Lucifer's Crown by Lillian Stewart Carl Page A

time of year, so we're just going into Salisbury tomorrow, to the cathedral library."
    Oh good , Thomas thought. “May I come with you? The cathedral librarian is an old friend. Perhaps we could offer the Dewar lad a ride as well."
    Maggie threw up her hands. “Sure, why not? The more the merrier."
    Jivan got to his feet. “We'll have the matter sorted soon."
    "You say that like an incantation,” Maggie told him. “Repeat it long enough and it'll come true."
    "Our expectations affect the world around us.” Thomas ducked her exasperated look by standing up. “Let me see Jivan to the door, Maggie. Then we can discuss a lecture on the history of Salisbury."
    "See you later, Inspector,” said Maggie.
    "Cheers,” Jivan said, although his expression said otherwise.
    Thomas opened the door to reveal Sean, his face burnished by the wind and cold, poised on the doorstep. “Oh, hi. Is Rose in there? We were going to play basketball but she hasn't shown."
    "Rose?” Maggie materialized at Thomas's shoulder. “She was sitting on that bench."
    "Her notebook's there,” Sean said.
    "She wasn't there when I walked past,” said Jivan.
    "Okay,” Maggie said, “so I'm paranoid. Let's find her."
    Paranoia , thought Thomas, is not inappropriate . Setting his jaw, he said, “I'll help you search."
    They walked out into the ragged remnants of daylight. The clouds had thickened into billows and bulges of shadow, muting the brilliant colors of the countryside like a painting coated with layers of varnish and time. The blue copybook lay on the bench, pages flapping in the wind.
    "Yo, Rose!” called Sean.
    Maggie walked briskly toward the garden gate. “Rose?"
    The wind snatched the name away and shredded it to nothingness.

Chapter Eight
    It was only when Rose penciled two dots above the word “pilgrimage” and closed her notebook that she realized how cold she was. She stood up and stretched.
    Clouds flocked across the sun, tarnishing the bright colors of the landscape. The frosty wind fanned Rose's cheeks. She smelled smoke and something sweet, like flowers. She heard ... A bus drove by, the yew hedge rustled, and a faint but clear voice called her name.
    Rose . If the wind itself had a voice, this would be it, soft and silvery but neither male nor female, making her name less of a word than a sensual sigh. She peered into the garden.
    Bushes with golden leaves and red berries lined the stone walls, bees careening from leaf to leaf. Below the diamond-paned windows of the gallery lay thick banks of purple foliage. Brick paths defined plots holding flowers and plants with neat labels—leek, columbine, hyssop, mullein, yarrow. In the center a low hedge coiled around the statue of a woman. She stood with one hand pressed to her breast, the other outstretched. The pose reminded Rose of Vivian in the Abbey.
    The voice reminded her of nothing on Earth. Rose , it called. Come into the garden, Rose .
    She walked into the garden. A warm breeze stroked the back of her neck and her nostrils flared with the heady scent of May. A smooth, undeniably masculine voice said, “Rose."
    A man was standing inside the far gate, next to a bed labeled “wormwood” and “angelica.” His casual pose showed off chino pants, boots, and a leather bomber jacket. His red hair was trimmed in a hip buzz cut and a red beard drew a sinuous line along his jaw and chin. A ray of sun spilled through the clouds, striking copper highlights from his hair and a glint from an earring. Neither shone as brightly as his eyes, emeralds gleaming beneath lids chiseled as deep and cold as those of a Roman statue.
    Rose stared. This guy couldn't be for real—those green eyes had to be fashion contacts ... He was the man from the Abbey. Taking a giant step backward she demanded, “How do you know my name?"
    "Thomas London told me about you."
    "He did? Who are you?"
    "My name is Robin Fitzroy. I worked with Vivian Morgan. You found her body, I hear. Do you know what happened