The Book of the Lion by Thomas Perry Page A

survived?
    Dominic Hallkyn thought, and like any thinking man, he drank. He sat in his library on the leather couch near the 18th-century writing desk, staring past it at the wall of bookshelves. And because he was in a place that was the physical embodiment of his mind, his eyes knew where to focus. He looked at the fifth shelf, where Geoffrey Chaucer resided. There was the familiar Donaldson edition of 1975; the Blake edition including the corrections from the fragmentary Hengwrt Manuscript; the Fisher, with its generous supporting materials and critical essays. And a special purchase from his own graduate school days, the seven-volume Skeat edition of 1899. And because Hallkyn loved the twenty-three painted pictures, including the one of Chaucer the pilgrim, he kept the facsimile of the Ellesmere Manuscript at the end of the row.
    Hallkyn drank a single malt scotch that tasted to him like the breath of the British Isles, its rich peat and wet moss and damp air and time. He considered the slim likelihood that there was going to be a second chapter to this experience, and then he made a telephone call.
    The call was to the private number of a man named T.M. Spanner. Spanner’s personal number was sought-after, a number that powerful men carried in their wallets on small pieces of paper with no notations written beside it. Spanner’s wealth was old and hard to trace—it was reputed to have come originally from one of his ancestors inventing the tool that Americans perversely called a wrench, although its true name in English was spanner. But even when Hallkyn had met T.M. Spanner as an undergraduate at Yale, he was already the sort of man who stimulated curiosity. The imagination was always ready to supply speculation and wild stories.
    Hallkyn heard the answer, “T.M. Spanner,” and the voice impressed him again. He had an accent that retained a trace of the south, a slower Virginia tidewater cadence that had somehow survived the years of northeastern prep schools and universities. The voice conveyed the conviction that the man had the ownership papers in his back pocket to the ground beneath his feet, the air he breathed, and all the things he could see from where he stood.
    â€œT.M.,” said Hallkyn. “It’s Dominic.”
    â€œHerr Doktor Professor,” said Spanner. “It’s always a pleasure to hear your voice.”
    Hallkyn hoped that it was a pleasure. If so, it could only be because, unlike most people who called Spanner, Hallkyn was not in any business, and didn’t want Spanner’s advice, his help, or his endorsement. What he and Spanner always talked about was what had drawn them together thirty years ago—books. “You too, T.M. I hope I’m not bothering you.”
    â€œNot at all. I’m sitting at home looking at a television show. I hesitate to say watching, because that implies that I’m actually following along. I have the sound off and I’m gazing at a pretty moving picture of the Alps. What’s new with you, Dom?”
    â€œUntil a few minutes ago, not much. I’ve got to tell you, I got a message on my phone that set off a lot of emotions.”
    â€œWhat? You’re not sick or something, are you?” There was genuine concern in Spanner’s voice.
    â€œNo, nothing like that. This isn’t even personal. It’s intellectual. Literary and historical. A man who didn’t identify himself called and said he has The Book of the Lion .”
    â€œ The Book of the Lion ,” Spanner repeated. “The Retraction.”
    â€œYes,” said Hallkyn. “That’s right. When Chaucer apologizes for the sin of writing his greatest works, it’s the last one in the list.”
    â€œHold on a second, Dom. I think I see my old Canterbury Tales on a shelf right now. Hold on. It’s not more than fifty feet away.”
    Hallkyn heard the phone click on a hard surface. He was experiencing again who T.M.