Lucifer's Crown by Lillian Stewart Carl Page A

beak turning right and left, its bright eyes scanning its domain. Then it launched itself toward the north and dwindled into the distance. One white feather drifted down to Rose's feet. “No, it didn't get—oh, there she is."
    The dove's small white head peeped out of a crevice between two stones, no doubt counting its blessings.
    Maggie exhaled. Rose, a dove ... She had to stop looking for signs and portents.
    "I'll leave you to it, shall I?” Alf glided away across the lawn.
    "Thank you,” Maggie called. “Onwards,” she said to her charges, and stepped over the deeply-furrowed stone threshold.
    The tiny chapel was dark and still, redolent of mildew and paint. Dust motes eddied in swords of sunlight that glanced through the narrow western windows. Below the eastern window sat an altar holding a crucifix and a vase of crimson flowers. To one side stood a small wooden cabinet.
    The light drew gleams of color from the niches of a rood screen so old the wood looked moth-eaten. Above it loomed the obviously new crucifix. The figure of the man hanging from its crosspiece curved downward, as though his poor, torn palms ached to embrace every soul standing below and turn misery into triumph. Sunlight danced across the thorns in his crown, making it a crown of stars. Such artistry! Maggie thought.
    Anna stood a bit apart, respectful but unmoved. Rose looked upward with eyes as bright as votive candles. Sean shuffled his feet, playing the bored sophisticate again.
    Maggie did a bit of foot-shuffling herself. It'd been years since she'd attended a church service. Her wedding had been in her mother's Episcopal church. Later, the rite had—no, it was she and Danny who had failed. It was she who had disillusioned herself. The sacraments were valid if you believed in them. What had Gupta implied? That you could choose to believe? But she wasn't sure she believed that, much as she wanted to.
    A man ducked through a second doorway. “Ah, here you are."
    Norman , Maggie thought. Except for his arch of a nose, his body was all straight lines. His eyes were the faded brown of the Bayeux tapestry and the angle of his chin implied aristocratic hauteur. Only a sprinkling of gray in his hair and a few lines and sags in his face conceded age. Maggie had expected Thomas London to be old and frail. This man was no older than fifty. He must have been publishing when he was fifteen.
    He reached up to a dangling socket and inserted a light bulb. Light flooded the niches in the rood screen. Turning around, London said, “Rose, Sean, it's good to see you again. And you must be Ms. Sin...” He stopped abruptly, clearing his throat. “Your name is Sinclair, isn't it?"
    "Maggie Sinclair.” What? Had he seen a wanted poster hanging in the post office? “It's an old Scottish-Norman name."
    "So it is.” His handshake was cool and considered. “Have you by any chance relatives in Scotland?"
    "Not that I know of."
    "But surely the ‘Maggie’ is for Margaret, as in Scotland's St. Margaret."
    "No, it's for Magdalena, I'm afraid.” With the light reflecting off his glasses Maggie couldn't see London's eyes. Still, she took a step back from what she sensed was a very intense gaze. So her name wasn't a common one. She didn't owe him a character sketch of her single-before-it-was-cool-to-be-single mother.
    Anna stepped forward. “My name is Anna Stern, Mr. London."
    "Ah,” he said, and unbent so far as to turn to her and return her handshake. “How do you do, Mrs. Stern. And it's Thomas, please."
    "Then I'm Anna,” she told him.
    "Where did you find such an awesome rood?” asked Rose.
    "I must confess to carving and painting it and the other figures,” Thomas replied.
    "Are you restoring the pictures or making new ones?” Anna asked.
    "Restoring, as best I can."
    Feeling more and more like a one-trick pony, Maggie stepped closer to the screen. A partially completed painting of the Virgin Mary filled the niche beside the doorway. Of the others