"What do you mean, you've put us through an ordeal?"
His mouth rotated around the bite of the pipe before he answered in his gloriously British, BBC Shakespeare voice. "It was I, as a young sorcerer, who created the whole notion of Camelot."
"You created Camelot?" Lancelot all but shouted.
"Yes, I did. You see, the world was in a dreadful mess at that time. And-"
"What time?" she interrupted. "When did you create Camelot?"
"Oh, let me see, I was very young. Very young indeed I suppose it was about" he counted back on his fingers= `yes, that was it. About two thousand years ago.
"Two thousand years!" She dropped her purse on the floor.
Lancelot shook his head. "But that's impossible. Arthur himself told me that Camelot had only been in existence since he became the true king."
"Ah, he would say that, wouldn't he? He wouldn't be much of a king if he felt otherwise. But Arthur is wrong, although Camelot, as we all know it, as the world knows it, did indeed begin with Arthur. But before that, it was in an earlier form. So, yes, I began it about two thousand years ago, but you see, it's still very much a work in progress."
Lancelot said nothing, but Julie could see his obvious anger. Merlin, however, seemed oblivious. "I take whatever I like from whatever time strikes my fancy. I should have thought you would have noticed my cell phone back in Camelot. I tried to hide it, but it began to ring just as I asked you to leave."
"A cell phone…" She mulled over the idea. "A telephone. Is that how Lancelot and Guinevere's voices were on my answering machine?"
"Of course. I have to use whatever tools are available. In earlier times, if I wanted to get someone's attention, I would use Morse code, the Pony Express. Once I tried smoke signals, but that was an utter disaster."
Merlin winked and went on with his story. "But you see, as I was such a very young wizard at the time I came up with Camelot, there were glaring imperfections in my creation. For example, the whole notion of Arthur and Guinevere was never supposed to have become a romance."
"Really!?"
The anger left Lancelot's face for a moment as he leaned forward to hear the explanation.
Merlin went on. "No, indeed. She was to be the one for me, you see. I wanted a companion, so I cast a few spells and came up with Guinevere."
"What went wrong?" Lancelot asked in spite of himself.
"Well, you must understand that for every spell I cast, there is a fifteen-percent chance that something unpredictable will occur and throw off the whole works. In this case, I made Guinevere a woman with spine, a woman of passion and intelligence."
"And?"
"Unfortunately, with the intelligence came a free will. She saw Arthur. I really thought that beard would put her off. It didn't. I tried to toy with the formula, just as Lancelot came to me."
"I came to you?" He stood, towering over Merlin, who remained in the chair. "You made me up? I am nothing but the invention of a meddling old wizard?"
Julie rose and placed her hand on his forearm, but he did not even glance at her.
Merlin merely took a pull from his pipe. "Perhaps I should phrase it differently. I recruited Lancelot. When I say he came to me, I mean he literally happened upon me. Don't you remember, lad? The darkness, the mist. The hunger. Goodness, you were the most hungry child I had ever seen."
"Recruited?" Lancelot sat back down, stunned. "From where? Where did I come from?"
"It doesn't really matter, dear boy. It can make no difference to you anymore. But you see, I couldn't possibly create an entire Camelot using only my own imagination. It would be so very dull. Imagine making up hundreds of people. After a while, say three or four, you're reduced to repeating yourself. Do you see what I mean?"
"So Lancelot came from someplace else," Julie said softly. "Just like the rest of us."
Lancelot shook his head. "There was nothing special about me after all. Nothing at all. There is no reason to fight for my honor, to clear my name, because it makes no difference."
"Of course it does!" Merlin sputtered. "You are Lancelot, the best of the best. I could never have created you. Not that you're perfect-that would be dull as well. But your qualities never cease to amaze me. I believe you're my very favorite of the whole batch."
"Then why are you making him suffer so?"
"That uncertain fifteen percent, my dear. It happened when Guinevere fell in love with him." He removed the pipe, thinking to himself. "In all honesty, I just don't work with women as well as I do with men. They tend to be shallow, one-dimensional things when I get through with them. They always look absolutely smashing in a gown, and they always have superb legs-that's my trademark. I'm a leg man. But there's always something missing. In Guinevere, she was intelligent but too passionate. So when she met Lancelot, well. In the original version that you know so well, my dear, you know what happened. That pesky fifteen percent kicked me right in my teeth. And there wasn't a blasted thing I could do about it… until you."
"Me?"
"Yes, my dear. Before I recruited Lancelot, he was in love with you. That was the perfect love I had envisioned for him. I couldn't create it myself. You two worked the magic, and I just sat back and watched."
Julie felt as if the world were spinning. "Lancelot and I were reincarnated?"
Merlin barked with laughter. "Do you believe in that rubbish?"
Julie shook her head at the absurdity of the moment. "Me? Of course not."
"Good. You began to worry me for a moment, my dear. No, you two are not reincarnated. But you have always been together, reaching for each other. The problem was, every time things would be just right between you, something would happen. Always the same thing, or a variation. You know only one of the versions. Well, two now, thanks to my work in the late thirties. I believe it holds up rather well, don't you?"
"So you are the author of that comic book." She ran her hand through her hair, trying to absorb everything that was being said.
"Of course I am. There aren't too many Ralph Myrddins running about. Oh, sorry about that crone thing. And I believe you two are aware of two more of my lesser-known publishing efforts."
Julie and Lancelot exchanged perplexed shrugs.
"The Italian and Latin texts that Malvern stole. Don't tell me you've forgotten them already."
"You wrote them!" Julie laughed. "Then you can tell us what they say, and Lancelot can take Excalibur back and clear his name!"
"Well, I'm not so sure about that," Merlin admitted.
"What do you mean?" Lancelot asked, his voice rising.
"There's more to it than just words. Surely, you both must know that by now. If not, well, I'm afraid there will soon be another version of Camelot, one with an equally unhappy ending."
"You have to give us more than this," Julie pleaded. "It's not fair! How many other ways can this story end?"
"I believe you know, my dear. You were always skipping off, leaving Lancelot heartbroken. Let me tell you, Lancelot is close to worthless when you go away. If I had a coin for every monastery I've had to rescue him from…"
"Monastery!" Lancelot shouted.
Julie continued. "Please, Merlin. Please give us more so we can save Camelot."
He stopped, then leaned forward. "By jig, you really don't know, do you?"
"No. So could you please tell me?"
Merlin put down his pipe and leaned forward, looking Julie directly in the eye. "In order to return to Camelot, you both will need one thing you have held but given away, and another that you have held but never known."
"Excuse me?" she asked.
"I will not repeat it. That is all I can say. That fifteen percent, you see. And we're so close this time, my dear. It would be such a shame."
"Please, I'm not sure if I remember what you said." Julie was beginning to get frantic. "And Lancelot. Can't you see? He's not feeling well. He's, well…"
"I'm aging." Lancelot completed her thought. "Every day seems to be years, decades. I
t's happening faster and faster. How much time do I have?"
Merlin counted on his fingers again, muttered to himself, then counted some more and looked to the ceiling. Then he faced her. "When is that charity ball?"
"Tomorrow. Why?"
"And it's not outdoors, is it?"
"Why, no, it isn't."
"Good thing. We don't have time for a rain date, my dear."
"You mean he won't be able to live here much longer than tomorrow?"
For the first time since they had entered his office, Merlin's face, the kind folds and lines, became genuinely sail, a mask of sorrow. "I am so sorry. When I created Camelot, when I was so very young, I thought I'd be very clever and add some rules. Unfortunately, I was a good enough sorcerer even then to make them unbreakable-even by my own hand and deepest wishes."
"Then tell me what I need to do. Tell me now, Merlin. There isn't much time. Please tell me."
"I can't. I've set things in motion, I've set up the playing field, and there is no reason to believe that it will go mucky once again."
"Can you give me anything else? Something to hold onto?"
"Other than what I said, there is nothing that can help you but yourselves."
Julie just stared at Merlin. "I… please." Lancelot took her hand, but she did not want to leave. Not without more. "Please tell me what to do!"
"You'll know. You always do. Figure out what I told you."
"But I always seem to screw things up! Why else would we be here right now?"
"I must admit, my dear, there is a very strong element of truth in what you say."
Lancelot took a deep breath and nodded to Merlin, a vague smile on his lips. But Julie began looking around the office, imprinting it in her mind in case there was something, anything, that might help her… help Lancelot. On a deep chair, she saw books. As Merlin reached for her purse and handed it to her, Julie peered at the names on top of them.
"Jane Austen?" She faltered. "Mark Twain?"
Again, Merlin chuckled. "Of course, my dear. With Camelot almost done, I have to think up other ways to amuse myself. Besides"-he leaned close to her ear-"you don't really think two mortals could ever come up with all those ideas, do you? Now, be gone, the two of you. And Julia?"
She turned to him, still stunned by the encounter. "Good luck, my dear. I hope to see you at home soon, very soon."
They left the office, and suddenly Julie had another thought. "Wait a moment…" But the door was closed. No, it was more than closed.
It was gone.
Where the office door with its sign and room number had once been, now there was an undistinguished little door with "Broom Closet" stenciled across the top. Julie grasped the knob and turned, and the door opened, to reveal… a broom closet. There were buckets and mops and the scent of cleanser.
And they knew they were truly on their own now.
No one else could help them.
There were two messages on Julie's machine when they returned. The first was from Sam. Interesting news from the police: the same fingerprints that were all over Cauldrons & Skulls also appeared at a crime scene in midtown. An advertising agency had been broken into and ransacked, although it was uncertain if anything had been taken. The prints, however, were not on record.
Julie shook her head, still trying to remember Merlin's words even as she listened to the machine.. "So it was Malvern. Why would he break into my office?"
Lancelot sat down. "I do not know. Unless…"
"Unless?"
"I do not know," he repeated.
The next message was muffled at first, and then Julie recognized the voice and turned to Lancelot "Peg." She identified the speaker, but it was hard to understand her words, for she was crying.
"Julie, Lancelot, please forgive me. I'm so sorry… I didn't realize what I was doing, who he was. I followed him. He acted as if he was interested in me in a romantic way. You know how long I've…"
She sniffed, then began again. "Julie, please be careful. He's not right. I thought he would be so different, and once I realized how malicious he was, it was too late. He didn't hurt me, but he got a lot of information from me before I realized what he was doing and what he was really like. And then I read about the break-in at the agency, and I remembered how he thought the sword was in your office. He must know where it is now-it's all over the press. Please, please, forgive me. And please, for God's sake, be careful…"
Then her voice drifted off. Julie tried to call her back immediately, but there was no response.
And Lancelot said only one word. "Malvern."
* * *
Chapter Twenty
The day had finally arrived.
Most of the city was anticipating a glorious stream of celebrity arrivals on the red-carpeted steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, with live television coverage beginning at four in the afternoon. The blue police barricades were put in place early that morning, and a large royal-blue silk banner was unfurled over the main entranceway. Fifth Avenue itself was swept dean of stray newspapers, rolling cans, and unsightly debris of any kind, human as well as the more inanimate forms.
In her apartment downtown, Julie prepared for a far more significant event. For others, this would be a spectacular gala, a chance to see and be seen, the social affair of the year and the glittering East Coast rival of the Oscars.
For Julia and Lancelot, it would be a chance to save Camelot, perhaps the only hope they had for a life together.
After seeing Merlin the day before, she realised what she had known instinctively, that Lancelot had been fading in this time, ebbing away into oblivion, and that whether or not she followed him, Lancelot had to go back to Camelot. There was no choice for him, absolutely none. Just as that one simple fact was drawn with such clarity, her own role was still unclear.
Would she know what to do when the time came? Would she let them down-Lancelot, Merlin, everyone?
One thing was certain. If nothing else, Dr. Peg Reilly was changed forever. She had said little after the encounter with Malvern, and Julie suspected she would never say more. But later she had called asking if there were any possible way she could come to the gala. It hadn't been easy, she had to call in a few favors, but Peg was now an officially invited guest.
Julie sighed as she got dressed. She would need all the moral support she could get.
"Do you need any help?" she asked Lancelot.
He just shook his head no.
There was a strained understanding between them. It was so obvious that he was unwell, so impossible to deny, that they did not discuss it anymore. There was no point, not really. It was a fact, just as indisputable as the color of the sky or the day of the week.
She did everything possible to keep their moments together from taking on the dynamics of caretaker and invalid. But it became increasingly difficult, and she had to stop herself from supporting him as he took halting steps, from watching with concern as he dressed.
With a brisk smile, she returned to her own preparations.
There was no doubt what she would wear. There was only one option, and that was the blue gown from Camelot, the one she had worn both there and when she returned.
As she slipped it over her head, she felt like a high school senior before the prom. And then, as she watched before her mirror, a strange thing happened. The gown itself changed. In the moments from the hanger to her body, it went from the beautiful dress she had worn in Camelot to something truly extraordinary.
She stepped back from the full-length mirror to get a better view. The basic lines of the dress were unaltered. It was still a stunningly cut, rather simple, yet wonderfully executed gown of deep powder blue. What was so different?
Running her hands down her sides, she watched a shimmering effect as her hands passed over her hips, like a finger trailing in a cool green pool of water. Then she saw it, the difference.
It wasn't the gown. It was Julie. She seemed to have an inner radiance, a luster that made even her skin
reflect light. She turned on another light, an unforgiving overhead globe that she always flicked on when she had a perverse desire to see her physical flaws at their most glaring.
Still, she remained a vaguely luminous creature. Had she put those pearls in her hair? She couldn't recall. Had her hair been that long, halfway down her back? Surely, she would have remembered, even with all of the recent distractions, if her hair had suddenly grown almost twenty-four inches and her skin had started to glow. Those weren't the sort of changes one usually missed.
"Julia."
He stood behind her, Lancelot, again in the blue tunic he had worn when first she saw him. And he, too, was changed, as if the mere act of wearing the clothes in which he belonged had the power to revitalize him. Perhaps he wasn't quite the Lancelot of Camelot, but he was closer to that perfect knight than he had been in days. It wasn't just a physical change.. There was an aura about him, a transformation that went far beyond the outer trappings.
Neither spoke. He placed his hands on her shoulders, solid hands of great strength and gentleness, and she closed her eyes and leaned back against him. His arms slipped about her, encircling her, holding her dose, his cheek resting against her temple.
It was a moment she wanted to last forever.
Then, all too soon, he spoke, as she knew he must.
"After tonight, perhaps it will be forever."
She could only open her eyes and look at the image reflected back at her, the two figures so perfectly matched, illuminated as if by an otherworldly flame.And together they left to meet their future.
Bill wasn't quite sure what to expect.
His name was, indeed, on the guest list, and he smiled to see the way Lancelot-or someone—had rendered it-. William of Avalon. It did seem more appropriate than Bill Kowalski.
The great, vaulted hall of the Met was as intimidating as always, a seemingly endless dome arching toward the sky. The marble floors echoed like musical notes as the guests arrived, the excitement humming, the expansive staircase of tiny stone steps reaching endlessly to the next level, each step dotted with a celebrity or an anonymously gorgeous person striving for celebrity.