Page 114 of The Black Table
“Yes, yes,” Emrys says, waving his hand. “I assure you, I’m very well aware of the extent of his generosity. Monetarily and otherwise. But you mustn’t forget, Mr. Pendragon—” He corrects himself. “Kingston. Play is vital. Play is what keeps the mind open to see what is beyond the surface. You won’t find anything if you look only along straight lines.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“I sense your frustration,” Emrys says. He leans forward a little. “Let me put it this way. If the Grail were hiding in plainsight, don’t you think someone would have found it by now? Because, forgive me if I sound condescending, but many, many intelligent men—and perhaps even a few women”—his eyes sparkle—“have dedicated their lives, their careers, their every ounce of energy and vigor and spiritual commitment to finding it. Yet none have.”
I know that. I know that all too well. If there’s anything the Consistory has impressed upon me—on all of us—it’s howlongthis quest has been. How many generations have attempted it. How fruitless it’s always been.
“What’s your point?” I say, a bit tersely.
“My point,” Emrys says, “is that perhaps you should take a leaf out of your classmate’s book andenjoysome of this work once in a while.”
My heart twists. “My classmate.”
“Your partner in crime,” he clarifies. “Your co-transcriptionist. My newest student. Gwenna.”
Of course that’s who he means.
“She’s a lively one, isn’t she?” he says. “Quick mind and a quick study.”
“I suppose she is,” I agree. “I hadn’t really noticed.”
“Hadn’t noticed?” he cries. “My dear boy, you’ve been spending hours with her in the library, in class. You’ve been working through some of the thorniest and most hair-pulling manuscript texts in the Western world. Surely you’ve had occasion to notice her talents, her attitudes.”
I swallow hard. “With all due respect, Professor, I’m trained not to notice more about someone like that than I absolutely have to.”
“Ah.” He lifts his head slightly, drums his fingers against his lips. “And therein lies the problem, methinks,” he murmurs.
I swear to God, if this man weren’t so well-connected, weren’tthe conduit to getting us every codex and folio and manuscript we needed, I’d have resigned from his class a long time ago. It’s like he both understands and completely misinterprets the nature of everything we’re trying to do.
“Do you know the book of Tobit, from the Apocrypha?” He leans back, studies the ceiling. “Chapter twelve, verse seven.It is good to guard the secret of a king, but glorious to reveal the works of God.”
I shake my head—because no, Idon’tknow it, and no, I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean.
“We have rules,” I say, my voice hoarser than I want it to be. “Vows. A tradition?—”
“And I am well aware,” Emrys says. “I’ll be the first to say that self-abnegation is beyond a noble cause, but the point of all this”—he spreads his hands wide over the sheaf of papers we’ve turned in, a few assignments from before then—”is to question the premise. Is it not? See the rules from a new angle. Understand that what goes on in here”—he presses his index finger to his breastbone—”affects what’s in here.” He taps his temple. “What’s that saying again? As above, so below?”
I grit my teeth. “I don’t know what you’re getting at,” I bite out.
That I’m supposed to, what, grab her by the shoulders and plant a kiss on her?
Ruin everything I’ve worked for, everything I stand for, just because of one infuriatingly brilliant girl I can’t get out of my mind?
“I’m not getting at anything,” Dr. Emrys says mildly. “That, I’m afraid, is entirely your job. AndI”—he glances at his wristwatch—”I’m afraid, am due to catch an airplane to the Bibliothèque Nationale de France. A few days’ visit—productive, hopefully.”
He rises, puts his hands in his jacket pockets, and surveys me down the tip of his nose. “All I’m saying is, Mr. Pendragon, is that that is no ordinary young woman you’re dealing with. But…what do I know? I’m just a silly old man.” He pushes a sheaf of papers into my chest. “Transliterated by Monday, if you please.”
THIRTY-ONE
GWENNA
After leaving Emrys’s classroom,my walk back to Camlann House is more like a trudge.
I don’t know what I expected.
I don’t know why I thought that Kingston would be anything different than the way he always is in class: aloof, distant, businesslike, uncompromising. And then he needs to kick me out so that he can do some golden boy power play with the professor.
I sigh and wrap my arms further around myself, buried in another cashmere sweater—bought and paid for by Kingston’s father, no less.
