Sword- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  Later, I saw him with his bright gold hair and light-filled eyes, walking through the corridors of the British Museum, as if he were as human as the rest of us, and not something that had stepped out of light and time and heaven into my world. I saw him conversing with my parents, lecturing in Paris, kneeling to pray in a cathedral. I could not move. I could not breathe.

  And afterwards. His eyes saw too much. He read my thoughts. Emerald green seemed to melt through me.

  I had run from the intensity in his green eyes and from my own inexperience. Six months ago, I had been naïve and foolish, little more than a child, all girlish innocence and virginal fears, my whole life sheltered. And St. John had been a man. He had known – even if I had not – what it meant. Little wonder I had been afraid – though intrigued in spite of myself – by what I had seen in his eyes.

  Yet he was more than a man.

  Thunder rumbled ominously. The image receded. I blinked and refocused upon the open book in my lap but it was now almost too dark to make out the words on the page. Where had the light gone? Staring at the scenery from my vantage point of the solar’s window-seat, I noted the increasing wildness of the wind and rain which made the tops of the birch trees in the distance whirl in an ecstatic, dervish dance.

  A swathe of mellow light threw the neat edges of the circular driveway into sharp relief and, in the next instance, a sleek black Audi came into view. The headlights briefly illuminated the penetrating rain, stringing the drops into beaded crystal curtains similar to those hung in the doorways of arcane shops and bookstores. Coming to a halt not quite below my window, St. John’s car blended almost seamlessly into its darkened surrounds, as stealthy as a shadow.

  This time, I did not hesitate. Flinging back the curtains, I levered myself from the window-seat and rushed downstairs to greet St. John. My heart fluttered violently like a wild bird caged and all of the feelings I had suppressed rose up with a vengeance.

  He stood in the open doorway of the front entrance as the wind and rain gusted inside, his back turned to me as he concentrated on the task at hand. The back of his suit jacket was dark with damp patches and his fashionably-styled shaggy hair, plastered to the nape of his neck, had turned a dull gold from the rain. The door had flung back hard on its hinges in the wind, and St. John determinedly closed it against the rawness of the stormy evening.

  ‘St. John,’ I said, my voice catching in my throat.

  He turned at the sound of my voice but, before he could speak, I became aware of a presence standing a little distance to his right in the entrance hall. Distracted, I misplaced my footing on the step below and, crying out in shock, tumbled head first down the rest of the stairs. If it weren’t for St. John’s lightning quick reflexes, I would have landed in an undignified heap at the bottom of the stairwell and, no doubt, done myself a terrible injury.

  I groaned in humiliation. If I wanted to prove how gauche I was, I’d done an excellent job! Pressed up against St. John’s chest, I could feel the warmth of his skin through his damp shirt. I trembled in his embrace.

  ‘Sage, are you all right? Have you hurt yourself?’ he asked anxiously.

  Only my pride! I thought ruefully. Inhaling deeply, I got a lungful of his sandalwood aftershave, and would have pressed myself more firmly against him if it weren’t for my embarrassed awareness of the vision behind us. I nodded vaguely in response. ‘I’m f-f-fine.’

  ‘You seem to go out of your way to try to get yourself killed,’ St. John admonished gently, assisting me to regain my balance. His hands were quite firm. He really did not want to hold me.

  Though St. John’s tone was mild and his gaze tender, hurt, I winced at the injustice of his claim and the stripped austerity about his response to me. I did not go out of my way to get myself killed! What had happened in the museum was hardly my fault!

  Mortified, I gripped his shoulders to pull myself up but immediately cried out as a sharp lance of pain shot through my right ankle. St. John didn’t hesitate but scooped me up into his arms and carried me down the hallway.

  Again, I caught a brief glimpse of the vision but St. John whisked me away. Thankfully, I laid my cheek against his shoulder. I heard him say sharply to someone, ‘Get an ice pack.’ and then we were entering the living room.

  ‘It will be all right shortly, mon cœur,’ he said as he deposited me on the plush fabric sofa as carefully as if I had been made of Waterford crystal, which would have brought a mocking smile to Fi’s face if she had been present to witness it, and propped my foot up on a feather-filled cushion. ‘Your mother is coming.’

  I nodded weakly, feeling foolish and vulnerable as I leant my head gratefully against the backrest and closed my eyes. St. John reached for my hands and held them fast in his own before he withdrew. Without his body pressed up against mine, I felt cold, from my head to my feet, a sweeping cold that stilled my breath.

  ‘Her mother is here.’ The voice was beautifully modulated with a slight huskiness. Her softly accented tones dulcet.

  My eyes flew open as my mother bent close, blocking my view, clucking fretfully over me as she placed the ice pack on my ankle. ‘Just a slight sprain though you should be more careful! You’ll be all right in a few days, honey, but you shouldn’t put any weight on it. And even then I want you to take it easy for a few more days. You must give it time to recover.’

  I did not bother arguing with her. Not because I agreed, but because I managed to glance over her shoulder at the vision seated opposite.

  And indeed she was a vision.

  In spite of the severity of her hairstyle and the plainness of her dull grey shift dress, she was, without doubt, the most beautiful, the most striking woman I had ever seen. Platinum coloured hair was coiled into a tight bun which she wore regally like a crown upon her head. Her features were finely sculpted from flawless alabaster; her skin luminous. Her eyes were wide and impossibly blue – I now knew what the Regency novels and love sonnets were referring to when they claimed that a woman’s eyes were a cornflower blue, for this was the only way to describe hers and I wasn’t being Romantic. Even the manner in which she held herself – poised, dignified, elegant – threw into relief my own clumsiness, and the carelessness with which I’d groomed myself that morning. By comparison, my appearance was so casual that it was obvious I hadn’t even bothered to make an effort to attract attention from St. John, or anyone else for that matter.

  If I had been studying her, the vision, in turn, had been carefully watching me. Her cool, appraising gaze rested briefly on my face – almost dismissively – before flitting over to St. John. She stared a long moment at my fiancé, as inscrutable as Da Vinci’s painting of the Mona Lisa with an enigmatic smile. She was as stunning and aloof as an Ice Queen. She was Elsa from Frozen, and just as arresting.

  I was hideously jealous.

  Mum must have seen my glance over her shoulder, for she paused in the act of elevating my ankle on a firmer cushion, and said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. You haven’t been properly introduced. Sage, this is your father’s colleague, Isabella Donnatelli, fresh from six months on the Ur Project where she’s been working on the excavations at Tell Khaiber. She’s returned to London to take up the position vacated by Ellen Jacobi. A real asset to the department too, I’m told. She’s joining us for dinner.’

  ‘Your mother is being too kind. In truth, I was thrilled at the opportunity to work with such imminent archaeologists and historians as your father and St. John at the British Museum.’ Although she wasn’t missish or simpering, Isabella Donnatelli gave a saccharine-sweet smile that only served to demonstrate her extraordinary beauty, making me scowl in disgust. ‘It has long been my dream. I was very lucky to be able to work on the Ur Project, especially as I had come from Il Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Chiusi; an excellent museum to start my career but one which afforded little opportunity to further my passion in the religious artefacts of ancient Mesopotamia. And now ... well ... what can I say? I am blessed by fortune.’

&nbs
p; Watching her closely, I couldn’t imagine this vision working in the dirt and grime of an excavation site in the Middle East. The heat and dryness alone would be cruel on such unblemished fair skin. But, sickeningly, there wasn’t even a sunspot or a freckle to show for her time spent under the unforgiving sun. And neither was there any dirt under her manicured nails. Really, it was outrageous – I should be so lucky!

  ‘I’d say we’re the ones lucky to have you. You do yourself an injustice, Isabella. I read your doctoral thesis and your research was quite enlightening and thorough.’ St. John was all charm. I stared at the midnight blue Turkish rug in dismay. Dinner was going to be an excruciating affair.

  My mother briefly escaped to the kitchen to return with a tray of canapés which she offered to our guest; buckwheat blinis with smoked salmon and mascarpone, chicken and leek vol-au-vonts, and assorted sushi. I watched in fascination as Isabella daintily bit into a salmon nori with her sharp white teeth, before she continued her private chat with St. John about the authentication of religious artefacts. In all fairness, it wasn’t that private – but I sure as hell felt left out.

  Finally, my father’s arrival home half an hour later indicated it was time to dine. It couldn’t have come sooner for my liking. I was thoroughly out of sorts and I blamed it on a combination of being imprisoned at home, my throbbing ankle, and Isabella Donnatelli. For the first time in two weeks, consumed by jealousy and frustration, I forgot about the death of the security guard.

  As gentlemanly as ever, St. John broke off the conversation to assist me to stand. He was close enough to me that I could smell the dampness of rain on his skin and hair. Staring up at him, I held onto the hand offered and placed my weight on my good leg. But St. John seemed reluctant to hold me close. He didn’t want to hold me close. I could see it in his face.

  I was starting to become annoyed at being treated like Waterford crystal.

  ‘What is going on?’ I asked fiercely under my breath.

  ‘Don’t, Sage. My clothes are still damp. I don’t want you getting wet.’ After what seemed to be a long time, he put his arm loosely around me and stepped back, giving me room to manoeuvre.

  I straightened my shoulders and retorted, ‘Don’t be stupid, St. John. I won’t melt.’

  His eyebrows lifted in surprise at my exasperated tone as if his favourite pet had nipped him. Then he gave a mocking laugh and said, ‘No, you’re sweet, Sage, but you’re not made of sugar. And it’s true, no one has ever melted from a bit of rain.’

  At that, he pulled me tightly against his side, taking most of my weight, as we made our way through to the dining room where my mother had seated Isabella Donnatelli directly across from me in the position Fi usually occupied. It was my turn to raise an eyebrow.

  ‘It’s a pity you won’t get to meet my other daughter, Isabella. But Safie has sent her apologies as she’s already eaten and gone to bed,’ my mother was explaining as she passed the wine to my dad to uncork the bottle. ‘She’s competing in a charity fun run tomorrow and needs to get up early.’

  ‘I didn’t know that!’ I exclaimed in astonishment, wondering why Fi hadn’t mentioned it to me before.

  ‘I’m not surprised. Your head’s been in the clouds lately, young lady.’ Mum’s words made me glower, thinking she was referring to the events of the past two weeks in order to give me another lecture, but she continued teasingly, ‘Though I can’t say that I blame you. If only I was ten years younger.’ With that, she gave a sly wink in St. John’s direction, making the others laugh – though her comments went over the heads of my younger siblings, thank goodness – and immediately eased the tension simmering inside me.

  All might still have gone well – Mum had outdone herself as steamed vegetables in lidded serving dishes, and roast pork with crackling and slow-cooked lamb shanks on platters of faded Wedgwood, reserved for when special guests joined us, were laid out prettily on the dining table; and, for once, Jasmine and Alex were behaving themselves, staring round-eyed at Isabella Donnatelli as if she had materialised from the pages of a fairy tale to grace our humble abode like a princess in disguise appearing at a woodcutter’s cottage – but, of course, that would have been asking for too much.

  I had barely eaten a mouthful of baked potatoes topped with garlic butter and chives when Isabella raised the topic of Ellen Jacobi and the rumours surrounding her disappearance.

  ‘Forgive me for asking, but is it true the authorities suspect Dr Jacobi of being responsible for the theft of an artefact from the British Museum?’ she asked, her voice ever so slightly breathless with curiosity. St. John and my father exchanged a look.

  The morsel I was chewing turned to ashes in my mouth and I dropped my fork with a clatter onto my plate. The silence that followed was unsettling. My mother tried awkwardly to dispel the strained atmosphere by murmuring if anyone would like more wine. I could hear the scrape of the serving spoon across the platter as Alex, unaware of the tension and having the appetite of an elephant, helped himself to another lamb shank.

  It was St. John who broke the suffocating silence. ‘I wouldn’t like to comment on what the authorities suspect. My association with Interpol has only been cursory at best. An outside party, Louis Gravois from the Louvre, has been assisting them in their investigations into the artefact which disappeared from Conservation. We were led to believe that the investigation was at an end.’

  ‘When Dr Jacobi didn’t return to work.’ Whilst it was voiced as a statement, Isabella was awaiting confirmation.

  ‘No,’ my father intervened, ‘that’s not quite accurate. The artefact went missing several weeks before Christmas. Ellen was still working with us at the British Museum even after the artefact disappeared, right up until quite recently, in fact.’

  ‘That’s right,’ St. John confirmed. His voice hardened. ‘I have no clear understanding of why Ellen decided to leave but the rumours are without foundation. She would never have stolen a rare artefact from the museum.’

  Finally, the word they had all been skirting around was voiced. Stolen. It held all the nastiness of crime and punishment. It was unthinkable that one of our own – someone who had spent her life preserving the history of a culture – would stoop so low. The staff at the museum took it as a personal affront – an offence against them and not just the museum alone.

  ‘Well, I do hope they catch the culprit then,’ Isabella said with perfect seriousness. ‘And though I pity Dr Jacobi, I must admit I am glad to be her replacement. I’m sure that’s terribly wrong of me but, if she had not left, then there would be no position to fill and I would have missed out on this remarkable opportunity.’

  I gaped at her audacity but the others did not seem to mind. In fact, they were charmed by her candour.

  Isabella Donnatelli was a real surprise, out of the ordinary. Over the next hour that we dined, she dominated the conversation in a manner that was all charm – she asked my parents how long we’d lived here and how old the kids were and what places we’d travelled to, as if she really cared. She asked about Mum’s paintings, and whether there was anywhere in Maida Vale you could buy freshly roasted coffee beans. Then she talked about Tuscany and her brothers – I got the impression that she came from a rather large family – and how her father had sparked her interest in religious artefacts. And as she gestured with Italian flamboyance in that very sophisticated continental manner, everything about her oozed charm. She was too attractive, too beautiful to be believed. She had something special. Even her heady floral perfume was intoxicating. Her lilting laugh seductive.

  It made me want to vomit. I was the only one who seemed completely immune to the Ice Queen, who left me cold. I looked over at St. John and found him watching me. Dropping my eyes quickly, I felt shaky and heartsick.

  And then followed the worst blow of all.

  After dessert and coffee served in the living room, as Isabella was being helped into an exquisite cashmere coat by St. John in preparation to depart, she artlessly followed up
her thanks to my parents for the delicious meal with, ‘And I’m so looking forward to accompanying you both to the British Library to view the sacred text you were interested in, Sage. When St. John mentioned it, I was delighted to be of assistance.’

  I stared at her in confusion. Then the full meaning of her words became clear. I felt St. John tense with anger beside me, then relax.

  ‘Isabella has kindly offered to lend us her assistance, Sage. She’s considered something of an expert on Zoroastrian sacred texts and we’re very lucky to have her help,’ he responded smoothly.

  I stood motionless for what seemed ages, although I know it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. Had St. John invited her? Or had Isabella imposed herself upon him? Summoning a polite smile, I forced a lightness into my voice.

  ‘How lovely.’ I did not blink. ‘Though it’s a great pity we haven’t received permission yet from the British Library to view the book.’

  ‘Oh! But I thought–’ She turned in confusion to face St. John. ‘–didn’t you tell me last week that permission had been granted? I’m sure I heard correctly.’

  ‘Yes. You are entirely correct,’ St. John replied coolly, locking those emerald green eyes onto mine. ‘I’m sorry, Sage, I’d been meaning to tell you. It must have slipped my mind.’

  But, of course, it hadn’t. St. John was not forgetful. I had been avoiding him for too long, it seemed. And in the meantime, Isabella Donnatelli had arrived on the scene.

  I felt nothing. I had gone quite numb. I was a vessel waiting to be filled.

  Recovering myself quickly, I fixed a megawatt smile on my lips and exclaimed, ‘But that’s brilliant! We should arrange to visit the library as soon as possible.’