The Key Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  Pitte lifted a carved box, opened the lid. “Inside are two disks, one with the emblem of the key. Whoever chooses the scribed disk is charged to find the second key.”

  “Like last time, okay?” Zoe gave Dana’s hand a hard squeeze. “We look together.”

  “Okay.” Dana took a slow breath as Malory stepped up, laid a hand on her shoulder, then Zoe’s. “Want to go first?”

  “Gosh. I guess.” Closing her eyes, Zoe reached into the box, closed her hand over a disk.

  With her eyes open and on the portrait, Dana took the one that remained.

  Then each held her disk out.

  “Well.” Zoe stared at her disk, at Dana’s. “Looks like I’m running the anchor lap.”

  Dana ran her thumb over the key carved in her disk. It was a small thing, that key, a straight bar with a spiral design on one end. It looked simple, but she’d seen the real thing—she’d seen the first key in Malory’s hand, burning with gold, and knew it wasn’t simple at all.

  “Okay, I’m up.” She wanted to sit, but locked her shaky knees instead. Four weeks, she thought. She had four weeks from new moon to new moon to do if not the impossible at least the fantastic.

  “I get a clue, right?”

  “You do.” Rowena took up a sheet of parchment and read:

  “You know the past and seek the future. What was, what is, what will be are woven into the tapestry of all life. With beauty there is blight, with knowledge, ignorance, and with valor there is cowardice. One is lessened without its opposite.

  “To know the key, the mind must recognize the heart, and the heart celebrate the mind. Find your truth in his lies, and what is real within the fantasy.

  “Where one goddess walks, another waits, and dreams are only memories yet to come.”

  Dana picked up a snifter of brandy, drank deep to untie the knots in her belly. “Piece of cake,” she said.

  Chapter Two

  “MCDONALD’S introduced the Big Mac in 1968.” Dana swiveled lazily in her chair at the library’s resource desk. “Yes, Mr. Hertz, I’m positive. The Big Mac went system-wide in ’68, not ’69, so you’ve had a year more of the secret sauce than you thought. Looks like Mr. Foy got you on this one, huh?” She laughed, shook her head. “Better luck tomorrow.”

  She hung up the phone and crossed the Hertz/Foy daily bet off her list, then meticulously noted today’s winner on the tally sheet she kept.

  Mr. Hertz had nipped Mr. Foy at the end of last month’s round, which netted him lunch at the Main Street Diner on Mr. Foy’s tab. Though for the year, she noted, Foy was two points up, so he had the edge on bagging dinner and drinks at the Mountain View Inn, the coveted annual prize.

  This month, they were neck and neck, so it was still anybody’s game. It was her task to officially announce the winner each month, and then, with a great deal more ceremony, the trivia champ at year’s end.

  The two had kept their little contest going for nearly twenty years. She’d been part of it, or had felt like part of it, since she’d started her job at the Pleasant Valley Library with her college degree still crisp in her hand.

  The daily ritual was something she would miss when she turned in her resignation.

  Then Sandi breezed by with her bouncy blond ponytail and permanent beauty-contestant smile, and Dana thought there were certain things she would definitely not miss.

  The fact was, she should have given her two weeks’ notice already. Her hours at the library were down to a stingy twenty-five a week. But that time could be put to good use elsewhere.

  She’d be opening her bookstore, her part of Indulgence, the communal business she was starting with Zoe and Malory, in just a couple of months. Not only did she have to finish organizing and decorating her space in the building they’d bought, but she had to deal with ordering stock.

  She’d applied for all the necessary licenses, had already combed through publishers’ catalogues, fantasized about her sidelines. She would serve tea in the afternoon, wine in the evening. Eventually she would hold elegant little events. Readings, signings, appearances.

  It was something she’d always wanted to do but had never really believed she could accomplish.

  She supposed Rowena and Pitte had made it possible. Not only because of the twenty-five thousand in cold, hard cash they’d given her and the others as an incentive to agree to the quest, but also by putting her together with Malory and Zoe.

  Each of them had been at a crossroads of sorts the first night they’d met at Warrior’s Peak. And they’d made the turn, chosen the path to follow together.

  It wasn’t nearly as scary thinking of starting her own business when she had two friends—two partners—doing the same thing.

  Then there was the key. Of course, she couldn’t forget the key. It had taken Malory nearly all of the four weeks allowed to find the first. And it hadn’t been all fun and games. Far from it.

  Still, they knew more now, more about what they were up against, more about what was at stake. That had to be an advantage for this round.

  Unless you considered that knowing where the keys came from, what they did, and who didn’t want them found had absolutely nothing to do with finding one.

  She sat back, closed her eyes, and pondered the clue Rowena had given her. It had to do with the past, the present, and the future.

  Big help.

  Knowledge, naturally. Lies and truths. Heart and mind.

  Where one goddess walks.

  There’d been a goddess, a singing goddess, in Malory’s clue. And Malory—the art lover who’d dreamed of being an artist—had found her key in a painting.

  If the other two followed the same theme, logic dictated that she, the book lover, might find hers in or around books.

  “Catching up on your sleep, Dana?”

  Dana’s eyes snapped open, stared directly into Joan’s disapproving ones. “No. Concentrating.”

  “If you’ve nothing better to do, you can help Marilyn in the stacks.”

  Dana pasted a sunny smile on her face. “I’d be happy to. Should I ask Sandi to take over the resource desk?”

  “You don’t seem overrun with questions and requests.”

  And you don’t seem overrun with paperwork and administrative duties, Dana thought, since you’ve got so much time to crawl up my butt. “I’ve just completed one involving private enterprise and capitalism. But if you’d rather I—”

  “Excuse me.” A woman stopped at the desk, with her hand on the arm of a boy of about twelve. The grip made Dana think of the way Flynn held Moe’s leash. With the hope that she could keep him under control and the certain knowledge that he would bolt at the first opportunity.

  “I wonder if you could help us. My son has a paper due . . . tomorrow,” she added with heated emphasis that had the boy hunching his shoulders. “On the Continental Congress. Can you tell us which books might be the most helpful at this stage of the game?”

  “Of course.” Like a chameleon, Joan’s cold fish of a face warmed into smiles. “I’d be happy to show you several sources in our U.S. history section.”

  “Excuse me.” Unable to help herself, Dana tapped the sulky boy on the shoulder. “Seventh grade? Mrs. Janesburg, U.S. history?”

  His already pouty bottom lip drooped even further. “Yeah.”

  “I know just what she looks for. You put in a couple of solid hours on this, you can ace it.”

  “Really?” The mother laid a hand on Dana’s, gripped it like a lifeline. “That would be a miracle.”

  “I had Mrs. Janesburg for U.S. and world history.” Dana winked at the boy. “I’ve got her number.”

  “I’ll leave you in Ms. Steele’s capable hands.” Though her smile remained in place, Joan spoke through gritted teeth.

  Dana leaned forward, spoke to the boy in a conspiratorial whisper. “She still get teary-eyed when she teaches Patrick Henry’s ‘Give me liberty’ spiel?”

  He brightened up considerably. “Yeah. She had to stop and blo
w her nose.”

  “Some things never change. Okay, here’s what you need.”

  Fifteen minutes later, while her son checked out his books with his brand-new library card, the mother stopped back by Dana’s desk. “I just wanted to thank you again. I’m Joanne Reardon, and you’ve just saved my firstborn’s life.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Janesburg’s tough, but she wouldn’t have killed him.”

  “No. I would have. You got Matt excited about doing this paper, if for no other reason than making him think he’d be pulling one over on his teacher.”

  “Whatever works.”

  “My sentiments exactly. Anyway, I appreciate it. You’re wonderful at your job.”

  “Thanks. Good luck.”

  She was wonderful at her job, Dana concurred. Goddamn it, she was. The evil Joan and her toothy niece were going to be sorry when they didn’t have Dana Steele to kick around anymore.

  AT the end of her shift she tidied her area, gathered up a few books she’d checked out, then hefted her briefcase. Another thing she would miss, Dana thought, was this end-of-the-day routine. The putting everything in order, taking a last look around the stacks, the tables, the sweet little cathedral to books before the walk home.

  She would also miss being just a short, pleasant walk from work to her apartment. It was only one of the reasons she had refused to move in with Flynn when he’d bought his house.

  She could still walk to Indulgence, she reminded herself. If she felt like a two-mile hike. Since that was unlikely to happen, she decided she should appreciate what she had now, while she still had it.

  She liked the predictability of her habitual route home, the things she saw season by season, year by year. Now, with fall in full swing, the streets were full of golden lights that streamed through the blaze of trees. And the surrounding mountains rose up like some fabulous tapestry woven by the gods.

  She could hear kids, freed from school and not yet locked into the homework hour, shouting as they raced around the little park between the library and her apartment building. The air was just brisk enough to carry along that spicy scent from the bed of mums planted outside the town hall.

  The big round clock on the square announced it was 4:05.

  She struggled against a wave of resentment when she remembered that, pre-Joan, it would have read 6:35 on her way home.

  Screw it. Just appreciate the extra time, the lovely walk on a sunny afternoon.

  Pumpkins on the porches, goblins hanging from branches though it was weeks before Halloween. Small towns, she mused, prized their holidays. The days were getting shorter, cooler, but were still warm enough, still long enough to bask in.

  The Valley was at its best in autumn, she decided. As close to picture-perfect as Anywhere, America, could get.

  “Hey, Stretch. Carry those for you?”

  Her pretty bubble of contentment burst. Before she could snarl, Jordan snatched the load of books away, tucked them under his own arm.

  “Give me those.”

  “I’ve got them. Terrific afternoon, huh? Nothing like the Valley in October.”

  She hated that his words mirrored the ones that had played through her mind. “I thought the name of the tune was ‘Autumn in New York.’ ”

  “And it’s a good one.” He tipped up the books to read the spines. She had one on Celtic lore, one on yoga, and the latest Stephen King novel.

  “Yoga?”

  It was like him, just exactly like him, to home in on the one thing that she found moderately embarrassing. “So?”

  “Nothing. Just can’t see you assuming the dragonfly position or whatever.” He narrowed his eyes, and something appealingly wicked moved into the blue. “On second thought . . .”

  “Haven’t you got anything better to do than skulking around the library waiting to accost and annoy me?”

  “I wasn’t skulking, and hauling your books isn’t accosting.” He matched his stride to hers with the ease of long familiarity. “It’s not the first time I’ve walked you home.”

  “Somehow I’ve managed to find my way without you the last several years.”

  “You’ve managed a lot of things. How’s your dad doing?”

  She bit back a vicious remark because she knew, for all his many flaws, that Jordan asked the question out of a sincere concern. Joe Steele and Jordan Hawke had gotten on like white on rice.

  “He’s good. He’s doing good. The move to Arizona was what he needed. He and Liz have a nice place, a nice life. He’s taken up baking.”

  “Baking? Like cakes? Joe bakes cakes?”

  “And scones and fancy bread.” She couldn’t stop the smile. The thought of her father, big, macho Joe, in an apron whipping up cake batter got her every time. “I get a care package every couple of months. First few contributions made excellent doorstops, but in the last year or so he’s found his rhythm. He makes good stuff.”

  “Give him my best next time you talk to him.”

  She shrugged. She didn’t intend to mention Jordan Hawke’s name, unless it was in a curse. “End of the road,” she said when they reached the door of her apartment building.

  “I want to come in.”

  “Not in this or any other lifetime.” She reached for the books, he swung them out of reach. “Cut it out, Jordan. We’re not ten.”

  “We have things to talk about.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Yes, we do. And stop making me feel like I’m ten.” He hissed out a breath, prayed for patience. “Look, Dana, we’ve got a history. Let’s deal with it like grown-ups.”

  Damn if he would so much as hint that she was being immature. The pinhead. “Okay, here’s how we’ll deal with it. Give me my books and go away.”

  “Did you listen to what Rowena said last night?” There was an edge in the tone now, one that warned her a good, sweaty argument was brewing. “Did you pay any attention? Your past, present, and future. I’m part of your past. I’m part of this.”

  “In my past is just where you’re going to stay. I wasted two years of my life on you. But that’s done. Can’t you stand it, Jordan? Can’t your enormous ego handle the fact that I got over you? Way over you.”

  “This isn’t about my ego, Dana.” He handed her back her books. “But it sure as hell seems to be about yours. You know where to find me when you’re ready.”

  “I don’t want to find you,” she murmured when he strode away.

  Damn it, it wasn’t like him to walk away from a fight. She’d seen the temper on his face, heard it in his voice. Since when had he yanked the snarling beast back and hauled it off?

  She had been primed for the argument, and now she had nowhere to vent her spleen. That was very, very nasty.

  Inside her apartment, she dumped her books on the table and headed straight for the Ben and Jerry’s. Soon she was soothing her ruffled feathers with a pint of cookie dough straight out of the carton.

  “Bastard. Sneaky bastard, getting me all riled up and skulking off. These calories are his fault.”

  She licked the spoon, dug for more. “But, damn, they’re really good.”

  Refreshed, she changed into sweats, brewed a pot of coffee, then settled into her favorite chair with the new book on Celtic lore.

  She couldn’t count the number of books on the subject she’d read in the last month. But then again, to Dana, reading was every bit as pleasurable as Ben and Jerry’s and as essential to life as the next breath of air.

  She surrounded herself with books at work and at home. Her living space was a testament to her first and abiding love, with shelves jammed with books, tables crowded with them. She saw them not only as knowledge, entertainment, comfort, even sanity, but as a kind of artful decoration.

  To the casual eye, the books that streamed and flowed over shelves in nooks, on tabletops, might look like a haphazard, even disordered, jumble. But the librarian in Dana insisted on a system.

  She could, on her whim or on request, put her hand on any title in any room
in the apartment.

  She couldn’t live without books, without the stories, the information, the worlds that lived inside them. Even now, with the task ahead of her and the clock already ticking, she fell into the words on the pages in her hands, and into the lives, the loves, the wars, the petty grievances of the gods.

  Absorbed, she jumped at the knock on her door. Blinking, she came back to reality, noted that the sun had set while she’d been visiting with Dagda, Epona, and Lug.

  Book in hand, she went to answer, then lifted her eyebrows at Malory. “What’s up?”

  “I thought I’d swing by and see what you were up to before I headed home. I’ve spent the day talking to some local artists and craftspeople. I think I’ve got a good start on pieces for my gallery.”

  “Cool. Got any food on you? I’m starved.”

  “A tin of Altoids and half a roll of Life Savers.”

  “That’s not going to work,” Dana decided. “I’m going to forage. You hungry?”

  “No, go ahead. Any brilliant ideas? Anything you want Zoe and me to do?” Malory asked as she followed Dana into the kitchen.

  “I don’t know how brilliant. Spaghetti! Hot damn.” Dana came out of the refrigerator with a bowl of leftover pasta. “You want?”

  “Nope.”

  “Got some Cabernet to go with it.”

  “That I’ll have. One glass.” At home in Dana’s kitchen, Malory got out wineglasses. “What’s the idea, brilliant or not?”

  “Books. You know, the whole knowledge thing. And the past, present, future. If we’re talking about mine, it’s all about the books.” She dug out a fork and began to eat the pasta straight out of the bowl. “The trick is which book, or what kind of book.”

  “Don’t you want to heat that up?”

  “What?” Baffled, Dana looked down at the spaghetti in the bowl. “Why?”

  “No reason.” Malory handed Dana a glass of wine, then took her own and wandered out to sit at the table. “A book or books makes sense, at least in part. And it gives you a path to take. But . . .”

  She scanned Dana’s apartment. “What you yourself personally own would take weeks to get through. Then there’s what everyone else in the Valley owns, the library, the bookstore at the mall, and so on.”