Bright Hair About the Bone by Barbara Cleverly

carrying all the final authority of a Roman emperor’s extended left thumb. Custos’ hands, the Frenchman thought, always moved with the gestures of an actor: dismissive, encouraging, emphatic, never hesitant. Decisions, once made, were never questioned.
    A silence followed.
    Custos stirred impatiently and the ring flew out in a very French gesture of amused disbelief. “You are not happy with this?”
    â€œNot entirely. Forgive me. If I may advise? The girl’s a nuisance, I agree, but ought we to ask what is drawing her here? Could it be that she is following information we were unaware she had? Information that escaped our watchers? Has she shared it? I think we should encourage her to reveal the extent of her knowledge and the names of those others who are a party to it. Always a mistake, I believe, to attempt to tear up a weed by its green leaves. Better to insert the tines of a fork at some distance from the stem and exert leverage to ascertain how far the roots are spreading. That way, one may more securely extract the whole.”
    â€œIt’s too early. I want no hound snuffling her way along this trail. The quarry must remain where it has always been. Undisturbed. Safe. We wait for the time. All will be made clear…You are not convinced?”
    â€œHad you thought, Custos,” the Frenchman murmured uneasily, “that this may
be
the time?”
    He’d prepared his argument and knew that his words would sound rehearsed—archaic formulae. They always did in this setting. The medieval walls, unsoftened by tapestries, replayed their voices. The attentive eyes of his companion fixed him, accepting—even inviting—dissent, but expecting nothing less than the truth.
    He continued awkwardly into a frozen silence. “The world has changed out of all recognition in the last decade…“since the war. So many Frenchmen dead…the English and German losses also—crippling…young men from as far away as India, America, Australia…the flower of our armies cut down…and more than that—the flower of the nations. The boldest and the best are gone. We are left in the uncertain hands of the second-rate, the hesitant…”
    â€œâ€¦the self-serving and the shirker,” added Custos, with a nod of encouragement.
    â€œEurope has changed, is changing, and the speed of change is accelerating. There are no more certainties. Everywhere there is dissatisfaction, disillusion, and loss of faith. The churches have emptied. The land has been ploughed and harrowed and enriched with the spilt blood of our young men, Custos. It lies ready for the seed. And there are those in the east, godless men, who stand by ready to sow…in
our
furrows. I would not like to think we had misjudged the moment. That we had left the fertile earth open to an alien corn.”
    His words were being heard with patience and sympathy. Formulaic phrases, an ecclesiastical tone—that was the way to engage the attention of Custos.
    â€œIt’s not up to us to turn the hands of the clock this way or that. We’d all count ourselves blessed to live through the moment, but you and I, my friend, will not see it. Our job is to hold firm the doors against those who would rush them in a premature assault,” Custos told him.
    The expected answer. He nodded acquiescence. This was the point at which he normally ceased to argue, but tonight he persisted. He began again, apologetically, swirling the last few drops of cognac around in his glass. “I wonder if you have heard today’s news from Paris?”
    â€œGo on.”
    â€œThe Atlantic has been crossed. By a young American pilot. What he has done, others will now hurry to imitate. The continents no longer seem so far apart, connected as they already are by telephone, telegram, and radio waves.”
    His modern words sounded ridiculous bouncing off the ancient walls.
    â€œWe were prepared for this. You