Scrivener’s Tale

Reynard gave a nod.

‘Why did you search for my background in the first place?’

His companion sipped from his flute. ‘Strictly, I didn’t. I was researching who we could talk to, casting my net wider through Europe and then into Britain. Your name came up with a different surname but the photo was clearly you. I checked more and discovered you were not only an eminent practitioner but realised you were my bookshop friend here in Paris.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry that you are not practising still.’

‘I’m sure you can work out that my life took a radical turn.’

Reynard had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘I am sorry for you.’

‘I closed my clinical practice and don’t want to return to it … not even for your troubled woman.’

‘I struggle to call her a woman, Gabriel. She’s still almost a child … certainly childlike. If you would only —’

‘No, Monsieur Reynard. Please don’t ask this of me.’

‘I must. You were so good at this and too within my reach to ignore. I fear we will lose her.’

‘So you’ve said. I know nothing about her. And frankly I don’t want to.’

‘That’s heartless. You clearly had a gift with young people. She needs that gift of your therapy.’

Gabe shook his head firmly. ‘Make sure she has around-the-clock supervision and nothing can harm her.’

Reynard put his glass down, slightly harder than Gabe thought necessary. ‘It’s not physical. It’s emotional and I can’t get into her mind and reassure her. She is desperate enough that she could choke herself on her own tongue.’

‘Then drug her!’ Gabe growled. ‘You’re the physician.’

They stared at each other for a couple of angry moments, neither backing down.

It was Gabe, perhaps in the spirit of change, who broke the tension. ‘Monsieur Reynard, I don’t want to be a psychologist anymore. I haven’t for years and I’ve no desire to dabble. The combination of lack of motivation and rusty skills simply puts your youngster into more danger.’ He picked up the glass and drained the contents. ‘Now, that was lovely and I appreciate the treat, but I’m meeting some friends for dinner,’ he lied. ‘You’ll have to excuse me.’ He pulled his satchel back onto his shoulder, reaching for his scarf.

Reynard’s countenance changed in the blink of an eye. He smiled. ‘I almost forgot. I have something for you.’ He reached behind him and pulled out a gift-wrapped box.

Gabe was astonished. ‘I can’t —’

‘You can. It’s my thank you for the tireless, unpaid and mostly unheralded work you’ve put in on my behalf.’

‘As I said earlier, I do this job because I enjoy it,’ he replied, still not taking the long, narrow box.

‘Even so, you do it well enough that I’d like to thank you with this gift. Your knack for language, your understanding of the older worlds, your knowledge of myth and mystery are a rare talent. It’s in recognition of your efforts. Happy birthday.’

‘Well … thank you. I’m flattered.’

‘Have you begun your manuscript?’

Gabe took a deep breath. He didn’t like to talk about it with anyone, although his writing ambition was not the secret that his past had been. ‘Yes, very early stages.’

‘What’s it about?’ At Gabe’s surprised glance, he apologised. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but what I meant is, what’s the theme of your story?’

Gabe looked thoughtful. ‘Fear … I think.’

‘Fear of what?’

He shrugged. ‘The unknown.’

‘Intriguing,’ Reynard remarked. He nodded at the object in Gabe’s hand. ‘Well? Aren’t you going to open it?’

Gabe looked at the gift. ‘All right.’

The ribbon was clearly satin the way it untied and easily slipped out of its knots. Beneath the wrapping was a dark navy, almost black, box; it was shallow, but solid. It reeked of quality and a high price tag.

‘I hope you like it,’ Reynard added, and drained his flute of its purplish contents. ‘I had the box made for it.’

Gabe lifted the lid carefully. Lying on navy satin was a pure white feather. He opened his mouth in pleasurable astonishment. ‘It’s exquisite.’ He meant it. He fell instantly in love with the feather, his mind immediately recalling its symbolic meanings: spiritual evolution, the nearness to heavenly beings, the rising soul. Native Americans felt it put them closer to the power of wind and air — it was a sign of bravery. The Celts believed feathers helped them to understand celestial beings. The Ancient Egyptian goddess of justice would weigh the hearts of the newly dead against a feather. He knew the more contemporary symbolism of a feather was free movement … innocence, even. All of this occurred to him in a heartbeat.

Reynard smiled. ‘I’m glad you like it. It’s a quill, of course.’ Then added, ‘You British see it as a sign of cowardice.’

Gabe was momentarily stung by the comment that he wasn’t sure was made innocently or harking back to his refusal to see Reynard’s patient. Too momentarily disconcerted to find out which, Gabe noticed that the shaft of the feather was sharpened and stained from ink. Now it truly sang to his soul and the writer in him as much as the lover of books and knowledge.

Reynard continued. ‘It’s a primary flight feather. They’re the best for writing with. It’s also very rare for a number of reasons, not the least of which is because it’s from a swan. Incredibly old and yet so exquisite, as you can see. Almost impossible to find these days.’

‘Except you did,’ Gabe remarked lightly, once again fully in control.

Reynard smiled. ‘Indeed. You are right-handed, aren’t you?’ Gabe nodded. ‘This feather comes from the left wing. Do you see how it curves away from you when you hold it in your right hand? Clever, no?’ Again Gabe nodded. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. Very few possessions could excite Gabe. For all his money, he could count on one hand the items that were meaningful to him.

‘Where did you get it?’ he added.

‘Pearlis,’ Gabe thought he heard Reynard say.

‘Pardon?’

‘A long way from Paris,’ Reynard laughed as he repeated the word, and there was something in his expression that gave Gabe pause. Reynard looked away. ‘Apparently it’s from a twelfth-century scriptorium. But, frankly, they could have told me anything and I’d have acquired it anyway.’ He stood. ‘Have you noticed the tiny inscription?’

Gabe stared more closely.

‘Not an inscription so much as a sigil, in fact, engraved beautifully in miniature onto the quill’s shaft,’ Reynard explained.

He could see it now. It was tiny, very beautiful. ‘Do we know the provenance?’

‘It’s royal,’ Reynard said and his voice sounded throaty. He cleared it. ‘I have no information other than that,’ he said briskly, then smiled. ‘Incidentally, only the scriveners in the scriptorium were given the premium pinion feather.’

‘Scriveners?’

‘Writers … those of original thought.’ His eyes blazed suddenly with excitement, like two smouldering coals that had found a fresh source of oxygen. ‘And if one extrapolates, one could call them “special individuals” who were … well, unique, you might say.’

He didn’t understand and it must have showed.

‘Scribes simply copied you see,’ Reynard added.