B008AZB1XW EBOK (12 page)

As Simon and Elizabeth left the shop, she noticed a couple window-shopping across the street. It was Renaud and Majerus, the French woman and the man from Luxembourg. Even though they weren’t Russian, she thought of them as her own personal Boris and Natasha. But really, if Majerus was trying to blend in, he should have traded his cape for a Chesterfield at the very least.

“We’ve got company,” Elizabeth said rolling her eyes in the direction that they were standing.

Simon nodded. “Yes, I saw them. I think the Russian’s behind us.”

“Spies on parade!”

“Elizabeth,” Simon chided as he choked back a laugh.

“How about one more shop then back to the hotel. I don’t want to be wandering around after dark if we can help it.” The afternoon sun was already beginning to dip behind the brick buildings that lined the street.

“Agreed.”

John Smith’s Bookshoppe smelled like dust and tea and stillness. A little old man, who must have been eleven hundred years old, peered at them over tiny spectacles as the bell rang announcing their entrance. Stacks of books teetered precariously in the aisles and stretched nearly from floor to ceiling. Shelves overflowed with books. Every nook and cranny had a volume tucked into it. They carefully inched their way between the bookcases.

Cookbooks were mixed in with medieval armor and Oscar Wilde with Alexander Pope. If there was a method to the madness, it was lost on them. After a few minutes of aimless wandering, Simon picked his way back to the front desk.

“Excuse me,” Simon said. “I’m looking for a few particular volumes.”

“A place for everything and everything in its place,” the little man said with a slight Irish accent and even slighter interest.

“Yes, to be sure. It’s just that I can’t quite figure out the way the books are organized. Is there a key?”

The man looked up at Simon and tapped his head with a bony finger. “All in here.”

“Of course. You don’t happen to have the
Codex Regius
or
Aesir & Venir
?”

The man squinted. “Yes and no. Back wall, center case, third shelf, red binding. Ten pounds. And to the other? No.”

Simon was suitably appalled and impressed. “Ten quid? That’s outrageous.”

The man just shrugged.

“Hmph. I don’t suppose you have the
Book of Iona
?”

“Did. Don’t anymore. Don’t expect to see it again.”

“You did have it though.”

Elizabeth heard the excitement in Simon’s voice and joined him at the counter.

“That’s what I said.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what happened to it?”

The shopkeeper frowned up at Simon and pursed his lips. “It sprouted legs and walked out. What do you think happened to it? It sold.”

“Do you know who bought it?” Elizabeth asked.

“Of course, I do. I’m old, not daft.”

“Whom did you sell it to?” Simon asked.

“Whom,” the man said with displeasure, “I sell my books to is my business and not yours.”

“Couldn’t you make an exception?” Elizabeth asked. “Just this one time?”

The little man was about to say something sour when he noticed the two ten pound notes Simon had place on the counter.

“For the Codex,” Simon said.

The shopkeeper nearly drooled at the sight of so much money. Twenty pounds was a month’s pay for most men in 1942. His hands shook as he took it.

“Well, what are you waiting for, girl? Go get the book.”

When Elizabeth returned with the book, he scribbled something onto a receipt pad and wrapped the book in crumpled brown paper. He handed them both to Simon.

“The name?”

The man waggled a finger at the receipt.

Simon turned it over and scrawled in barely legible script was a name and partial address. “Thank you.”

The man nodded, pursed his lips and waved them to the door. “Now, get out.”

Simon held the door open for Elizabeth and they both heard the door lock behind them. The hastily turned “closed” sign swung behind the glass. Simon put the receipt into his breast pocket and tucked their bundle under his arm.

“Bloomsbury isn’t far,” he said, “It’s just back by the museum and the university. I think the address is a business or an office, and it’s got to be near five by now. I think we’d better wait until tomorrow.”

Elizabeth looked back at their shadows and hoped they’d wait too.

The streets were emptying as the sun set, but they were still awash with every uniform imaginable — Canadian, Free French, and American. Sometimes the Americans seemed to outnumber the Londoners. Always trailing along behind a band of US soldiers, the “snowdrop” or MP with his white helmet kept the men in line. Mostly.

Austerity took the fun out of most things a soldier on leave usually enjoyed — movies, nightclubs and late-night carousing. There were a few dance clubs and canteens, but entertainment was generally hard to come by.

Elizabeth saw a sign about a dance and was just about to ask Simon about it when the siren came. At first, the sound was off in the distance, but as other sirens closer to them began to wail, it was a loud and insistent two-tone warble.

“Air raid?” she asked. It was a stupid question, but she was giving herself a pass. It was her first war, her first air raid and, quite possibly, her first panic attack.

Simon’s gentle grip on her elbow became a vise. “This way.” His voice was as tight as her stomach.

She looked up, straining to see the bombers, but the sky was just a steely gray. The sirens and Simon insisted she stop dawdling and get a move on.

They fell in with the crowd since they seemed to know where they were going. An air raid warden with his trademark helmet blew his whistle and waved people toward the shelter that was also marked by large signs with arrows pointing the way.

No one ran, but they weren’t casual about it either. They moved quickly, but there was no panic. The omnipresent “Keep Calm and Carry On” signs seemed to be doing their job. It was very much business as usual. And after three years of bombing, it was no wonder. Children giggled with delight and pretended to be manning the anti-aircraft guns or engaging in spitfire dogfights. Others dragged their feet and shuffled along in that wonderfully put-upon way only children can.

The moan of the sirens faded as they went further down into one of the Underground shelters. An elderly woman struggled down the stairs. Simon took one arm and Elizabeth took the other as they helped the woman down the final steps. All around them, people were doing the same thing. If someone needed help, it was given. Children who were separated from parents were looked after until they were found. No one shoved. Everyone made room as best they could as people continued to stream in until the platform was filled to bursting. Some people had blankets and appeared to have somehow beaten the sirens to the punch.

“It’s not as common as it was during the Blitz,” Simon explained as they found a spot along the wall to wait it out. “But before dark, some Londoners leave their homes and apartments in a nightly migration to the Underground shelters. They’ll stay here every night.”

The atmosphere was shockingly normal, even pleasant. It was almost as though they were having a campout or enjoying a night at the canteen and not huddled in a subway tunnel. A little white rabbit hopped through the crowd with a boy not much bigger in chase.

His mother brought up the rear of the little parade. “Charlie! I’ve told you it’s not a pet to be carried about.”

“Monty!” Charlie snatched up the rabbit, giving him a few quick soothing pets before stuffing Monty into his coat. He looked up defiantly at his mother. The little rabbit’s head poked out of his coat and seemed to do the same. “It’s bad luck to eat the white ones, mum. That’s what Billy said.”

“Billy’s been telling you porkies.”

“He wouldn’t.”

The mother sighed, took little Charlie by the hand and dragged him back through the crowd. “Billy!”

Poor bunny, and poor Charlie. She’d read that the government encouraged people not to just grow their own vegetables, but to raise rabbits, chickens and even pigs in their gardens, if they could. She’d even seen a few public allotments for pig clubs. It was a clever way to increase food production. Nearly every bit of available space including backyards, public parks and even window boxes were used to grow things or raise them. But when push came to butcher, she wasn’t sure she’d have the stomach to do the deed. It was just something else she was grateful she didn’t have to endure.

“Maybe Monty will be one of the lucky ones,” Simon said.

Elizabeth leaned into Simon and rested her head against his chest. “I hope so.”

Chapter Thirteen

After less than half an hour the air raid warden told them it was over. Just like that, the tunnel emptied and life restarted. When the all-clear siren, a single-toned blast, stopped, the world became unnaturally quiet. Dusk had passed and the streets fell into that singular darkness brought by the blackout.

They caught one of the last big, red double-decker buses for the day and, despite the chill, rode on the top deck back to the hotel. A single chimney of smoke rose from a fire in the distance.

When they got back to their rooms Elizabeth felt the grime of the day caked on her skin. She shivered to think about what the city must have been like back in Dickens’ day when the air was thick with coal smoke. A bath before dinner was definitely in order.

Clean and feeling refreshed, she wrapped one of the towels around herself and went into the bedroom to dress. Simon was lying down in the middle of the bed reading the book he’d bought earlier and looking damn hot doing it.

His shoes and socks were off, his long legs crossed at the ankles. His white shirtsleeves were rolled up to mid-forearm, one hand behind his head propping it up on the pillows as the other held the book. Only Simon could make reading in a sweater vest sexy.

He lowered the book and peered at her over the edge of the binding. She saw the smile in his eyes. He laid the book down on his chest and stared at her.

“What?” she said, checking to see if she had something stuck to her face.

“You are so beautiful.”

No matter how often he said that it still made her blush.

“You’re biased.”

He closed the book, put it on the side table and rolled onto his side. “Infinitely.” He got up and walked slowly toward her. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

He ran a finger over the still damp skin of her shoulder and along the hollow of her collarbone. With excruciating tenderness, his hand touched the side of her neck and then cupped her cheek. He leaned in as he urged her closer. The kiss was soft and gentle, but anything but chaste. There was a feeling of tethered restraint behind each touch. When Simon pulled away, his eyes were so dark with love and desire it made her tremble.

He swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. The towel fell open as he laid her down on the comforter. One knee on the edge of the bed, he leaned down and kissed her neck with passion he’d been holding back.

Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat.

He grasped one wrist and held it down on the bed as he feverishly kissed her neck and jaw.

A horrible realization interrupted Elizabeth’s otherwise very pleasant thoughts. “Do you think they’re watching us?” she asked breathlessly. “Right now?”

Simon barely paused long enough to answer her. “Who?”

“The spy people.”

“Let them,” he said as he pulled off his vest and they both worked on the buttons of his shirt. “Maybe they’ll learn something.”

His shirt partially undone, he dove back down for another searing kiss and Elizabeth stopped caring about anything else.

~~~

The next day, they took the Tube up to Bloomsbury to Professor Giles’ office where the bookseller had directed them yesterday. It was in one of the many buildings that made up the many colleges that made up the University of London. Luckily, Giles was more than happy to accommodate a visiting professor. He was the quintessential absent-minded type — tall, tortoise shell glasses, a bit of a potbelly and wisps of hair that curled away from his head like dozens of unruly thoughts escaping. The gleam in his eyes when Simon asked about the various codices meant she’d be sure to lose them both in details well beyond her scope of knowledge.

They’d found a ridiculously large book on the professor’s dusty top shelf that had a color plate depicting the sword Nothung. They discussed the intricacies of Norse mythology while she did her best to recreate the image on a piece of paper. She sketched several other items to belie the importance of the sword.

Her art skills left a lot to be desired, but she managed a fair rendering. The sword in the plate was enormous, nearly four feet long with an extremely tapered point. The pommel was in the shape of an eagle, wings extended. The grip was covered with interwoven snakes and the guard looked something like horns. The blade itself was typical of most great swords, except for two things — the jagged edge that ran a full two feet down the edges of the top half of the blade beneath the hilt and the runes that were etched on its surface.

Elizabeth did her best to copy everything as precisely as possible. Several of the runes were frighteningly familiar. “Is this what I think it is?” she asked pointing to the jagged S-shaped rune.

Simon and the professor leaned over her shoulder.

“Oh, yes, the Sig rune,” the professor said. “It was originally a rune for the sun called Sowoli. But of course, the Nazis corrupted it as they did with so many other things. Here.” He pointed to more runes. “This one and this one here used to have entirely different meanings. Now, they’re symbols of the virtues of SS officers. Faith in the cause and self-sacrifice.”

The professor’s gaze lingered on the sword. “That is an unusual piece, isn’t it? I’m not sure I’ve ever quite seen that particular configuration of runes before.”

They’d done their best to disguise their interest in the sword with more general questions about mythology. The last thing they needed was for the professor to fixate.

“They’ve done that a lot, haven’t they?” Elizabeth asked. “Take pagan symbols and turn them into something else?”