It was humiliating to have those kind eyes of hers turned toward him with such concern.
For a moment, he did not care about returning to Camelot to clear his name or finding Malvern. All he cared about was having Julia see him as he really was. He wanted her to watch him in the context of her own life, to view him as a success the way he was back in Camelot.
"Would you like to rest a bit, old buddy?" Bill inquired.
He had said those words lightly, "old buddy," but they had hit their mark and stung.
"No. I'm fine," Lancelot snapped, returning to she job at hand and hoping he would be able to move the other boxes. Standing up, hands on his hips, he yaw a full-length mirror. Reflected back at him was a man with gray hair and an ashen face, and it took him a moment to realize that older person was himself.
Just as quickly, he looked away, and he avoided the mirror for the rest of the afternoon.
Julie's return to work was nothing short of bizarre.
"Julie! Hello!"
"Are you all right? We heard about your robbery. Mr. Stickley just got back from London this morning and says you should take the entire day off:"
"Hi there, Julie! Are you free for lunch? Bob and 1 were just…"
"Hey, stranger! The Shine-All people sent you a huge flower arrangement ..:"
She felt like a conquering hero returning from battle. There was also an element of guilt she didn't really do anything to deserve such accolades. If anyone should receive praise, it should be Lancelot.
She smiled and waved as she made her way down the corridor to her own office, closing the door with relief.
Under her arm was Nathan's book. Instead of sitting at her desk, which was now crowded with flowers, she sank into the couch and kicked off hei shoes. All she needed was a minute to collect bet thoughts, to calm herself down.
It wasn't easy. A vision kept flashing through her mind like a flickering movie, an image of Lancelot growing old so quickly, of the pain he would endure, of the sorrows and triumphs that life would deny him. There was so very much he had yet to accomplish. And she felt absolutely helpless, powerless against the forces of nature that seemed to be working against his very existence.
Maybe there would be some clue in the book, something to help him. It was as good a place as any to look for answers. If not an answer, at least she could find the question. While Sam was searching through his brother's texts, she could at least page through this one.
The book itself was an oversized, oblong volume, lavishly illustrated with vibrant colors. The inset was a depiction of King Arthur pulling the sword Excalibur from the stone. What struck Julie immediately was the amazing likeness of Arthur-it really looked like the man she had seen. A youthful version, of course-the boy Arthur, his features screwed in effort, pulling the sword from the stone, propelling himself into legend. Not only did it look like him, but he was even wearing the same sort of tunic she had seen in Camelot.
Just before she opened the book, she glanced at the hilt of Excalibur as it was depicted on the cover, ui the unblemished hands of the youth Arthur. It was a precise rendering of the sword, accurate in every detail, from the placement of the gemstones to the curious etched swirls on the hilt.
Then she turned the pages to the first chapter, with a meticulously rendered drawing of Merlin, looking almost as he had when she met him at his home, although his nose was a little less bulbous and his eyes were less puffy. It was Merlin after a cosmetic makeover, the same man with slightly more dashing features. Even his robe, although the same one she remembered, was free of stains.
Then came more illustrations of Arthur, older than on the cover, a mature adult. And he was just the man she had seen in the banquet hall. His expression was every bit as calm and serene, wise and compassionate as it had been in Camelot. With a jolt, she realized something she had not comprehended before. King Arthur bore a striking resemblance, of all people, to a young Abraham Lincoln. It was as unmistakable as it was improbable. Peering closer, she even saw the same irregularities that had made Lincoln's face so distinguishable, the deep lines, the uniquely clipped beard. It was mesmerizing.
"Enough," she mumbled, paging on. In spite of her mission, she swiftly became involved with the story itself.
And then, with another jolt, she saw him. Lancelot, in one of his blue tunics, looking every bit as impossibly handsome as he was when she had seen him, visor up, in her first moments in Camelot.
Now she could really evaluate the changes in his appearance since arriving in Manhattan, and those changes were startling, brutal. He looked at least a dozen years older, perhaps more.
Gently, she touched the page, as if that would allow her to reach back to the brief time in Camelot, tracing his features, the dark, straight eyebrows, the vibrant skin glowing with health, the strong white teeth.
Nothing was overdrawn in this comic book. Although it had originally been published in the late nineteen-thirties, there was nothing stylized about the words or the illustrations. There were no telltale reminders of the era in which it had been written. In fact, it was as timeless a rendering of Camelot and its people as she had ever encountered.
The author must have visited the place. It seemed unlikely, but she couldn't imagine how else he could have known. And after all, she had somehow traveled there. She wasn't arrogant enough to presume that she alone had been gifted with the trip. Others had gone to Camelot, just as others would follow.
An uncomfortable chill ran up her arms as she realized something else. The author must have been there at the same time she was. Was he still there?
She looked at the cover. The author and illustrator had been a man named Ralph Myrddin. Odd name, certainly.
Was he still alive?
Continuing along in the story, she read of Lancelot's daring exploits, of his gallantry and dash. There were even flashes of his humor, the humor she had grown to know so very well.
And then she turned the page, and there she was-the young squire in a bib and paper crown. But Lancelot was already beginning to change. His eyebrows now arched with a slight menace. There was something different in his eyes as well, a glint of something behind the pure blue.
Whatever it was, the change was more than disturbing, especially since Julie could not recall the changes taking place while she was there. She was a witness, yet the Lancelot she knew most certainly did not transform into the frightening vision Ralph Myrddin had portrayed.
Then she saw a rendering of Malvern, looking almost kindly. The artist had gotten it all wrong. She realized he must have confused the two. The dark eyes and the corrupt glint had been rendered on Lancelot, but in reality they had belonged on Malvern.
She read further about Lancelot's growing treachery and Malvern's attempts to keep Lancelot noble.
"All wrong," she muttered. "It's all reversed."
And then she saw a plot line that literally made her gasp.
According to this version of the legend of Camelot, Lancelot went mad. This part was accompanied by the most terrible drawings she had ever seen, of Lancelot ripping out his own hair, stalking through the realm, and finally… finally…
Finally, there was a detailed illustration of Lancelot killing Malvern. She was unable even to look at the illustrations, much less read the words. It was just a blur of violence, of hands and hair and an open mouth. She quickly turned the pages, taking in as little as she possibly could. Still, it was too much.
Then, according to Myrddin's account, Lancelot killed a woman known as Lady Julia, who was also the Crone of Camelot. There were two renderings of her, one in the blue gown, the other as a horrible, bent creature reminiscent of a female Cryptkeeper.
"This is all mixed up," she breathed. "This is all impossible."
She understood about the confusion of Lady Julia and Malvern, for they had disappeared with Lancelot. But Lancelot's transformation. That was completely peculiar.
Her phone began to ring, and she slipped the book under the couch. She cou
ld look at it later. And perhaps it would all begin to make sense.
Mel was uncomfortable in the front of the store. He always had a firm belief that it was Sam who belonged out front, with all of the customers. It was Sam who had a bantering way with people, could chat easily about all of the weird, mystical stuff that came with the territory. His brother could make tarot cards, magic potions, and little black bags filled with charms acem as normal as the parts of an automobile engine. And that sense of normalcy was needed, especially with new customers who might be uncomfortable with this sort of stuff. Sam had a way of putting them all at their ease.
His own specialty was the dusty old texts, weird in their own way, but no one seemed all that interested in ancient books in foreign languages.
But Sam was at the bank, depositing the week's earnings. He was supposed to have done it the day before but had never gotten around to it, and Mel had already written checks to the utility companies. The last thing they needed was a bunch of bounced checks.
Poor Sam. He'd really gone around the bend. Mel suspected it was just a phase, like that time in high school when Sam had wanted to be a rock star. The chances of Sam making it as an opening act for the Rolling Stones was only slightly less likely than Sam appearing in Camelot.
The mere thought made Mel grin.
Still, Sam seemed genuinely excited, and he couldn't help but wonder if he knew something, a secret perhaps. He could always tell when Sam was keeping something from him, and this was no exception.
What could it possibly be?
Then the front door opened, and the overhead bells jingled.
"Hello," Mel began, then stopped.
It was the gallant Malvern! At least, this guy looked exactly like the Malvern in Ralph Myrddin's book. He was nicely dressed. Maybe he'd buy a bunch of stuff: Mel tried to keep himself calm.
"How can I help you?"
"I am looking for books on Camelot." The man did not look him directly in the eye, and Mel assumed the poor fellow was embarrassed about being in a store like this. Wasn't everyone's cup of tea, exactly.
"Camelot? What a coincidence. We had a couple in here the other night looking for stuff on Camelot."
The stranger's gaze snapped to Mel. "Who were they?" He smiled and softened his tone. "I have friends, you see. I thought perhaps you might have seen my good friends."
"Well." Mel chuckled. "You're going to think I'm nuts, but they looked exactly like Lancelot and Lady Julia from an old comic book. He was a big guy, dark hair. She was blond and pretty." He decided not to mention this guy's own resemblance to Malvern.
"How very interesting." The man smiled.
"Yep. They were Lancelot and Lady Julia, all right."
The stranger smiled again. "I was told you would have more information on Camelot. I was told it would be here tomorrow, but I need the information now."
"You must have spoken to Sam. Well, jeez." Mel looked behind him at the empty shelf where the Camelot books had been. "I'm afraid you're out of luck."
The stranger stood, still smiling. "I certainly hope not. It's time my luck turned around."
"Ah, one of those days, eh? I've had a few myself." Mel thought for a moment. Sam probably hadn't ordered new books yet, especially since he was only just depositing the cash. So he wouldn't have been able to refill he stock.
"Listen. I feel terrible about this, but we probably won't get the new books for almost a week or so. I don't know why Sam told you that. He must have been preoccupied or something."
The man simply stared at Mel, his dark eyes glinting.
Damn, Mel thought. He hated to lose a new customer. "I'll tell you what," Mel began. "I don't normally do this, but I have some rare books in the back. Come on with me, and we'll go through them. I think you may find them interesting, even if they're out of your price range.
Mel began to walk around the counter.
"I want to find a way to go to Camelot," the man said.
Mel stopped. "You don't say? Jeez, there must be something in the water. Sam's asked me for the same stuff. We were looking at it just a while ago. Hey, is there some sort of contest or something? Like find an ending to the Camelot legend and you win some terrific gifts?"
"Yes," he began slowly, then his grin spread wider. "In a way, there is a contest, a tournament coming up. And whoever wins will get the greatest prize of all."
"Well, come on back. I may have just the thing you're looking for-just translated it a few weeks ago." Then he stopped, wondering if what he was doing was disloyal to Sam. What if Sam didn't win some prize because Mel showed the same stuff to a customer?
"Nah," he muttered to himself. "Business is business. Even Sam says that all the time."
Together they went past the beaded curtains and into Mel's back room.
Julie's day had passed in a whirl of activity. Although she thought she'd be exhausted, especially after the emotional trauma of reading the book, she had more energy than she could remember.
And everything she did seemed to be just right. In a meeting for a foot powder ad, she suddenly thought of the perfect slogan and blurted it out. Perfect! Then she added a single line to the graphics for a copy-packed advertorial, and the layout artist shook her head and declared that, too, was perfect.
Late in the afternoon, Mr. Stickley, the president of the entire agency, asked her if she would like to eve drinks at the 21 Club. In the past, she wasn't sure if Mr. Stickley had even been aware of her existence. Now she was being invited into the inner circle.
Out of the blue, a major sporting goods company dumped the agency they'd been virtually married to for w decade and asked S&B to handle their six-milliondollar account, specifically mentioning Julie's name. And just as she was freshening up for the 21 Club, the biggest fast-food chain in the country-in the world-left word that they were going with the idea Julie had pitched a month before. Since she hadn't heard from them, she'd assumed S&B was out of the pinning.
As exciting as the day had been, she knew, deep down, that the sudden success was entirely due to Lancelot He was the one who changed everything, who caused every known equation to be tossed away. I lis mere presence had transformed every facet, every corner of her life. Nothing remained the same, including Julie herself. For now, she was thinking of herself as Julia. Now she was someone of importance.
It was all Lancelot.
Peg looked at her watch impatiently, shifting on the sofa in Julie's apartment lobby.
This wasn't like her to be late. If anything, reliable Julie was always early. It was that damn guy, that Lancelot jerk. He changed everything.
He'd even changed things at Julie's office. Peg, whose own schedule was not exactly lax, had not been able even to speak to her when she called to doublecheck on the time they would meet. Instead, she'd had to go through a ditzy receptionist. That had never happened before.
She flipped her wrist and checked her watch. Only a minute since the last time she'd checked.
Luckily, Peg's six forty-five had canceled, and there were no evening appointments tonight. Even therapists needed a night off.
And hers was being ruined by that Lancelot jerk.
"Calm yourself, Peggy," she whispered. The doorman gave her a curious glance, and she smiled.
The doorman was a jerk, too.
She began to tap the heel of her black pump on the marble floor. All she needed was the damn book. It was probably right upstairs. Nathan would kill her if she didn't get it right back to him.
Two minutes had now passed since the last watch check.
Then she saw him. The jerk. He was wearing new clothes. Obviously, Julie had taken her Lancelot on quite a spending spree.
He wasn't only a jerk. He was a gigolo. Double whammy.
And then she smiled, because in the light of the lobby, she realized he wasn't as young as he'd seemed before. His hair was not just touched with gray, it was gray, and white at the sides.
"Forgot to use the old Grecian Formula this morning, Lance?
" For some reason, the fact that he looked so much older than she remembered did not give her the pleasure she thought it would. Her smile faded as she watched him help a woman with luggage into a taxi. When he straightened, she saw his lips tighten, as if the movement had been painful.
Actually, it was sort of sad. Pathetic, perhaps.
He walked into the lobby, reaching into the pocket of his khakis when he saw her. And he smiled, a genuine smile of surprise and pleasure.
"Lady Peg." He gave the same strange bow at the waist she had seen him do before. "What a pleasure it is to see you. Is Julia home?"
"No." Peg stood up. No doubt about it, the guy was indeed charming. All the more reason to mistrust him. "Do you know when she's coming back?"
He shook his head, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. "No. I thought she would be home by now."
He seemed worried. More worried than the daylight savings evening would warrant. Maybe he thought she was out on a date.
Peg hoped that was the case. Then she was grazed by a pang of guilt. "I called her at the office, and I think she had to go someplace with a coworker. Her boss or something."
Immediately, his face relaxed. "Good. Thank you for telling me. I… well, I'm not used to this city yet, and I am concerned for her safety."
"Yeah. Well. Whatever."
"Would you like to come upstairs? She should be back soon."
Peg eyed him warily. Would he dare to hit on her? To use his poor-lost-out-of-towner routine to snare his next Sugar Mama?
Nah. This guy was too slick. But he couldn't fool Peg. After all, she was a trained psychologist. She could spot even the most accomplished liar a mile away.
But this guy was good. Very good. She owed it to Julie to find out whatever she could about Sir Lancelot. She hoped he wouldn't become violent, but that possibility was all the more reason for her to find out all she could about this guy.
It might be dangerous. She knew how to deal with agitated patients. Besides, she had a can of mace in her purse.
"Why, yes, of course. I'd love to come up, Lancelot," she purred. "I could certainly use a drink."
If he tried to slip her anything, she would catch him red-handed. That would sure be worth the risk.