Free Lucifer's Crown by Lillian Stewart Carl Page B

rages—the story was he was descended from the Devil—and off they went, swords drawn, thinking they'd make points. No pun intended,” Maggie added. “There's only one imprint of Becket's personal seal known, no one's ever found an official one, and you've got both. These are genuine, right? As the kids would say, that's too absolutely cool for words."
    Any moment now Maggie would notice that she was performing a monologue. Clearing his throat, Thomas said, “One of the joys of owning an old house is that the most amazing objects turn up in the lumber rooms."
    Maggie tucked her eyeglasses away. With a positively post-coital sigh she collapsed into a chair. “So what else do you have? The Holy Grail?"
    Thomas's face relaxed into a most unaccustomed grin. With a flourish he set the teapot on the table. Yes, by all things holy and a few that are not.
    Maggie's body was tautening, again taking offense at his manner. “Nothing like telling a scholar what he already knows. Less than he knows—I don't have a doctorate."
    "Nor do I.” He sat down, poured the tea, strong and fragrant, into her cup, and pushed the sugar bowl toward her. “You're the first person to recognize those seals for what they are. Memento mori —souvenirs of death."
    "My Ph.D. dissertation was on the tangle of politics and religion in twelfth-century England. I never finished it, though. I got married. You wouldn't think those would be mutually exclusive, but they were.” She spooned sugar into her cup. “In Mexico today is El Dia de los Muertos , the Day of the Dead."
    "All Souls’ Day,” Thomas said. “A time to remember that death is not in and of itself evil."
    "The bell-ringing last night was—evocative. So was the music you played."
    "Music? I rang St. Bridget's bell is all."
    "Oh. I thought I heard a flute or ... Never mind."
    Yes . He chose his words carefully. “Perhaps the ringing of the bell serves less to drive away evil spirits than to attract good ones."
    Maggie looked up. Her brown eyes were the color of bittersweet chocolate. He was reminded of what Rose had said about wanting romance and magic. But what in the girl was an exciting itch of possibility had in the woman become the ache of needs unfulfilled. What in the girl was a desire for knowledge was in the woman a desire for truth. Did she, too, have need of a new friend? Even when he bent his head over his own cup he could feel her gaze probing him. She thought he was a bit cracked. Yet her bearing was more bemused than critical, and her posture was almost relaxed, like a sentry setting his sword to the side but still close at hand.
    The tea filled Thomas's mouth with hints of new-mown hay, blackberry jam, caramel. “Yes, Anouilh's Becket was too cool, never revealing the passion and the pride searing the man's soul. I prefer Eliot's version."
    " Murder in the Cathedral , yes. How does it go? The last temptation is the worst treason, to do the right thing for the wrong reason."
    Closing his eyes, Thomas felt his heart swell painfully, like a long dried fruit at last blessed with moisture. Patterns of coincidence and harmony. Rose, faith, and grace. Thanks be to the merciful hand of God, and to the quick tongue of Magdalena Sinclair.
    He opened his eyes. She was watching him, demanding the truth. He inhaled ... And was interrupted by a smart rap at the door. Thomas exhaled. “Come in!"
    "Ms. Sinclair,” said Jivan Gupta, closing the door behind him. “Thomas."
    "It's Maggie,” she told him, and added sugar to the cup she'd already sweetened.
    Thomas said, “Good afternoon, Jivan. Sit down. Have a cuppa."
    "Thank you.” Jivan sank into the third chair at the table. His moustache drooped, and a faint gray tint to his complexion hinted of too many meals eaten from takeaway containers and too little sleep anywhere, let alone in his own bed. He accepted the cup of tea and drank deeply. When he spoke, his consonants were tightly clipped. “A preliminary toxicology report