over?”
“It’s my sworn duty to protect the Fleece,” said Max gravely. “Whatever it is. Which means I need to find it.”
Max’s assumption of the mantle of duty coincided with Sarah’s finally letting go of hers. For the first time in her life she felt free. Free of the sadness and the confused guilt over her father’s death. Free of the need to prove herself, rise above her background, show the world she was just as smart, smarter. Free of the little compartments she had put people and things in: work, ambition, sex, love.
“But you don’t have to find it today,” she said, firmly shoving Max’s head back down under the covers.
Because after all, time didn’t really exist.
• • •
A few days later, tearfully, the governor of Virginia picked a close friend of the president’s to replace Charlotte Yates until the next election. The creation of a Charlotte Yates Library was announced. The nation’s period of mourning for its groundbreaking feminist hero ended as the World Series began.
SIXTY-SIX
Sarah picked up the envelope and sniffed it.
“It’s from Lobkowicz Palace,” said Bailey, grinning.
They had offered her a new office, but she had preferred to stay in the attic with Bailey, even though, since falling in love with a Korean harpist, his madrigals had gotten unbearably cloying.
It had been a busy year.
Max had offered her a position at his museum, of course. And of course she had said no. That wasn’t how she rolled, and she was determined to finish her PhD, anyway. Although if he wanted to offer her unlimited access to the archives . . .
She had come back to Boston and written a paper on the unpublished correspondence of Joseph Franz Maximilian Lobkowicz and Ludwig van Beethoven. She had not included the letters she had found in the violin. She hadn’t quite figured out how to explain it all. Yet. Still, she managed to make a pretty interesting thing of the relationship, and her paper had been widely talked about. The New Yorker had even printed an excerpt.
To everyone’s surprise, Pols had announced she was staying in Prague. Her parents bought a large apartment on Prokopova, and she accepted a job at the museum. Apparently she had developed quite a fondness for the city, and even taken, in her odd way, to performing. Max had hired her to play in the daily concerts that took place at noon in the Concert Hall for the tourists. She was proving to be quite the little tyrant in terms of music selection, additional musician hiring, and her salary. Max called her his “little LVB” and she called him “Fitzliputzli.” They both enjoyed the historical precedence for this kind of thing, and Max said he hoped Pollina would dedicate a symphony to him one day. Borisƀ and Jose had adapted to life in the Czech Republic very well. Jose was dating a fireman. Max had commissioned a portrait of Boris to hang in the Dog Room, in a place of honor. Boris and Moritz enjoyed long walks together in the Deer Moat, while the Chihuahua cleared the squirrels from their path.
Pollina had insisted that the Holy Infant of Prague be restored to its rightful place with the Carmelite nuns at the Church of Our Lady Victorious. Nico had arranged the transfer. Pols attributed her return to perfect health and a three-inch growth spurt to this act of piety, but Sarah thought it might have more to do with the extensive regimen of vitamins Oksana had prescribed.
Max had offered to help Stefania find her former lover, the American she had been separated from in the 1970s, but she had refused. Sarah suspected that Stefania, with typical Slavic pessimism, was certain that any meeting would be a disappointment. Perhaps she was right, although the new, begrudgingly romantic Sarah kind of hoped she would change her mind. At least Max had convinced her to let him pay for some orthopedic surgery and given her a generous pension. He was trying to arrange a position for her as a teacher at the Czech National Ballet. It wasn’t enough to be alive. Everyone needed something to live for.
Or die for. Sarah hadn’t heard from
Nico in a while. Max had found the ancient Italian scholar who seemed to be able to partially translate the mysterious book about the Fleece. Nico had been immediately dispatched to follow up on clues.
Max. He was an old-fashioned guy. He liked sending her handwritten letters. He sent flowers. He made a surprise visit to Boston and had gone down on her right here in her office. . . .
Sarah coughed and opened the letter. The first thing that fell out was a page from a book. Sarah smiled. Ever since she had parted from Max, he had been sending her one page a day from the children’s book his grandfather had written, the one about the house with the secret room. He could have just sent her the whole book, of course, but that was not Max. He was tantalizing her. Sarah read the page, on which Sally and Cindy find a mysterious hidden door behind an old bookcase. And then they take a break for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Sarah smiled to herself. She was putting the page back into the envelop
e when she noticed something else inside. She shook the envelope and it fell onto her desk.
“Hey,” said Bailey, grabbing for it. “An airplane ticket!”
“Give it to me,” she said, snatching up his bobblehead. “Or I will decapitate this troubadour.”
Bailey meekly handed her the envelope.
Stuck to the ticket was a Post-it note. Think we found another Door That Should Not Be Opened. Bring the key!
Sarah looked at the ticket and smiled. Her nose was already twitching.
Acknowledgments
Magnus Flyte would
like to thank the following for their invaluable assistance, counsel, donated services, patience, fortitude, and sense of humor:
Charlotte Sommer, whose passion for Prague and mysteries inspired this volume. Bruce Walker, master of the alchemy of wine and conversation. John and Jennifer Brancato, experts in burrata and action sequences. Loren Segan, who masterminds a vast conspiracy of kindness. Art Streiber, who waited twenty-three years to take the picture. Mark Ganem, Web wizard and keeper of the passwords. Travis Tanner, who made horses and humans feel like supermodels. Danielle Belen, who knows her way around a violin. Kathleen McCleary, cheerleader extraordinaire. Betty Luceigh, whose courses nourish the imagination. Claudia Cross and Sally Brady, without whom this book would still be a work in progress. And Carolyn Carlson, who knows no fear.
Editor’s Note
Because Magnus Flyte can be quite elusive and shuns the public eye, we would like to thank Mr. Flyte’s representatives for their cooperation in the publication of this book:
Meg Howrey is the author of the novels Blind Sight and The Cranes Dance.
Christina Lynch is a television writer and journalist.
—C. C.
Table of Contents
Praise for City of Dark Magic
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Map
Epigraph
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
SIXTY-SIX
Acknowledgments
Editor’s Note
