editor, nor Griffin had caught the error. Somehow in the editing process they’d been deleted.
Despite producing the manuscript and the allegations being dropped, the damage was done. And it was hell. Griffin had been through an accusation of plagiarism before, in graduate school. It had almost destroyed his chances for his degree and had cost him the woman he’d loved.
And now he had to live through it again.
He could have gotten through it intact if he hadn’t seen the doubt in his wife’s eyes; the same doubt he’d seen in Jac’s eyes so many years before.
He told Therese he wanted a separation.
For the rest of the morning, Griffin struggled to piece together the next shard and then the next. With three new ones in position, he scrutinized the glyphs for their meaning, testing each word against the previous one, rejecting some choices, finding alternative interpretations, testing again.
While he worked, Griffin became aware of scents swirling around him, merging, melding together in fragrances.
“What are you mixing up? It’s starting to smell like an old tomb in here.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Robbie said and gestured toward a dozen glass bottles on the tabletop. Each was filled with a few inches of liquid—each a different shade of amber, from a pale yellow to a deep rich mahogany. Sunlight pouring through the doors sent colored flecks of light dancing. The visual interplay as intriguing as the mixture of musky scents.
“I’m trying to amass all the essences and absolutes that we know ancient Egyptians used and that are still available. I want to be prepared when you find that list of ingredients—”
“If,” Griffin interrupted.
“When,” Robbie corrected emphatically.
Robbie’s enthusiasm was as contagious as ever. Griffin remembered him as a thirteen-year-old boy rooting through the ancient ruins in the Languedoc, in the south of France. They’d been exploring the remains of a castle since early that hot, sunny August morning. Suddenly Robbie let out a whoop and jumped up into the air. For a split second, the young boy hung there: arms outstretched, silhouetted against the sun; frozen in an exultant pose.
Robbie had found a beat-up silver clasp engraved with a dove and was sure it was a Cathar relic. He was so excited and certain that Griffin hadn’t been surprised when an expert later confirmed its provenance and dated the artifact to the early thirteenth century.
At a little before one in the afternoon, Griffin’s cell phone rang. Checking the caller ID, he saw it was Malachai Samuels. He took the call.
“Your sister turned down his offer,” Griffin told Robbie after he hung up.
“I’m disappointed but not surprised. Since our mother died, no one has gotten her back into a workshop. I thought that maybe an ancient myth about reincarnation would at least tempt her.”
“Malachai’s very disappointed. He asked me about the chemical analysis. That didn’t improve his mood. Nonetheless, after I told him where I was with the translation, he upped his offer for the pot shards.”
Robbie acted as if he hadn’t heard. “It’s time for a café au crème, yes?”
“Robbie? Malachai is damn serious about buying the pottery. Will you at least let me tell you what he offered?”
“I can’t sell it.”
“You don’t even want to hear the amount?”
Robbie laughed. “Why, is he offering you a commission?”
“I should be insulted,” Griffin replied sharply and then said: “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“I can’t sell it,” Robbie repeated as he opened the door.
He was gone for a few minutes, and when he came back, he hovered over Griffin’s shoulder, looking down at the enigma on the velvet tray.
“There are so many ways to read the same symbols,” Griffin said. “You think you’re going in the right direction, and then you find the next piece of the puzzle, and suddenly everything reads different. Listen to this: ‘And then
Despite producing the manuscript and the allegations being dropped, the damage was done. And it was hell. Griffin had been through an accusation of plagiarism before, in graduate school. It had almost destroyed his chances for his degree and had cost him the woman he’d loved.
And now he had to live through it again.
He could have gotten through it intact if he hadn’t seen the doubt in his wife’s eyes; the same doubt he’d seen in Jac’s eyes so many years before.
He told Therese he wanted a separation.
For the rest of the morning, Griffin struggled to piece together the next shard and then the next. With three new ones in position, he scrutinized the glyphs for their meaning, testing each word against the previous one, rejecting some choices, finding alternative interpretations, testing again.
While he worked, Griffin became aware of scents swirling around him, merging, melding together in fragrances.
“What are you mixing up? It’s starting to smell like an old tomb in here.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Robbie said and gestured toward a dozen glass bottles on the tabletop. Each was filled with a few inches of liquid—each a different shade of amber, from a pale yellow to a deep rich mahogany. Sunlight pouring through the doors sent colored flecks of light dancing. The visual interplay as intriguing as the mixture of musky scents.
“I’m trying to amass all the essences and absolutes that we know ancient Egyptians used and that are still available. I want to be prepared when you find that list of ingredients—”
“If,” Griffin interrupted.
“When,” Robbie corrected emphatically.
Robbie’s enthusiasm was as contagious as ever. Griffin remembered him as a thirteen-year-old boy rooting through the ancient ruins in the Languedoc, in the south of France. They’d been exploring the remains of a castle since early that hot, sunny August morning. Suddenly Robbie let out a whoop and jumped up into the air. For a split second, the young boy hung there: arms outstretched, silhouetted against the sun; frozen in an exultant pose.
Robbie had found a beat-up silver clasp engraved with a dove and was sure it was a Cathar relic. He was so excited and certain that Griffin hadn’t been surprised when an expert later confirmed its provenance and dated the artifact to the early thirteenth century.
At a little before one in the afternoon, Griffin’s cell phone rang. Checking the caller ID, he saw it was Malachai Samuels. He took the call.
“Your sister turned down his offer,” Griffin told Robbie after he hung up.
“I’m disappointed but not surprised. Since our mother died, no one has gotten her back into a workshop. I thought that maybe an ancient myth about reincarnation would at least tempt her.”
“Malachai’s very disappointed. He asked me about the chemical analysis. That didn’t improve his mood. Nonetheless, after I told him where I was with the translation, he upped his offer for the pot shards.”
Robbie acted as if he hadn’t heard. “It’s time for a café au crème, yes?”
“Robbie? Malachai is damn serious about buying the pottery. Will you at least let me tell you what he offered?”
“I can’t sell it.”
“You don’t even want to hear the amount?”
Robbie laughed. “Why, is he offering you a commission?”
“I should be insulted,” Griffin replied sharply and then said: “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“I can’t sell it,” Robbie repeated as he opened the door.
He was gone for a few minutes, and when he came back, he hovered over Griffin’s shoulder, looking down at the enigma on the velvet tray.
“There are so many ways to read the same symbols,” Griffin said. “You think you’re going in the right direction, and then you find the next piece of the puzzle, and suddenly everything reads different. Listen to this: ‘And then
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