The Magic Circle, Katherine Neville [parable of the sower read online .TXT] 📗

as intimate terms with Lucky as Pandora herself was. Then later at the museum, it was his unobtrusive but well-timed question about “these other objects you seek” that elicited what Hitler thought the sacred items were—platters and tools and such—and revealed how and where he’d conducted his search for them.

But if Pandora’s cousin really was at the center of the plot, as Sam had hinted and as I myself was starting to believe, just how had this starring role fallen to Dacian Bassarides?

The Café Central had recently been redone. Some construction at the back was still under way, as a bit of dust and intermittent sawing attested. But since my last visit the old dark paneling, flocked wallpaper, and dingy wall sconces had been banished, and the place was now a bright open space.

As we crossed the room, the fog outside lifted; pale light poured through the big windows and glistened on the glass-and-brass display case filled with rich Viennese pastries. At small marble tables scattered across the floor, people sat on the stiff chairs reading papers attached to polished wooden sticks, as crisp as if they’d been freshly laundered and pressed. The painted plaster figure of a middle-aged Viennese sat alone at his usual table near the door, a plaster cup of coffee on the table before him.

Wolfgang and I crossed to the raised dining area in back, where tables in open booths were each graced with a crisp white cloth, sparkling silver, and a pitcher filled with freshly cut flowers. The maître d’ led us to ours, removed the Reserved sign, and took our orders for wine and bottled water. When the drinks had arrived, Wolfgang said, “I hoped he’d be here already.”

The wine made me feel more relaxed, but Wolfgang’s mind was elsewhere. He glanced around the open space of the room, then sat back, folding and refolding his napkin with some impatience.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Since we’ve come late, it’s possible that he is here already. Let me try to find out. Meanwhile why don’t you order some appetizer or fish for us to begin with? I’ll send the waiter to you.” Standing, he looked around once more, then left me alone at the table.

I sipped some more wine while I studied the menu. I’m not sure how much time passed, but just as I was wondering whether I ought to go on my own to find the waiter, a shadow fell across the table. Glancing up, I saw a tall figure bundled in a green loden greatcoat. His broad-brimmed hat shadowed his face against the light pouring from the windows behind, so I couldn’t make out his features. His leather satchel, much like my own, was slung casually across one shoulder. He set the bag down in the far side of the booth that Wolfgang had recently vacated.

“May I join you?” he asked in a soft voice. Without waiting for a nod from me he’d unbuttoned the coat and was hanging it on a nearby hook. I glanced around nervously to see what was keeping Wolfgang. The soft voice added: “I saw our friend Herr Hauser back in the kitchen just now. I’ve taken the liberty of asking him to leave us.”

I turned to object, but he’d slid into the booth opposite and removed his hat. For the first time I got a clear look at him. I was absolutely riveted.

His face was like nothing I’d ever seen. Though weathered like ancient stone, it seemed a timeless mask of sculpted beauty and enormous power. His long hair, nearly black but mixed with strands of silver, was pulled back to reveal his strong jawline and high cheekbones, then tumbled in ropes of braid about his shoulders.

He wore a quilted leather vest and a shirt with loose white sleeves, open at the throat to reveal a string of intricately carved beads in various colored stones. The vest was embroidered with bird and animal motifs in rich and vibrant colors: saffron, carmine, plum, cerulean, scarlet, pumpkin, viridian, colors from a primal forest.

His ancient eyes, beneath brooding brows, were of a depth and hue that might be equaled only in the rarest of gemstones, pools of mingled color, midnight purple and emerald green and ebony, with a dark flame burning in their depths. Of all the descriptions I’d heard of him, I thought Wolfgang’s seemed the best.

“The way you’re looking at me makes me quite self-conscious, my dear,” he said.

Before I could reply, he’d reached over and casually plucked the menu from my hands, commandeering my wineglass too. “I’ve taken another liberty,” he told me in that soft, exotically accented voice. “I’ve brought some Côtes du Rhône from my vineyards at Avignon. I put them in the kitchen earlier to—how you would say?—help them breathe. Before our friend Wolfgang agreed to leave, he insisted you hadn’t eaten all day and must have some food to go with it. You’re fond of Tafelspitz, I hope?”

The waiter unobtrusively set the new bottle on the table with fresh wineglasses, poured, and quickly vanished as Dacian went on.

“Since you’re my only heir, my vineyard and its wines will one day belong to you, so I’m pleased for you to make their acquaintance—as I’m delighted to make yours. Shall I introduce myself formally? I am your grandsire, Dacian Bassarides. And I regard so lovely a granddaughter as a better gift than all the wines in the Vaucluse.”

Holy shit, I thought as we clinked glasses—that’s all I need, to be heir to one more bequest. If all my inheritances turned out like the last one, I wouldn’t be around long enough to collect on anything!

“I’m delighted to meet you, too,” I told Dacian Bassarides—and I meant it. “But I want to explain that I learned of our relationship only moments ago, so I hope you can appreciate that I’m still in shock. My grandmother Pandora died before I was born. She was rarely discussed by my family, so I know as little of her