Christophe got on the Henry Hudson Parkway and gave Phoebe a view of New Jersey lining the bluffs across the Hudson River. She craned her neck and glanced up and to her right at the buildings lining Riverside Drive. It took only a few minutes to reach the Cloisters. Phoebe realized they were there when Christophe turned onto a cobblestone road that spiraled up toward a hodgepodge of old stone buildings dominated by an ancient square tower.
The Cloisters was where the Metropolitan Museum of Art housed their medieval art and artifacts. It was built from parts of several European abbeys that had been taken apart stone by stone, brought to New York, and reassembled on a high bluff overlooking the Hudson River. The complex appeared to be guarding New York from New Jersey. It looked like a real medieval building because it was, sort of.
Some of it was from France, some from Spain. A cloister and chapter house from one place, a chapel from somewhere else. Phoebe had never been there, but she knew it contained the priceless unicorn tapestries and two of the most exquisite books in the world—the Les Belles Heures made for the Duc de Berry and the Book of Hours made for Jeanne d’Evreux.
Phoebe had always wanted to see those books. She loved books.
“Don’t kill him,” the Gryphon said. “It’s too late. Killing him now would only lend credence to his story and give the press more reasons to keep talking about him.
“Let’s play the race card. That always works well. There’s the obvious ironic connection between race and de Mars’ work, but our people also have a sentimental affiliation with it. It worked perfectly for us even before political correctness was invented. It will serve us very well this time, too, I believe.
“Oh, and find out about this woman. Who the hell is she?”
He watched a computer screen that was displaying an image of Phoebe taken during the chase through St. Cloud. As he watched, a freeze frame screenshot was taken and the image was enhanced. A scan of databases began. In less than a minute a Tennessee driver’s license popped up.
“Phoebe McFarland,” he read from the license. “Let’s keep an eye on her. She may have been drawn into this by accident, but if she ever pops up again, we might want to do something about her.”
Christophe led Phoebe up the worn stone stairs into the Cloisters complex. It was a wonderful place. It seemed enchanted, to Phoebe. How could it not? The unicorns were kept here. And her two favorite books.
They walked among the visitors but rather than buying tickets, a guard unhooked a red velvet rope and waved them through to an area that was off limits to the public, the administrative offices and the restoration studios.
Christophe moved silently through the halls and up a flight of stone stairs so worn by a thousand years of foot traffic that they sagged in the middle. He stopped outside a medieval wooden door and knocked. Phoebe heard a muffled, “Enter!”
He held the door open for Phoebe and indicated that she should precede him into the room. They must’ve been in the tower. The room was square, austere, and made entirely of stone. There was a single small window high above their heads that illuminated the space with a gentle diffuse light. A battered and stained wooden worktable filled the center of the room. It was covered with a jumble of small hand tools and containers of chemicals.
A man sat at the table wearing a lab coat, gloves, and a high-tech magnifying headlamp with two loupes. He was using what looked like a jeweler’s tool on a small box.
Phoebe saw the little box pop open and the man said, “Ha!”
Then he set the box on the table, shoved the elaborate headgear up onto his forehead, and looked to see who’d come into his domain. “Christophe!” he shouted. Phoebe was charmed that the man had spoken three times, using only a single word. She suspected he might be an eccentric. She hoped so.
“Simon, I have brought a new courier to meet you. Please allow me to introduce Miss Phoebe McFarland of White Oak, Tennessee.
“Miss McFarland, this is Simon Plantagenet.”
Christophe’s faint accent had pronounced the name not exactly in English and not exactly in French, so it took a couple of seconds for Phoebe to process the sound and formulate an approximate spelling. Then she realized what it was and couldn’t help making a quick jerk of surprise.
She tried to act normal and reached out to shake hands, saying, “Hello Mr. Plantagenet.”
He didn’t shake her hand. Instead he held up his gloved hands and said, “Graphite, machine oil, and anticorrosive agents.”
Phoebe remembered reading somewhere that commoners weren’t supposed to touch kings. That was why Queen Elizabeth wore gloves.
“Please call me Simon,” he said. “Everyone does, when they’re not calling me Simon Says.”
Phoebe was beginning to get a feel for these people, who they were, and how they operated. She knew one of the French numbers sounded like sez. She couldn’t remember which one it was, but she remembered some of their best antique furniture was called something that sounded like Louie Sez.
This guy’s was probably Simon the Umpteenth of something. She had no desire to go into it, though, so she said nothing.
Simon chatted with Christophe, but Phoebe had no idea what they were talking about. Instead she was having an internal dialog where she introduced herself as Phoebe Toyota, or Phoebe Lichtenstein, or By the Grace of God Her Serene Highness Phoebe Holy Roman Empress of White Oak.
This is America! Phoebe thought. Get with the program. Titles of nobility were banned in the Constitution. Granted, these people tended to lowball their names, but still.
Christophe was putting a necklace on Phoebe before she realized what was happening. He was saying something about a lavaliere and assuring Simon that it would be delivered to École Mystère straightaway.
Phoebe frequently experienced difficulty focusing. This was yet another of those interludes where her life seemed to be passing before her eyes like a dream. The inside of her head sounded like this: École Mystère. That sounds like it might be in France. Something hanging around my neck is going to France. That means I must be going to France. Straightaway.
She looked up into Christophe’s heartbreakingly beautiful, totally serene face and said, “Ahhhh…..”
Chapter 39
Christophe bundled her back into the BMW. Phoebe, who was still stuck in Medieval Dreamworld, was thinking of the passenger seat as riding pillion on a destrier. She stopped when she realized she was projecting herself into the scene depicted in the painting on Le Seigneur’s bedside table. She didn’t really want to live life as it appeared in religious paintings or on the covers of romance novels. Phoebe used to love to read romance novels when she was young, before she’d spent much time with actual men.
They headed for Teterboro airport. Phoebe marveled at her new life. It was impossible to take in the recent events. She counted off the days on her fingers, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and it was now Wednesday morning. It had been just three days, but now everything was different. Instead of being old and facing starvation and boredom, she now had a life that she actually looked forward to. And a new job that was interesting. She couldn’t remember if she’d been told what it paid, but she wasn’t worried about it. Her standard of living had improved beyond all recognition.
What a way to travel. It was fabulous. You didn’t have to make any arrangements. You hardly needed luggage. Even the Queen of England had to carry a pocketbook, but Phoebe didn’t! What could be better?
Everything was provided for you—money, food, clothes, transportation, accommodations, interesting sights, and destinations. She sighed in happiness just as the BMW went across the tarmac, and rolled right up to a splendid small jet before stopping. Phoebe hopped out and at the same time the door on the jet opened and a set of stairs deployed.
Christophe went first and then turned to encourage Phoebe to join him on board. The
interior of the plane was beautiful, of course. It looked more like living room than an airplane. There were several big comfy chairs, a couple of tables, and even a couch!
“You may sit wherever you like,” Christophe said, then he went toward the cockpit and stooped to speak to the uniformed pilot and co-pilot.
Phoebe sat in one of the heavily padded camel-colored leather chairs and closed her eyes and tried to relax. She imagined herself on the beach in the south of France. She pretended to be lazing in her private cabana, diaphanous white curtains fluttering around her, while the sound of surf lulled her to sleep.
Phoebe opened her eyes to find Christophe standing over her.
“There are things you need to know,” he said. “So I must take this opportunity to speak to you now. You will be able to sleep later.”
Phoebe wondered how much later. Did he mean later today or next week? But she didn’t say anything. Instead she swallowed and tried to sit up straight. She hoped she hadn’t been snoring. Or drooling.
“We believed you and Nicolas would be able to travel to New York without being noticed, but we were wrong,” he said. “Nicolas’ emergence has drawn substantially more media attention than we anticipated, thanks to your exertions at san clu. It took a moment for Phoebe to realize he was saying St. Cloud with a French accent. She did a mental triple take from san clu to sans clue and then smiled at her own joke. It was perfect, sans clue, meaning without a clue. Yep, that said it all.
Christophe was still talking though and she’d missed some of what he was saying, “… has provoked the oppositional forces into a frenzy. They are redoubling their efforts to silence him and now they have added you to their watch list.”
Phoebe nodded as if she was listening, but she wasn’t. She still wore a goofy smile over her sans clue joke. It was a bon mot she told herself, impressed with her French.
“This flight will take about six and a half hours, so there is plenty of time to talk,” Christophe said. He gave her what she suspected was his version of a smile, but it came from his eyes rather than his mouth, which stayed set, as ever, in a fabulicious-looking straight line.
“I do not want to bore you, but I am not sure how much Le Seigneur told you,” Christophe said,” and I am not sure how much you have come to understand on your own. We certainly did not expect to run into you this time around. You arrived as his nurse, did you not?”
As usual Phoebe could follow only about half of what he was saying, but she nodded, “You mean the Archangel?”
“No, I mean your employer, your patient.”
“I thought he was the Archangel?”
Christophe smiled with his eyes again, and said, “No, that would be me.”
“Oh! Sorry. This mystery stuff is all so…..”
“Mysterious?” he suggested, stone-faced.
“Exactly!”
“The word mystery, comes, in part, from the Greek word mysterion. There are actually two root words. One them translates as with closed eyes and another as one who is initiated.”
“Which one am I?” Phoebe asked.
“That remains to be determined. Perhaps this would be easier if you asked me what you would you like to know.”
“What do you mean when you say you didn’t expect to run into me? The boss, my patient, Le Seigneur, said something like that, too. He said he expected Nick, but not me. Why would either of you expect either of us?”
“Do you understand about reincarnation?” he asked.
Phoebe shook her head slowly. “I understand some of the basics, but I don’t believe in it. I’m a Christian.”
“You realize that more than half the world believes in it, that it has always been part of the religious belief of most of the people on earth? And that more than half the people in the Christian world, when pressed, will admit to believing that it might be possible?”
Phoebe hadn’t really thought about it before.
“It is touched on in several places in the Bible. The reality of reincarnation used to be common knowledge, but long ago the Catholic bureaucracy suppressed all of the writings about it because it was easier to gain control of people if they believed they had only one lifetime and that only through the priests could they aspire to heaven.”
Phoebe wasn’t prepared to jump on board with this yet.
“Well, it does not matter if you believe in it or not, it is a fact. One lifetime is not sufficient for anyone to experience enough, learn enough, or become wise enough to develop into a fully realized, selfless, force for good.”
That made sense, but Phoebe was still reserving judgment.
“A facet of reincarnation is a tendency for clusters of individuals to reincarnate over and over in a certain proximity to each other. The nature of the relationship will change from parent, to sibling, to friend, to co-worker, but certain people will recur in our lives. That is why people who have never met before in this life will sometimes be able to make friends immediately, for no apparent reason. Or the opposite, people will take an instant, violent dislike to each other for no ostensible reason.
“Part of our task in each lifetime is to learn to notice these reactions and balance them out, to consciously work out our karma with other people. You are familiar with the term karma?”
Phoebe nodded.
“In between the time after we die and when we are born again, we make plans to accomplish certain objectives in our next life for the development of our spirit. We agree to work with certain other people on this or that project. People are able to consciously recall these pre-birth agreements, to a greater or lesser extent. Many people can at least sense them.
“If you are one of the sensitive ones, a so-called psychic, you can recognize these people when they arrive in your life. It saves a lot of time and trouble if you are able to remember what your task is and who your teammates are.
“On the odd occasion, like an unexpected emergency, the last minute substitution of a new teammate will be required. For example if one of the original team has been injured, or become sick or died unexpectedly, or has utterly forgotten their task—then the spiritual world, God or his angels, will send in a substitute to help. You, obviously, are one of these sorts of individuals.”
Obviously? Phoebe pondered the idea. She wanted to reject it out of hand. She would’ve been terrified to learn what sort of thinking was going on inside the brains of the maniacs she’d been hanging around with if they weren’t all so darn high-functioning. And interesting. And fun. And gorgeous. And if she and Nick hadn’t both commented on how eerily familiar some of the strangers seemed who were suddenly popping up in their lives.
“I think I’m gettin a headache,” she said.
“That is understandable. This is a lot to take in, all at once.”
And they hadn’t even gotten to the part about what her task might be, or what the need to courier people and objects was all about, or who the people were who were chasing her and Nick.
“If you’re gonna keep talkin, I’m gonna need a cheese sandwich,” Phoebe said. “You got any cheese on this plane? And bread? Preferably toasted. And I’m gonna need Diet Coke, lots of Diet Coke.”
“I’m sure we can arrange something,” Christophe said. He stood, offering his hand to help her up.
Only then did Phoebe realize they’d taken off. She looked out the window and saw they were flying over the ocean. Wow. No flight attendant had lectured them. Neither of them had fastened a seatbelt. There didn’t seem to be anyone else on board aside from the two of them and the two pilots.
Phoebe sighed. Such was her new life. She took Christophe’s warm hand, heaved herself out of the comfy chair, and followed him to the galley. She was hungry.
Chapter 40
Once she’d had her cheese sandwich on toasted sourdough, a big glass of mi
lk, and two Chips Ahoy chocolate chip cookies, she felt ready to continue her tutorial from the Archangel. She’d been very reluctant to believe in all this wacky talk until she discovered that the jet was stocked with whole milk and a full size bag of Chips Ahoy cookies.
That had done more than anything else to convince her that there really was magic in this world. Clearly angelic forces beyond her understanding were at work and they were on her side. She wiped crumbs from her face and watched Christophe read from a tablet. He’s as beautiful as an angel, Phoebe thought.
“Thank you,” he said, without looking up.
She didn’t realize she’d spoken out loud. In fact, she didn’t think she had. She blushed at having been caught looking at him. Now that she was already humiliated, she couldn’t resist asking him what she really wanted to know, “What’s it like to be perfect looking?”
Phoebe wasn’t ugly, but she wasn’t a real looker either. People always complimented her on things like her sense of humor or her brains. All her life she’d wondered what she might’ve been able to achieve if she’d been beautiful, too.
“It’s fantastic,” he said, still surfing the net with his tablet. “I can have everything my heart desires without the slightest effort. People line up to give me anything I could possibly want before I can even think to ask for it. It can get annoying, but it is also wonderfully handy.”
She had to smile at his candor.
“Our looks, our brains, every aspect of our lives is a test of character. What we do with what we have, that is the big question. But, when we get a chance, I will take you to my stylist. You can do a lot more with what you have. You will be surprised. Hair first, then clothes.”
Carolyn Jourdan - Nurse Phoebe 02 - The School for Mysteries Page 15