He looked like Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man come to life and reclining in repose. The air around him felt charged.
Semele stood watching him until a glimmer of awareness finally returned to her and she realized how this must look. She was a professional, one of the best in her field, and here she was hovering at her client’s bedroom door like a Peeping Tom.
Tiptoeing backward, she fled through the hall and ran down the stairs, jumping the last two. She dashed back to the gallery and closed the door. “Jesus!” That had been completely ridiculous.
Mortified, she put her hands to her face, still in a panic. If she had been discovered … She tried to calm down but spent two solid minutes pacing the room.
Needing a distraction, she grabbed her laptop and made her way to the kitchen for a visit with the chef and a cappuccino. When he offered her a glass of Petite Arvine from the local vineyard, Semele changed her mind.
The debacle upstairs called for wine.
She perched on a stool at the kitchen island and sipped the golden white. The chef tried to offer her a late lunch, but she declined, too worked up to eat.
She opened her laptop to try to take her mind off Theo. What she really wanted to do was read more of the manuscript, but she didn’t feel comfortable working on the translation in front of anyone. What if Theo came downstairs? Just the thought made her stomach do a somersault.
Instead she logged in to her company’s server, where there was a running news stream of sales happening at various auction houses around the world. She forced herself to focus on the recent highlights.
Sotheby’s had sold twelve items of a collection she was quite familiar with for $14.9 million. One of her associates at the firm, Fritz Wagner, had managed the auction. She made a mental note to send him a bottle of champagne when she got back.
A copy of the Torah had set a record, selling for $3.85 million, and a Titanic letter had sold for $200K. It seemed like all the usual suspects were up for grabs this week. Writings from Abraham Lincoln’s journals—the man wrote more than a million words in his lifetime—and works by Thomas Jefferson and the Beatles too. And it looked like Bonhams had just sold the second of two known copies of the first edition of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz for $100K.
The next listing grabbed her attention.
Sotheby’s had auctioned off an entire private manuscript collection for $2.5 million. The collection was billed as “a representation of the history of the written word in Europe” and contained pieces from Early Antiquity to the Renaissance, including several rare works from the Dark and Medieval Ages in a myriad of languages: Latin, Hebrew, Greek, Syriac, Armenian, and Old English. The catalog would be an excellent reference. Semele studied the list of all sixty items and started to take notes.
Half an hour later she reached for her wine and realized she had finished it. When the chef asked if she would like another, she slid the glass forward.
As she watched him pour, she noticed he wore a Geiger watch like her father’s. She had been meaning to ask her mother if she could have the watch as a keepsake, only they weren’t speaking to each other now.
With a sigh she sipped the wine and moved on to checking e-mail. There was one from Bren letting her know he had made a reservation at La Grenouille for tomorrow night.
Her eyebrows rose as she read—the place was a landmark, where Elizabeth Taylor, Frank Sinatra, and Salvador Dalí had all dined by candlelight and roses. Semele and Bren had been to La Grenouille once before on a business dinner with a collector her firm was courting. Over Grand Marnier soufflés Bren had whispered that he’d bring her back for a special occasion. Semele was beginning to wonder just what he had in mind.
Was he planning to turn dinner into something more than an anniversary celebration? An image of him placing a ring-sized box on the table took shape in her mind. Surely he wasn’t going to propose. They weren’t at that stage yet. She brushed the thought aside.
In his e-mail he had attached a funny picture of himself holding a handwritten sign that said LOST AND LONELY. It made her smile.
They had barely spoken the past three weeks. Whenever she tried to call, she got his voice mail because he was tied up in class. Switzerland was five hours ahead, so most of their conversations ended up happening over e-mail and texts. But Bren understood how consumed she was by her assignments. Out of the twenty days she had been in Switzerland, she’d allowed herself only one day off to play tourist.
Last week she had strolled the gorgeous lakeside walk to Château de Chillon, the famous island castle on the edge of Lake Geneva. The castle looked like it was literally rising from the water; its construction was a marvel of architecture and steeped in a thousand years of history. It had been everything from a Roman stronghold to a royal summerhouse to a prison.
Semele spent the morning touring the grounds, looking out Gothic windows and wandering along the sentry walks. She visited the Clos de Chillon wine cellar, where monk François Bonivard, the hero of Lord Byron’s famous poem, had been imprisoned. She did a small tasting of their Grand Cru and bought a bottle to take home to Bren. At the gift shop she also found a leather-bound copy of The Prisoner of Chillon. Wine and Lord Byron would be perfect anniversary gifts. She planned to give him both tomorrow night.
Semele’s fingers flew across the keyboard as she sent Bren a reply—perhaps a sappier one than usual to atone for her unexpected feelings upstairs. Then she finished off her drink and thanked the chef for a wonderful stay. As soon as the courier came, she would be officially done at the château, and she was ready to head home.
She waited for her computer to shut down and zipped it into its case.
Feeling mellow from the wine now, she wandered back into the gallery. A sharp pang of guilt hit her as she realized she’d been half hoping Theo would come downstairs. Although they had said their good-byes this morning, he was still here … and so was she.…
In a bit of a haze, she shut the door and leaned back against the heavy wood and closed her eyes.
“Daydreaming?”
Startled, she turned to find Theo standing in the doorway of his father’s study. He was waiting for her. He had changed into slacks and another sweater. Her eyes reflexively swept over him, but then she caught herself.
“Did you have a chance to take a last tour around the house before you’re off?” A knowing look danced in his eyes.
Semele’s heart hammered in her chest. He had seen her upstairs. “I-I … I wanted to look at your Orbis.…” She hesitated, thinking that didn’t sound right.
“Did you? Look?” He walked toward her.
She watched him close the distance between them. “Is it really an original?” She hated how nervous she sounded. Her conscience screamed for her to back up, to look away, to figure out how to leave the room, but she couldn’t resist the spell that was weaving itself around them.
“I’m afraid this house is full of surprises,” he said softly. “God knows I shouldn’t be down here.” His hand came up and trailed along her cheek. “Tell me to go.”
The desire in his eyes made her forget every thought running through her mind. She wanted him—had wanted him from the first moment they met. Their lips locked, seeking each other, and the tension that had been building between them all these weeks turned into an insatiable dance. It was as though a hand reached inside and turned her like a spinning top.
“Semele,” he whispered and lifted her up.
She felt the table beneath her and his hands as they slid along the silk of her stockings. She leaned back, taking him with her as the kiss deepened. They were almost unable to stop.
It was Theo who pulled away. His breath sounded ragged as he ushered an apology. “I’m sorry.”
Those two words jolted her back to reality. She was lying across the examining table in her client’s arms.
Semele opened her eyes and saw a myriad of emotions play across Theo’s face before his gaze shuttered and the connection between them was severed.
He backed away and gave her room to stand. Her legs wobbled, her whole world off-kilter. She had no idea how to handle the situation—she couldn’t find her voice.
“Forgive me,” he said, sounding like a repentant gentleman from the 1800s. His stilted manner made everything worse. She could barely focus on what he was saying. “I’m afraid I let myself get carried away.” He seemed to be waiting for her response.
“Me too,” she stammered like an idiot.
Before she could recover, he said, “Forgive me,” once more and strode off toward his father’s study. “Safe travels, Miss Cavnow.”
The door closed behind him with a definitive click.
Knight of Swords
After Theo’s exit, Semele crashed back to reality. Her first thought was of Bren.
How could she have done this to him? A flush spread over her as she pictured herself with Theo.
She berated herself while she waited for the courier to come pick up the crates. An endless hour of waiting. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. She was half tempted to call Bren right then and confess.
Tomorrow marked their two-year anniversary. Now she had this—this nightmare, this shame—blackening everything.
A million times she questioned why he had kissed her.
Theo Bossard was a client. They had barely spoken the whole time she was here, and now he dared to leave her with that send-off? It wasn’t as if she could have a fling with a man who lived four thousand miles away, even if she weren’t with Bren—and she was.
The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that Theo had seduced her for sport. If she hadn’t had that damn wine, none of this would have happened.
For the rest of the evening she tried to forget. She ate dinner back at the hotel without tasting a thing. She packed her suitcase on autopilot and then stood under the shower, eyes closed, hoping Theo’s memory would wash away with the water.
She didn’t know how she could tell Bren or how he’d react. The past year had been difficult for them. They had been about to move in together when her father died and they’d agreed to put their plans on hold. Bren had helped her through her father’s death and the rift that had occurred between her and her mother when, after the funeral, Semele had discovered the secrets her parents had been keeping from her.
She kept thinking at some point she and Bren would return to how they were their first year together, before her family had fallen apart. They had been “that couple” in the park on Sundays, lying on a blanket and taking turns resting their heads on each other’s stomachs, while reading books in the sunlight. They cooked dinner together, went grocery shopping together, and for Valentine’s Day they even took a couples’ massage class to learn each other’s pressure points.
All that had changed after the funeral.
Semele mourned by losing herself in her work. It was perhaps the biggest source of tension in their relationship. Bren tried to be patient. They still had their own apartments even though they usually spent the night together.
She knew talk of the future would come up again tomorrow night over dinner. And here she was, sabotaging everything.
Lost in thought, at first she didn’t register the strange noise outside the bathroom.
She heard the shuffle again and turned off the water. Someone was in her hotel room.
She stood paralyzed in the shower until instinct kicked in and she reached out to secure the bathroom lock.
She waited breathlessly, dripping wet, with her ear to the door.
Outside there was a sudden swoosh of movement and the quiet click of a door closing.
Frantic, she wrapped a towel around her body and looked for a weapon. She grabbed the only hard thing she could find—the hair dryer.
The adrenaline coursing through her was a rush unlike anything she’d ever felt before. She undid the lock and charged out with a scream.
The room was empty.
Still charging, still screaming—she whipped open the door and ran down the hall, clutching the towel around her while holding her hair dryer out like pepper spray.
The hall was empty too.
She stopped running and turned a full circle, then lowered the arm holding the dryer. She looked deranged.
An elderly couple stepped off the elevator, and the three stared at each other for an awkward moment. Then the old man gave her a wink.
With an embarrassed smile, Semele hurried back to her room, but not before hearing the woman whisper, “American.”
Semele locked the door and moved the dresser to block the entrance. If an intruder tried to come in again, they’d find a wall of fake oak. Still frantic, she checked her things and found her purse, wallet, computer, and iPad all where she’d left them.
She sat down on the bed and let out a shaky breath, trying to calm down.
Had she imagined it? Had someone been in her room at all?
At this point, she was willing to believe she had been mistaken.
It was almost eleven now and she had to be up early to make her flight, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Between the image of Theo looping through her brain, her anxiety about Bren, and now fending off a phantom intruder with a bathroom appliance, she just wanted to get the hell out of Switzerland and go home.
She was about to turn off the light when she looked at her laptop and froze. Her computer was on, which was impossible. She had turned it off before she’d left the château. She remembered doing it in the kitchen. But now the screen was lit and staring back at her.
The manuscript file was open.
Someone had been looking at her scan. They knew she had a copy.
Semele stared at the ancient Greek script glowing on her computer screen like puzzle pieces waiting to be fit together.
This entire trip she had sensed an invisible shadow following her, and now it had showed itself. She didn’t understand what was happening. The only thing she was certain of was that this manuscript was more than it seemed.
Marcel had tried to warn her.
I must share with you my last days in Alexandria before I can tell you a different tale. For there is more to this story. My journey as a seer truly began when I read the Oracle’s scroll. The day Ariston gave me his translation was also the last day I would see him in Alexandria.
I found him waiting for me in the library, in a reading room that held works on anatomy. He was usually in that chamber.
Ariston had come to Alexandria to study the great works of Herophilus, the physician who founded Alexandria’s school of medicine hundreds of years ago. The library housed all his research. Herophilus had devoted his life to dissecting the human body to gain knowledge of its inner mysteries, and he had written countless texts on the subject. Ariston had been studying Herophilus’ collection so he could take the knowledge back home. Ariston’s father was a renowned physician in Antioch, and Ariston was expected to follow the same path.
Each year thousands like him made the pilgrimage to Alexandria to research and leave their work alongside masters. They were honored to have their names printed in the library’s illustrious registry. The prestige carried weight, even back in their homelands. Soon Ariston’s time in Alexandria would be over. I could not bear to think of life without him.
When I met him in the reading room that day, he gave me such a perplexed look, as if I had suddenly become a mystery to unravel. Then the question in his eyes vanished and he smiled.
We went outside and headed toward the harbor, which had earned Alexandria its reputation for being the grandest port in the world. The market of vendors with wares from faraway regions stretched along the seawall like bands of colored thread. Spices wafted and danced in the air, obscuring the smell of livestock. We passed by stalls where artisans performed their trades and musicians played for coin.
Ariston bought two roasted dates and we strolled south toward the Gate of the Sun. Lake Mareotis glistened in the distance.
I didn’t think t
he moment could be more perfect, but when I looked over at him, he was staring at me strangely again.
“I finished the translation,” he said after a long pause. “The scroll was written by the Oracle of Wadjet.”
He let this news hover in the air. For a moment I couldn’t speak.
The Oracle of Wadjet existed thousands of years ago. Wadjet was a goddess, one of the earliest deities ever recorded. She had been the daughter of Atum-Ra, the creator Sun God, and as legends went, she had been transformed into a cobra to protect the pharaohs, the land of Egypt, and the all-seeing Eye of Horus. Regarded as the world’s first seer, Wadjet influenced every oracle to come, including the Greek Oracles of Delphi and Dodona over a thousand years later.
Oracles supposedly had a direct connection to the divine, and the Oracle of Wadjet had been a powerful beacon in the ancient world, but her writings and her prophecies had become lost three thousand years ago when Egypt moved its epicenter to Memphis. Ariston’s discovery was beyond incredible. We had found a set of symbols she had used and a scroll written by her hand.
“She wrote the scroll knowing…” He trailed off.
“Knowing what?” I asked. I was filled with trepidation. He had read something in the scroll that changed the way he looked at me.
“It’s not for me to say. Read my translation when you get home.”
Part of me wanted to go home and read it right away. But that would cut short our afternoon together and I didn’t know how much longer Ariston would remain in Alexandria. I had a sinking feeling his time at the library had come to an end.
“You promised to show me your uncle’s newest invention,” I reminded him, trying to dispel the gloom that had settled over us.
“Are you sure you still want to see?”
“Of course I do!”
We tacitly agreed not to discuss the scroll any further. Instead we took off, hand in hand, toward the Royal Quarters and Emporium, where countless temples encompassed the heart of the city. On any one street people could pray to a variety of deities, Zeus and Jupiter, Isis and Osiris, the Jewish god Yahweh, the Persian god Mithra, or Serapis, a god the Ptolemies introduced to bind themselves to the Egyptians and their mysticism.
The Fortune Teller Page 4
