not just because I heard the children across the hall being herded off toward the elevator. Because I didn’t have to sink to the level of whoever chased us last night…and because it was my choice to not sink to that level.
Choice. That’s the real power.
A knock sounded at the connecting door to Rhys’s room.
“Magdalene?” Rhys called softly, trying not to wake me if I were still asleep. We’d left the door cracked between us, in case there was further trouble. Only as I glanced up and saw him framed in the doorway did it occur to me that I was wearing nothing but what I’d slept in.
Yesterday’s T-shirt and panties.
“I could go get breakfast while you—” he offered, then stopped, most of him hesitating between the rooms and all of him staring at me with those blue, blue eyes.
I was suddenly, stupidly glad Aunt Bridge had insisted on us traveling together.
For a long moment I just stared back. I had no desire to cover myself—why should I? A T-shirt is hardly a Merry Widow, after all. High-cut blue panties do not a G-string make.
Rhys turned away first. “Why don’t I just do that?”
“A croissant would be great,” I said. “With fruit. And herbal tea, if they have it. I’ll shower while you’re out.”
“I’ll have it in here.” He pushed the door back to a crack.
I considered saying, “Be careful.” Or even protesting that he shouldn’t go anywhere without me. But it seemed overly paranoid, even after last night, and no small bit egotistical.
Instead I called, “Thanks.”
A shower. That was the ticket. Shower good.
Afterward I toweled my hair semidry and combed it, and changed into clean panties and my one clean replacement shirt, a mauve camisole. I gave my face the barest hint of blush and eyeliner, not being a big makeup person, and put on yesterday’s cargo pants and boots.
It’s the price you pay for traveling with just a backpack.
I went to the connecting door and knocked. “Are you—”
Before I could finish, the door swung farther open and I saw that not only was Rhys back from the café, but he was kneeling by the bed, apparently…praying. In soft Latin.
I reminded myself of what he’d said—that he was after the goddess grails only to find the Holy Grail. That put us on distinct points of the religious spectrum, whether we were both ecumenical in our beliefs or not. But…
It felt weird, noticing how well the man wore a pair of jeans while he was reciting the Ave Maria with practiced ease.
I was raised Catholic, Catholic-ish anyway. I know the Ave Maria when I hear it.
It felt weird, noticing how long his dark lashes looked against his pale cheeks as he prayed. It felt wrong.
Not just invasion-of-privacy wrong. Deeper than that.
I started to back out. But with a murmured “Amen,” he smiled toward me, almost in relief, crossed himself and stood. “The food’s on the table. Let’s come up with a plan of action.”
“A plan for finding the Melusine Chalice?” I asked, sitting at the little table by the window. Below us we could see part of the Futuroscope park—a strange contrast to how far into the past we meant to go. “Or for avoiding gun-toting bad guys?”
He lifted croissants out of a paper sack and handed me one. “It’s difficult to avoid people you cannot name.”
I took the roll but hesitated—and it takes pretty heavy thoughts to keep me from a freshly baked Poitevan croissant.
“Do you have a different theory?” guessed Rhys.
“Not a theory so much as a concern.”
He waited, handing me a paper cup of tea with a floral essence.
I said, “I’m worried that we’ve gotten involved with some kind of secret society.”
Rhys sat in the other chair, eyes widening. “If we were going after the Holy Grail, I’d think you were on to something. Ceremonial orders like the Illuminati or the Priory of Scion.”
I took an innocent bite of my croissant and chewed. It was still warm from the oven. Mmm! And he’d brought fruit, too—strawberries, oranges and grapes.
“You can’t mean it,” Rhy challenged, with a laugh. “An ancient order? For one thing, we aren’t after the Grail. We’re after a holy relic, perhaps even a cup, but not the Grail.”
“You are,” I reminded him.
“Not exactly,” he protested. “I hope to find a connection, studying with your aunt. But as low as the chances of finding the Melusine Chalice are, the likelihood that it may lead us to the true Grail…”
I wished he’d stop making it sound like all the goddess cups were secondary. Even if he believed it, it seemed rude.
“Well,” he continued, “those chances are hardly high enough to merit high-speed auto races and gunfire.”
“Unless they know something we don’t.”
“Do they think the real Grail is in Poitou?”
“Could we just call it the Sangreal?” I asked. Sangreal is a classic term for the Holy Grail. To some it comes from the term sang graal—blood grail or blood cup. To a few it has an even more complex meaning about mythical royal bloodlines…but that really didn’t apply here.
It’s still about blood. Always about blood.
“The goddess chalices may not be of your particular faith,” I said, with what I felt was admirable reason, “but let’s assume that if they exist, they’re also real. And holy.”
“This is fair enough,” he said. “But do you mean to imply that these…people…think the Sangreal is in Poitou?”
“No.” I hated to tear down his hopes, but like he’d said, what were the chances? There was plenty of Sangreal research out there far more exhaustive than the research Aunt Bridge and I had been compiling on Melusine. “I don’t think the men who chased us last night, and who hurt Aunt Bridge, and who stole our notes… I don’t think they’re after the Sangreal at all. I think they want to suppress the goddess grails.”
“Why is that?” His gaze was unsettling. “Are they magic?”
My inner academic resisted that explanation, even as my Grail Keeper side hoped it was true. “Even if the cups have no supernatural powers, their existence could rewrite early history, reveal a more powerful feminine past. That’s important.”
“Again I say, high-speed auto chases and gunfire?”
He had a point. “Okay, so I don’t know their motivation. All I’m saying is,
