“Whomsoever would open this, doe so only if you be the Dark Lady of the Light, Sister and Beloved, and her Rose-Cross Knight Loyal and True. A plague be on your houses if this be not soe. The words of Mercury are harsh, after the sweet songs of Apollo.”

Lucy saw no reference to angels or trumpets, but she felt the power of ideas behind the words written so long ago. She looked at his eager face. “Dr. Walters, I daren’t open this. It may be that I am the Lady of Light, but you’re not the Red-Cross Knight. Alexander ought to be here, to metaphorically cut the Gordian knot. Because I think two keys are required.”

Walters hadn’t reached this point to be put off by niceties; and he flashed the blade of the Leatherman unflinchingly toward Lucy. “Listen. The first thing to consider is that there is no knot—not a true knot, anyway. The second thing to remember about Alexander’s legendary knot is that he cheated with it. We’ll do the same. Now don’t drop the thread, or let it go to your head. There’s no such thing as a curse. You and I both know that—whatever my underlings here believe. This is the twenty-first century. Besides, are you not both the Lady of Light and a Knight of the True Knot? Two as one?” A cynical sneer twisted his mouth.

Lucy felt punched. Was that true? She hadn’t understood the words in this utterly plausible light. She was equally afraid to think what he might mean, and know. How was he privy to something she’d discussed only with Alex? And how was she to swallow the extraordinary paradox of his not holding with “silly beliefs” in the twenty-first century in tandem with his earlier drivel about vials and trumpets. This was anomalous, lacked sense or consistency. Was he a believer, a schizophrenic madman, or just a mountebank exploiting others’ gullibility?

Guy Temple, meanwhile, had turned a grayer shade and sweat beaded his forehead: Lucy was aware of an unhealthy, clammy smell that emanated from him. She knew he was in serious trouble and couldn’t help her concern, bending to him. He implored Fitzalan Walters to delay, having waited until now. They were so close. “Get Angelo to find Dr. Stafford…Please…He can’t be far. I half expect he’s followed us here…” His words trailed off as a clock bell chimed just once, an unknown hour, perhaps thirty minutes past midnight.

But Walters was unmoved and ignored him. Plainly fixated on his holy grail, he jerked Lucy upright and rounded on her again with the short, ugly blade. Compelled only by instinct, Lucy switched off her flashlight and sprang away—a lady of light no longer—leaving the room in stuffy blackness. Angelo made an empty grab for her in the dark but, dressed in pale gray silk, she disappeared into the space like a spirit. Walters also lunged at her, catching fiercely at a hank of her loose hair, but both men then stopped dead.