LUCY WAS TRANSFIXED BY THE SUNFLOWERS ON THE DESK. THEY GAVE HER something to look at while she waited nervously; and she considered whether they indicated a private joke, if Alex had brought them in for Emma. When he appeared around the corner in response to his pager, she stifled a laugh at their mirrored appearance. His dark linen suit was relieved by a light gray shirt and gray silk tie. He stopped in his tracks, seeing it too: they were Whistler’s Symphony in Grey.
“Hello! You’re suited! I’ve never seen you like this.” He threw down some files next to the flowers, his lively eyes appraising his unexpected visitor. She exuded poise and control in an immaculate gun-metal satin jacket and trousers, kitten heel boots. Her leisure wardrobe drew on a palette of watercolors, feminine and unstructured. But this crisp, professional Lucy was new and mysterious to him.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” She accepted the compliment his eyes paid her, but felt awkward in front of Alex’s secretary. He waved her into his office with an unfamiliar boyishness, then perched respectably on his desk, the expanse of glass denying them proper privacy.
“You’ve heard from them.”
“It’s all in place. Can you get this batch of prints to Calvin?” She offered him an envelope. “He’s to play courier, and they’ve given me one week to find the originals. I asked for more, but that was their limit. With luck, Roland will have the documents and whatever else Will sent on—the other key, I hope. I can make copies from those.”
That Lucy seemed to be taking all this on herself had not escaped Alex’s notice, and he exhaled heavily. “Calvin still hasn’t surfaced. I’m somewhat loath to depend on him as the liaison. Did you say when he’d deliver?”
“I wasn’t specific—but I suppose I gave the impression it would be fairly swiftly. Surely, Alex, they must know his movements? He was the suggested contact.”
“Presumably.” Alex wasn’t entirely assuaged by this, but let it go. “I should speak to Roland then.”
“Simon has it covered. They’ve apparently met a few times in New York.” Lucy tentatively took Alex’s hand, shy of being seen by the passing world outside his office. She was unclear as to the ethical considerations of their relationship, although he was technically no longer her doctor. “I can’t make dinner tonight. I’m on a flight to JFK in a few hours.”
“Oh, Lucy…” Alex’s eyes flashed sudden alarm at her. He started to voice a more coherent protest. “I know theoretically you have clearance to travel now, but a long haul isn’t really advisable, unless it’s for a holiday. Stressful trips should be avoided. I’ll go.”
But she laid gentle fingers across his lips to hush him. “It’s much more stressful for me to be idle here. And with your schedule, there’s no point asking you—not even to come with me, which would have been nice. You know that Courtney already gave me permission to travel to France—even home to see my father, if I wished to. It’s six months since the operation, and my echoes and blood pressure are fine.”
“There’s a madness spilling right to our door at the moment, Lucy. I’d rather you weren’t too far from me while all this is so unresolved. And I’ll be frantic about you traveling alone. You’re still getting over major heart surgery.”
She shook her head gently. “Sorry, that won’t wash. I’m going to quote your own words back at you, from before Christmas. ‘We don’t recommend you going abroad in the first few months after a transplant’—those few months are up, don’t you think? ‘And when you’re ready to go it’s important to choose a country with high standards of hygiene and clean food.’ Now, Alex, I think the United States qualifies, don’t you?”
He looked tired, and frustrated, and a little in awe of her. She didn’t offer him space for further objections: “I must go, Alex. It’s something I have to do. For Will. And for me. Trust me. I’ll be quick and to the point, back Friday at the latest. I’m a big girl.”
He kissed her fingers, then clasped her hand to his chest. “I’ll be worried. You’ve got a major medical next week, and I hate letting you out of my sight, as things stand.”
“Then keep me in here.” She reciprocated the pressure of the hand that had kidnapped hers. “Try not to worry. Simon’s coming, and he’s protective of me too, like a brother. I think he’s caught up in the drama now. We solved your sunflower mystery—the thirty-fourth state.”
“And sunflowers most often have thirty-four petals, like daisies, and even thirty-four spirals of seed heads. And they track the sun.” He kissed her now, oblivious to comment from onlookers. “I’m not happy.” He tried to look stern, but part of her appeal was that she would never be subordinated to anyone else’s will. If Courtney had refused permission, she’d undoubtedly still go.
Lucy grinned at him, as though she could read these thoughts and was not unpleased with her power. “You’ll get used to me.”
“To your impossibly strong will, you mean.” And they both laughed. “You’ll keep Simon close the whole time?” She nodded, mock-demurely. “What time’s your flight?”
“Ten-thirty. We should be there two hours before. Simon’s waiting in his car to take me home, so I can pack.” She took a step backward, unsure how to say goodbye, then slipped his phone from her pocket. “Oh, I almost forgot this. Could you or Henry fax Roland permission for us to collect Will’s packet?”
Alex nodded, but wouldn’t release her hand. His arms circled her waist and he took control. “Tell Simon to get to you by half-seven, then I’ll pick you both up in Battersea. I’ll come straight from the lecture without the mandatory drink. We’ll make it in time.”
SHE FLOPPED INTO THE COMFORTABLE SEAT OUT OF BREATH, BUT HER traveling companion was unwilling to settle.
“Simon, come on. We’ve almost held the plane up.” Lucy hated cutting things so close. Although they’d arrived at the airport with time to spare, Simon had held back, buying newspapers and feigning interest in Duty Free. She guessed what he was doing, and it made her anxious all over again. “If you carry on with this furtive behavior I’ll need another new heart.”
“Sorry.” He folded his jacket into the overhead bin and sat down at last, putting the document photos in the seat pocket in front. “It looks fine. I’m starting to suspect my own shadow. But you don’t mind the upgrade?” He’d darted out of the check-in line without warning, and thrown down his considerable Air Miles to put them both in the front of the plane.
“As long as it hasn’t cost Grace a week in the Greek Islands with you.” She looked at him, inviting explanation: but she understood it was a ploy to move them from one place to another at the last minute in case they were being watched, and he knew she knew. He shot her a wry look in return.
He had Will’s iBook closed on his lap—a parting gift from Alex, along with tight handwritten instructions about Lucy’s medication and the number of a colleague in New York to call, if Lucy so much as sneezed. “I thought we’d use the time going over the clues with Alex’s new slant on it? I’m in the mood now—especially after your verbal chess with the Rapturists.” He accepted the glass of champagne he was offered. “We can’t access reference books or the Web up here, but there might be some clues on this that we can have a crack at?”
“I was wondering if you knew what Will’s pet name for Siân might be? And hers for him?”
“That’s out of left field, isn’t it?” Simon shot her an odd look. “I’m not aware of any. Is it connected with the riddles?”
“Might be. Alex didn’t know of one either, beyond her letting ‘Willie’ slip out at Sunday lunches. He told me Will wasn’t thrilled about that—it might have been appropriate in private, but not in front of his parents. But I’m sure there was a pet name they had for each other.”
“If you’re right—and I remember ‘Willie,’ now that you mention it, and the filthy look that followed it!—it would be something suggestive, with a clever twist, if I know Will. But let me know where you’re going with this when you feel like sharing!”
Lucy smiled in a secretive way. “In the meantime, you might give some thought as to why it could be important that a sunflower tracks the sun. Does anything track the moon? And what did they mean on the phone today about ‘weaving straw into gold’?” Lucy had been pondering this all afternoon.
“Hm. Here’s your conundrum.” He opened the Apple. “I want you to look at these notes of Will’s—they’re from the very last day in France, which he e-mailed back from some Internet café in Chartres. Random thoughts, perhaps.” Simon booted the page, with only a short paragraph of text in the body of the e-mail. It showed the date and time it was sent—Friday, September 19, in the early afternoon.
Lucy read out softly: “‘Be open to the presence of the rose. It is a complicated flower, full of symbology and paradoxical meanings. It indicates what is secret and silent, but also knows the human unconscious. The rose guides adepts, alchemists, and society members, heart-to-heart.’”
She felt powerfully affected by the words, as though she understood some of this through her own experience in the labyrinth. She couldn’t put this into words for Simon, so she settled back for takeoff. Grace had promised to fill Alex in on the history of Chartres. And he, silencing his own protests, had decided not to let their adversaries have it all their own way. He was dusting off his Latin and studying the texts from a mathematical perspective. Plus, she had a willing and genial accomplice here beside her. Will’s troops, she thought. Within the allotted week we will have solved the whole mystery. She watched the screen saver on the Apple fade out to a painting: of a woman, dangling a pearl over a double-handed chalice. Who was she?
“DON’T BE ANXIOUS ABOUT HER, ALEX. YOU CAN’T BELIEVE HOW DETERMINED she is—a woman with a renewed sense of purpose.” Grace stepped from the kitchen with a bottle of wine for him to open, then spooned some rice from a carton onto plates and put the curries on a mat.
“Am I that transparent?” He laughed self-consciously. “I know. She’s come through everything we’ve asked of her. New York won’t faze her. But she still has a fight on her hands. The least thing could carry her off—fever, a bad virus, even dirty food. She still has no immune system to speak of, Grace. The drugs shut down virtually everything. Eventually we hope to reduce them to the barest minimum, but until then we track every major temperature fluctuation, infection, or rejection. Get it right and she’s fine; get it wrong and we lose her.” He looked at his hostess, who seemed surprised to hear him think aloud. “Of course, we have to balance this against the fact that she seems almost uncannily well. It’s as if my head and my heart have a completely antithetical view of it.” He smiled enigmatically at Grace. “I don’t let things get to me; but worrying about her has become a habit now. A good habit.”
Grace smiled, pleased with the subtext. “It’s reassuring to know you’re human. I have an image of you from Lucy as someone who can cope with everything without blinking—finding a cool path across volcanic ground.” She intended a compliment; but he looked at her, troubled.
“Does it seem so?” He hesitated for a moment, then smiled at her. “I was catatonic when my marriage ended, Grace. I didn’t see it coming. I should have. Poor Anna hardly saw me, and when she did I was always completely drained. She was working part-time at home editing books, with a toddler and no adult company, me on thirteen-hour-plus days. I was a senior house officer just before Max was born, doing emergency takes; and it was competitive finding a suitable specialist registrar post. Then, moving into immunology, there was more specialist training, and homework—five years of it, with the difficult pathology exams at the end. I know now that Anna felt deserted. Even now the hours are heavy, but they were nonnegotiable then. I think she thought me selfish about medicine—obsessed; and I suppose I am. When she finally confronted me, I couldn’t blame her. But it’s taken a long time to even consider another close relationship.”
Grace rolled her eyes with a look of doubt, and he laughed.
“OK, I haven’t been a hermit; but I’ve avoided anything serious, stayed busy. Something always needed doing—there was always someone in a worse crisis than mine. I volunteered weekend cover, when I didn’t have Max. Transplant medicine is a philosophy course lived; your personal problems pale in the face of your patients’ struggle for just another day, another week, hoping an organ will materialize. It feels self-centered to drown in your own emotional crises compared with such life-and-death realities, so you shelve them. Or try to. But I couldn’t entirely fool Will.” He looked directly at Grace, who was listening quietly, without forcing him, and he answered her unput question: “Yes, I miss him desperately. His existence subtly permeated my own.”
She put a gentle hand on his shoulder, understanding his delay with Lucy. Whatever ethical problems there may have been, he’d also been grieving—something they’d not given proper consideration to. “Simon too. Sometimes a few beers will just set him off. Will seems to have had a big effect on people.”
Alex nodded. “Give me a spoonful of that curry, and tell me about Chartres!”
She recognized that was as much as he was going to open up, so she moved on without a pause. “There’s more than Chartres, but let’s start there. The night at your father’s got me hooked as much as Lucy and Simon. I’ve spent hours researching the history of the cathedral—the one official guidebooks hardly touch. I thought your mum must have had her reasons. Now, a good historian always checks her sources, and hard evidence for early use of the site—before about AD 500—is sketchy, so this is conjectural. But early literary sources tell us it was sacred to the Carnutes, a Gaulish tribe. A Druid grotto was dedicated to a pre-Christian virgin whom they believed would bear a son, which follows on directly from the cult of Isis and Ishtar. These were probably the same Druids Julius Caesar wrote about, with his famous mention of a “Virgini Patriae” in this region. This may be why the Christian story was adopted by the Gauls. A dolmen in the underground grotto predated even the Druids.”
“What date?”
“About two thousand BC.” Grace crossed the room to find Lucy’s guide to the cathedral, bookmarked with slips of paper, and she opened it for Alex at a pictured statue of a Madonna and child. “This existing statue of Mary with Jesus was based on another, destroyed in the sixteenth century. Some accounts suggest it was twelfth century, but the earlier object could just have been the one the Druids worshipped, a black Madonna—probably ebony. France has a rich cult in these.”
Alex looked carefully at the image. “So, the Christian church was building on an existing, powerful female iconography?”
“Yes. We lack certain facts about the pre-Druid past, but we do know that Chartres’s orientation curiously resembles Stonehenge, following the midsummer sunrise almost perfectly. This is different from the eastern orientation of all Christian churches: it’s seemingly unique to Chartres. There are two different axes in the cathedral, just as at Stonehenge. The heel stone and causeway post holes there mark the longest day in the solar calendar, and the distance between that and the lunar calendar. It’s a mathematical equation, called the Pythagorean comma—”
Alex interrupted her with energy: “Yes, the slip between solar and lunar cycles. And, if the architecture incorporates the two axes of the skies, then the number thirty-four has to be significant at some key place in the building too. Because it’s regarded as the ‘axis mundi’—the axis of the world.”
Grace looked at him sidelong. “I don’t know about that, Alex, but in Chartres the ‘comma’ is clearly built in. The building tilts slightly—you can see it from the great west door, if you face east.” She turned to a view of the floor plan in the guidebook. “You can’t quite see it here, but the longer and shorter axis have been twisted, and there’s a visible ‘wiggle’ right across the transept. It’s deliberate. Every other measure is precise.”
“A blend of masculine and feminine time?”
“Clever, isn’t it? Both spires above the West Face have different styles and heights, which seems strange until you realize one carries a weathervane of the sun, and the other…”
“…of the moon.” Alex filled in. He put down his food. “That must have excited my mother. She thought of herself as the moon. The building was designed to express a symbiosis of male and female energies.”
“That’s an interesting way to put it. A marriage of the masculine and feminine pulses. It’s been described as a ‘vibrato effect.’ And to underline the importance of the light, a tiny hole made in the aptly named window of St. Apollinaire focuses a ray of sun on a nail in a paving stone, at noon on June the twenty-first!”
“Like Stonehenge!”
She nodded emphatically. “But of course, there’s no photo of it here—it’s not even mentioned in an official guide like this one. It would emphasize the layers of worship across centuries and faiths—maybe like the labyrinth?”
Alex had torn off a piece of naan bread, but was too absorbed to eat. “I had lunch with Amel today, Grace—Lucy’s surgeon.” She nodded familiarity at the name. “He’s a Renaissance man—speaks seven languages, loves the arts—gives doctors a good name, a true ambassador for humanity. We talked about Chartres, and he told me about the Sufis. Are you familiar with them?”
“They’re a mystical Muslim sect, I think?”
Alex nodded, and explained Amel’s view that some of the Crusaders, who had remained behind after the successful First Crusade, had become fascinated by the architecture and ideas of Islam, and the spirituality of the Sufis. The Christians had been initiated into much wisdom and some arcane knowledge from the Jewish and Muslim population in Jerusalem whom they hadn’t slaughtered, but in particular it was the beauties and ideas behind the Aksa Mosque, on the Haram el Sharif, that had left an indelible impression. This was the Temple Mount, from which Muhammad was said to have made his mystical ascent, the night journey into heaven. Contrasted with Constantine’s lumbering Church of the Holy Sepulchre, it seemed effortlessly beautiful and spiritual. The Sufis taught them that the pointed arch raises the energy and spirit heavenward, whereas the Roman arch redirected the forces to earth.
“And the Sufis honored Christ as one of the seven sages of Islam?”
Alex replenished the glasses. “As do all good Muslims. But Amel explained they were strongly committed to a pluralism—which also interested Dee and Bruno. The Sufis recognized that every religion contained reflections and descent from one universal truth. They were tolerant, highly educated, at ease with the Torah as well as Christian teaching. A lot of coded architecture in great Gothic buildings—like Chartres, and St. Denis in Paris—might be traced to the mystical teachings of the Sufis, through the Templars. They held the number nine sacred; and there were nine Templar knights. No more were added for nine years.”
“I’ve read about the arches. Let me check my notes.” Grace dipped in her work folder and showed Alex some pages with her own line drawings. “The Druidic and Celtic associations are also linked with the number nine, the Triple Goddess. When the cathedral was rebuilt after a fire late in the twelfth century, new doors were added to make nine, and nine arches—the mukhamma Islamic arches you’re talking about. Hardly a coincidence.”
They studied the floor plan she’d reproduced, and Alex’s finger bounced as he came to the data that the paved stones of the labyrinth were each thirty-four centimeters in length. “A strange detail—though centimeters came in with Napoleon. But the number pattern suggests interfaith plurality,” he said. “It’s inspiring, don’t you think?”
Grace’s face betrayed deep thought. “Not for all people, Alex. It might shake the absolutes of their religion. But, where does this bring us in relation to Dr. Dee and his friends? And why did it matter to your mother?”
Alex took out his wallet and carefully unfolded a small sheet of paper. “I copied this last night from one of Will’s reference books. I recognized it straight away from our old family Bible, where someone had drawn it—which always caught my attention as a boy. Now I know it’s Dee’s emblem, called the ‘Monas’ or ‘one.’”
Grace looked at it for some time, before Alex continued.
“He designed it. It combines the astrological symbols—and the signs we use for male and female—to form a cross, similar to the Egyptian ankh. He thought he’d gone too far in publishing it—because of its great power. Intriguingly, it places the symbol for the moon at the pinnacle, with the sun directly below.”
At this, Grace clapped her hands together mischievously and laughed aloud. “Just as it should be! His boss was quite a lady, and all men were below her!”
Alex laughed with her. “Yes, I agree, and I think that’s important. Dee was designing something for all religious persuasions. And the recurring theme about a rose may connect with the rose windows in Chartres.
“And as Giordano Bruno spent a long time in Paris with the King, Henri IV, who promised the best hope at the time for religious tolerance, perhaps he visited Chartres and knew about this pure solstice light beam. It would have attracted him. It’s all a labyrinth of speculation.”
“So let’s check Bruno, the sun, and the rose before our Ariadne returns from New York. But in the meantime, a final clue for you. I consulted my father about the Hebrew letters that appear on each page of the oldest documents.”
“I noticed them, Grace, but they defeat me. Does he recognize anything in them?”
“I only faxed them to him today, though Lucy copied them for me weeks ago—but I wasn’t into it then. He hasn’t had much time, but just to give you something to ponder, he thinks every word has a cabalistic significance—like a magic word.”
“Like ‘abracadabra’?” Alex’s humor didn’t quite conceal his genuine interest.
Grace was relaxed and enjoying the wine and Alex’s company. She laughed loudly. “That’s Arabic, silly. But he’ll translate them and give us the meanings. He said something about ‘Gematria.’”
“That’s clever, Grace. He’s surely right. ‘Gematria’ gives all the letters a numerical parallel: and I can imagine what some of the words will add up to. But, what will it all mean?”