Page 45 of Smoke & Ashes
“If that’s okay.”
She shrugged. “It’s the text that interests me, not how you acquired it. Of course it will need to be authenticated to make sure it’s a genuine historical artefact but I’m not about to ask you for proof of purchase.”
“Authenticated?”
“Oh, you know. Paper analysed, ink spectographed, language checked over for modernisms. You’d be amazed how many forged copies of ancient quasi-magical tomes I look at.”
I wasn’t completely sure I would. “And you’re a theologian?”
“Theologian and folklorist. Isn’t it all mythology, when everything’s said and done?” She flashed me a conspiratorial smile. “But don’t tell my colleagues I said that. Theology as a discipline has a tendency to attract true believers. Although admittedly it tends to make atheists out of a reasonable number of them.”
“You’re not religious, then?” I had to admit, she didn’t look the type.
There was a short silence while she took another drag on her cigarette, the tip flaring a dazzling red. “Not anymore. Strictlyentre nous, I used to be something of a god-botherer, but I soon saw the error of my ways. You?”
“I think”—this was going to be a tricky one to answer honestly—“I think there’s a lot of stuff out there that’s hard to explain if there isn’t something.”
“Not an unreasonable position.” She had a contemplative look in her eyes. “Anyway, I know whyI’minterested in the book—it’s a unique historical artefact and I’d be utterly remiss if I passed up the opportunity to examine it. Why areyouinterested?” From the way she looked at me, it was like she’d asked a deeply incisive personal question. Which she had, but I wasn’t quite sure if she realised that or if she was just getting her flirt on.
“It’s complicated.” How the fuck was I going to answer this? There was no chance in hell I could selloh I happen to have a well-developed academic interest in obscure occult texts. I was so clearly not the type. Maybe the truth was the best option. Or a variant of it, at least. “I had a friend who I lost. I was hoping that this would—that it would give me some answers.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re looking in strange places.”
“She was a strange person.” I fished out my copy—well, the copy that Hephaestion had stolen for me—of theBook of Living Fire, which I’d been keeping away from the cigarettes for reasons of antique. “So … here it is.”
Dr Bright picked it up with a tentative, academic curiosity and began leafing carefully through the pages. “It certainly seems authentic,” she said. “I’m a little confused, though, about what you want me to do with it. I’d be more than happy to take it off your hands, but your original advertisement suggested you wanted something more specific.”
I wished I’d thought this out ahead of time. Telling a perfectly respectable fellow of UCL that I wanted her help performing a magical ritual to reanimate my friend the statue was a lot harder now I found myself having to try it. “Well …” That’s it, Kate, stall for time, you’re being totally cool and not making anybody suspicious in any way. “The one I’m trying to—to connect with here. She was a … Hellenic neopagan.” Was that a thing? I thought that was a thing. Of course lying to a folklorist about her area of expertise was probably one of my least clever ideas. “There was a ... a”—don’t say ritual, don’t say ritual—“a sort of ritual that she wanted me to do. But it involved the book, and I can’t read it.”
To say that Nicola Bright looked suspicious was an insult to suspicious-looking people. Or maybe it was a compliment to them. She looked very suspicious, is what I mean. “Well,” she said. “I think I can help you.” I’m sure I imagined the gleam in her eyes.
“Oh good.”
She tucked the book into a technical-looking bag that was probably designed to protect it from dust mites or something, and slipped that into a briefcase. “A pleasure to meet you, Kate.” She held out her hand again.
“And you, Dr Bright.”
“Please, my friends call me Nick.” She seemed to think of something. “Oh, one of your texts mentioned the holy grail?”
I’d forgotten I asked her about that. “Yeah. Just because it overlaps a bit with what you do. So … umm … know anything about it?”
“Your friend again? Was she apan CelticHellenist neopagan?”
“Something like that. Syncretic, y’know.”
“That’s quite common in NRMs.”
“NRMs?”
“New Religious Movements. It’s what we say instead ofneopagans, it’s a bit less”—she waved a hand—“judgemental. Has less of apersecuted by the early churchvibe to it.”
You learned something new every day. Usually it wasn’t anything at all useful, but still. “So, do you?”
“More than you can possibly imagine,” she smiled. “Most of it contradictory.”
“Anything would help.”
She leaned back in the chair. “Well it’s not strictly biblical. It’s first mentioned around 1190 where it’s linked to Percival. The connection to the last supper and the crucifixion comes only a few years later. Then of course it’s a recurring motif in all the later Arthurian canon: the vulgate cycle, the post-vulgate cycle, Malory. Of course in recent years—I say recent but perhaps I’m showing my age—there was rather renewed interest in the topic thanks to that Da Vinci book.”
