“And, by corollary, something else begins once we find whatever is interred there.” Professor Walters seemed satisfied, and he and Temple agreed with Lucy. “So the Rapture will begin toward midnight tonight, and no sooner,” Fitzalan pondered, circling his wine in its balloon-shaped glass. “They have understood the significance of this special date for hundreds of years: the number, the Realization of Man. It’s the number linked with the foundation stone of the entire world, the core of the Temple in Jerusalem. But Dee must have had this application about its timing directly from the angels, and we’re in the right place at the right time—or we will be. For now we can linger over dinner,” Walters suggested, “and you’ll follow the fish with a fruit course. What you eat before initiation—it’s very important. Like the last supper. A fitting preparation for a convocation of angels and men. Even Prospero fed Ferdinand on mussels and seawater before he was granted a vision of the gods beside his future bride. And we must be prepared for something very extraordinary tonight, Miss King.”

She realized he was warming to his theme and speaking about seemingly desultory ideas. Perhaps they were linked in ways she couldn’t yet appreciate. He rattled on: “Guy never misses his fruit now, you understand. Did you know he’d had open heart surgery too? A bypass. Had a near-death experience, actually. I’m surprised he didn’t share this with you while you two were sequestered in France. An angel spoke to him. Just the once.” Lucy detected cynicism. “And he’s a healthy eater now.”

Lucy thought it strange that the man being spoken of made no comment whatsoever. He looked a little anxious, in her opinion.

It was twenty minutes before midnight by the clock inset in the walnut dashboard of Fitzalan Walters’s Lancia—a more commodious model than the sleek, smaller coupé that had stolen her in France—when they turned between the arches into the courtyard parking lot of the White Hart Hotel. Angelo, seated next to her, now opened the car door for Lucy, and Temple lurched from the front passenger seat. She was speechless at the charade of chivalry, until it dawned on her that they really believed they were about to witness a special religious moment.

“I’ll be at the front door with Angelo in ten minutes,” Walters told them, relaxing back into the leather as the car pulled away.

The oddly paired Temple and Lucy headed toward the hotel reception desk.

“Lucy King. I work for a television company—I phoned a few hours ago. Is there someone here called Mr. McBeath?” Lucy asked this of a girl who wasn’t at all interested in latecomers to the hotel, whoever they worked for. She hardly lifted her eyes from the ledger in front of her to look at them. She obviously knew nothing about the Rapture, Lucy thought with a smile.