The Book of Lost Fragrances

Forty-four

2:05 P.M.

Jac and Griffin navigated a complicated passageway in silence. If time had passed slowly on their way into the catacombs, it was interminable on their way out. It was psychological. On the way in, she had been so anxious about finding her brother that she hadn’t focused on the potential hazards as much as the end result. Now, even though she knew Robbie was alive, the danger he was in was more complicated than she could have imagined. And it wasn’t over. They had to get through the next two days.

“My brother’s idealistic goal could turn out to be a suicide mission.”

“He has to do this.”

“Regardless of the consequences?” she asked.

“Because of the consequences.”

“And you’re determined to help him.”

“Aren’t you?” Griffin asked.

“Someone tried to kill him. Isn’t that more important than a legend written on the side of a pot?”

“Not to Robbie.”

They didn’t talk for the rest of the journey, and when they emerged in the garden, the glare of the afternoon sun hurt Jac’s eyes. She stumbled.

“It’s always tough to readjust to the light when you’ve been in the dark for so long,” Griffin said as he caught her.

His fingers, sure on her arm, held her for a moment longer than necessary. She didn’t pull away. For a few seconds, they stood in the fragrant boxwood puzzle. Jac’s head ached and her throat was dry. Thinking about Robbie made it hard for her to breathe.

She’d been frightened when the police had called to say that Robbie was missing. But because the two of them were so connected, she was certain that if something were truly wrong, she would have sensed it. It had been about finding a logical solution before. Now reason didn’t enter into it.

In the stories she read and researched and retold, fate and destiny set you on a path. It was in your power to choose to follow or step off. The tales that were told and retold through time and became archetypes were the ones where following the road, despite risk and fear, led to greatness. Great tragedy, or great victory. These were the tales that utilized metaphors most dramatically and offered the deepest insight into the human spirit.

There must have been other stories, though-those lost to us-where a man stepped off the path and nothing dramatic occurred. Life just went on. These stories weren’t repeated. The people who had lived them hadn’t experienced high drama. No lessons learned. Nothing terrific or terrible occurred.

It would be a relief if her life and Robbie’s could be uneventful like that. If Robbie could just crawl out of the cave and let the police take over. Turn over the shards of pottery to a museum. Or to Malachai. Or just smash them into dust and go back to making pretty fragrances.

Malachai Samuels was in the living room. A concerto by Tomaso Giovanni Albinoni played on the stereo. As they entered, he put down his book.

“Did you find him?” he asked, rushing his words as if to get to the answer quicker.

Griffin nodded. “Yes, he’s all right.”

“Thank God.”

“Did anything happen while we were gone?”

Malachai shook his head. “The phone rang a few times-nothing else. And both of you are all right?”

“All right?” Jac shook her head. “I’m scared. I don’t know what’s more terrifying-what’s already happened or what’s going to happen next.”

“For you, Jac, what’s going to happen next is always the greater threat,” Griffin answered. “Your imagination is your own worst enemy.”

“I don’t have to work hard to imagine these threats,” she said. “I could take Argus, with his hundred eyes all over his body. Cerberus, guardian of the underworld, with his three gigantic heads. The Minotaur, a man-eating monster. But this…” She felt sick. Felt the dust clogging her pores. “I’m going to take a shower.” Jac nodded at Griffin. “He can fill you in,” she said to Malachai. “Tell you all about my stubborn brother and the insane artifact he’s willing to risk his life for.”

As she left the room, she heard Malachai ask, “Does he have the shards with him, Griffin? Does Robbie still have the shards?”