only three were finished. “The saints associated with Glastonbury, right? Joseph of Arimathea, Bridget, David of Wales, Dunstan, either St. Paulinus of York or St. Neot of Cornwall..."
"St. Dubricius,” said Thomas, “also known as Merlin."
"Who's the guy carrying his own head?” asked Sean.
"St. Denis."
Maggie protested, “But he's affiliated with Paris."
"I lived for a time in France, in my youth.” Thomas's strong but graceful hands chose a brush from a tray of art supplies.
"You show Bridget with her cow and everything,” said Rose, “but you don't show Joseph holding the Holy Grail."
Thomas smiled gently down on her. “The story of the Holy Grail begins in the mists of pagan antiquity. Now we identify it as the vessel of the Last Supper and Passion of Our Lord. In some stories, though, it is not a vessel at all, but a plate, a reliquary, or even the emerald that fell from the crown of Lucifer when he was cast out of heaven. Some say the Grail was brought to France by Mary Magdalene, or here to Glastonbury by St. Joseph. Churches in Italy and Spain claim to hold the Grail, and it is also reputed to be in a private home in Wales. Some even say it is the philosopher's stone."
"Indiana Jones lost it down a crevasse,” said Sean with a grin.
"Even the Nazis exploited the story,” Anna said.
"Like all demagogues, they perverted the true story to serve their greed for power.” Thomas squeezed tubes of blue and green and mixed the colors. Crouching, he painted a streak of teal below Mary's tranquil face.
The color of a peacock's tail, Maggie thought. The peacock, symbol of Roman Juno, like Mary Queen of Heaven. But Thomas would know that already. No need to point it out.
"Funny,” Rose said, “that Mr. Puckle caters to pilgrims and what he calls loonies when he himself doesn't believe in the supernatural."
"The supernatural? Vampires, witches, demons?” demanded Sean.
"'Supernature’ is a very recent concept,” Maggie said in her best professorial voice. “Most people throughout history have regarded magic as a natural phenomenon. Even if most of us go our entire lives without encountering any magic, mystery, whatever."
Thomas asked, “Would you recognize mystery if you did encounter it?"
The hair rose on the back of Maggie's neck. It was chilly in here, she rationalized. Both physically and psychically. Was he jealous of his academic turf? She sure wasn't a threat to him. “Off we go, y'all. We're looking forward to your lectures, Thomas."
"Maggie. Rose, Sean, Anna.” He bowed slightly, in regal dismissal.
Shooing everyone outside, Maggie reminded herself that she was going to have to work with Thomas London. He would set very high standards for her, let alone the students. His lectures would be delivered in a resonant voice with rounded vowels that made her own American accent sound like a quack ... Don't let him make you feel inferior .
She wondered again if she'd bitten off more than she could chew by taking this trip, and not just because one of her students was already involved in a—murder, she articulated. None of Gupta's assurances were going to change her leap of faith—or her leap of fear—that that's what it was.
Maggie dawdled outside the garden gate, letting the others go on ahead, and told herself that her academic paranoia wasn't important. Especially in the face of murder.
Chapter Six
The sun poured a reddish-gold radiance over ancient house and modern town. The cold air scoured Maggie's lungs of the odors of paint and mildew and something else—the odor of sanctity, maybe, in this saint-haunted place.
A car turned into the parking area, stopping next to the Puckles’ Range Rover and Maggie's leased mini-van. It was so small it was almost a toy, the sort of transportation you bought for the second family car. Inspector Gupta emerged from it like a hermit crab from its shell. “Good evening!” he called to Maggie. “Are you settling in, then?"
Think of the
"St. Dubricius,” said Thomas, “also known as Merlin."
"Who's the guy carrying his own head?” asked Sean.
"St. Denis."
Maggie protested, “But he's affiliated with Paris."
"I lived for a time in France, in my youth.” Thomas's strong but graceful hands chose a brush from a tray of art supplies.
"You show Bridget with her cow and everything,” said Rose, “but you don't show Joseph holding the Holy Grail."
Thomas smiled gently down on her. “The story of the Holy Grail begins in the mists of pagan antiquity. Now we identify it as the vessel of the Last Supper and Passion of Our Lord. In some stories, though, it is not a vessel at all, but a plate, a reliquary, or even the emerald that fell from the crown of Lucifer when he was cast out of heaven. Some say the Grail was brought to France by Mary Magdalene, or here to Glastonbury by St. Joseph. Churches in Italy and Spain claim to hold the Grail, and it is also reputed to be in a private home in Wales. Some even say it is the philosopher's stone."
"Indiana Jones lost it down a crevasse,” said Sean with a grin.
"Even the Nazis exploited the story,” Anna said.
"Like all demagogues, they perverted the true story to serve their greed for power.” Thomas squeezed tubes of blue and green and mixed the colors. Crouching, he painted a streak of teal below Mary's tranquil face.
The color of a peacock's tail, Maggie thought. The peacock, symbol of Roman Juno, like Mary Queen of Heaven. But Thomas would know that already. No need to point it out.
"Funny,” Rose said, “that Mr. Puckle caters to pilgrims and what he calls loonies when he himself doesn't believe in the supernatural."
"The supernatural? Vampires, witches, demons?” demanded Sean.
"'Supernature’ is a very recent concept,” Maggie said in her best professorial voice. “Most people throughout history have regarded magic as a natural phenomenon. Even if most of us go our entire lives without encountering any magic, mystery, whatever."
Thomas asked, “Would you recognize mystery if you did encounter it?"
The hair rose on the back of Maggie's neck. It was chilly in here, she rationalized. Both physically and psychically. Was he jealous of his academic turf? She sure wasn't a threat to him. “Off we go, y'all. We're looking forward to your lectures, Thomas."
"Maggie. Rose, Sean, Anna.” He bowed slightly, in regal dismissal.
Shooing everyone outside, Maggie reminded herself that she was going to have to work with Thomas London. He would set very high standards for her, let alone the students. His lectures would be delivered in a resonant voice with rounded vowels that made her own American accent sound like a quack ... Don't let him make you feel inferior .
She wondered again if she'd bitten off more than she could chew by taking this trip, and not just because one of her students was already involved in a—murder, she articulated. None of Gupta's assurances were going to change her leap of faith—or her leap of fear—that that's what it was.
Maggie dawdled outside the garden gate, letting the others go on ahead, and told herself that her academic paranoia wasn't important. Especially in the face of murder.
Chapter Six
The sun poured a reddish-gold radiance over ancient house and modern town. The cold air scoured Maggie's lungs of the odors of paint and mildew and something else—the odor of sanctity, maybe, in this saint-haunted place.
A car turned into the parking area, stopping next to the Puckles’ Range Rover and Maggie's leased mini-van. It was so small it was almost a toy, the sort of transportation you bought for the second family car. Inspector Gupta emerged from it like a hermit crab from its shell. “Good evening!” he called to Maggie. “Are you settling in, then?"
Think of the
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