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I hated leaving my apartment in a mess. But at least carrying just a backpack meant I wouldn’t have to check luggage.
By the time I made it through the extensive security check and was jogging down the International Terminal, I felt the exhaustion, hunger and stress of the previous night’s events.
The last person I needed to hear calling my name as I dodged travelers in my sprint for the gate was Lex Stuart.
“Maggi?”
It was too huge a coincidence to ignore. I turned in the terminal and, sure enough, he was striding toward me. The crowd seemed to part for him, as if instinctively sensing his importance. He looked good, tall and fit and collected. It didn’t hurt that his eyes brightened just for me.
He could be a bad guy, my head warned me.
Or he might not, insisted my heart. Not Lex.
“This is a surprise.” Lex slowed as he reached me. Even after years with him, I wasn’t sure.
And I still had a plane to catch.
When I started walking again, reluctantly taking advantage of the clear space around him, he paced me.
“Are you all right?” he asked politely.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He didn’t quite shrug, but it was implied. “Because your apartment got broken into last night?”
Oh, yeah. That. “I’m fine. How are you?”
He ignored my formality. “I regret how I behaved.”
The kiss? Or the argument? “Oh…”
“That’s one reason I’ve missed you so badly this last year. You’ve always been my touchstone.”
“So your own moral compass is still on the blink, huh?”
That wrung a hint of a smile from him. “I only mean to say, you were already having a stressful night. Please accept my apology for complicating matters.”
Proper and polite to the end. But I’d helped, with the argument and the kiss both. Fair was fair. “Apology accepted.”
Except that we were approaching my gate—and he was slowing down too. Just out of courtesy, right? To see me off? Except—
He drew a boarding pass from his jacket pocket. “You’re going to Paris, too? I’m guessing you’re in coach.”
I stared. I wasn’t ready for proof that my suspicions were warranted. But this couldn’t be coincidence…could it?
What the hell. “Have you ever heard the name Melusine?”
He glanced toward the gate, making sure we had time. “Isn’t she some kind of medieval mermaid?”
My heart flinched. He had heard of her!
“You mentioned her in your report on the women of Camelot, in the seventh grade,” he continued easily; if he was covering his guilt, he was really, really good. “You compared her to the Lady of the Lake, right?”
“You remember that?”
“We did work on it together, Mag.” We’d split the workload by gender. His report on the men of Camelot had lingered on the subject of the Holy Grail. He’d compared an Irish legend, Nuada of the Silver Hand, to the Fisher King of the classic grail quest.
“There weren’t a lot of high points to the seventh grade,” Lex said, sounding heartfelt. “But you were one of them. Let me upgrade your seat to first class, and you can tell me all about Melusine and your research and your trip—”
“No.” I hated the suspicion that kept me from saying yes. Foolish or not, I still liked him…or more.
But he wasn’t just a Stuart. He was a Stuart on my flight, feeling me out about my research.
Did he have to pull a gun on me before I learned caution?
“I’ll use my frequent-flyer miles,” Lex offered, pushing it. “You know how many of those I rack up.”
I shook my head, hesitation hard in my throat.
“For God’s sake, Mag, I’m not trying to buy you.”
A gate agent announced that they were boarding first-class passengers and passengers in need of assistance. I was neither. “Enjoy your flight, Lex.”
His eyes narrowed, suddenly dangerous. “I don’t know what’s happened to you this last year, Maggi, or what kind of crowd you’ve gotten involved with. But whatever and whoever it is, it sure isn’t an improvement.”
At my resolute silence, Lex turned away and offered his boarding pass to the gate agent. Maybe ten minutes later my section was called, and I boarded with the other peons, carefully not looking at him…
Just enough of a glance to tell that he, comfortably settled in an oversize leather seat with a cocktail in his hand, wasn’t looking at me, either. The seat beside him was empty, spacious and inviting.
I continued past, found my seat and manhandled my backpack into an overhead compartment, glad for an excuse to vent my frustration. I slid into a middle seat, between a large businessman and a teenager bobbing to his Discman.
I dug my cell phone out of my purse to turn it off.
One missed call, it read.
I thumbed a button and read my aunt Bridge’s mobile number. The screen then read, 1 new voice message.
While other passengers boarded, I retrieved the message.
“Lilith says you’re coming here,” my aunt Bridge wheezed, weak from more than her years as a smoker. Much of my frustration melted under my gratitude that she was even conscious. “I thought you would. My assistant will meet your flight. Be careful, chou. It may be worse than we feared.”
That was it? I checked the display, to make sure I still had a signal. I used the code to replay the message.
That was it.
“Miss?” It was the flight attendant. “We ask that you turn off all electronic devices during takeoff, and keep your cell phone off for the duration of the flight.”
I switched my phone off while she turned her attention to my neighbor’s Discman. Then, before stowing my purse beneath the seat in front of me, I exchanged the phone for the one set of notes that nobody had gotten—because they were handwritten.
And because I’d had them on me—a pile of scribble-filled index cards wrapped in a rubber band—the whole time.
“Melusine,” I read, ignoring the flight attendant’s safety presentation. “Goddess of Betrayal.”
The plane taxied awkwardly, like an albatross, back from the gate.
I read right through take-off, searching for something. Anything. Had someone stolen mine and Brigitte’s notes just to learn about Melusine? Or was it more likely that they hoped to find her grail, like with the recently destroyed Kali Cup? If so, they wouldn’t find the most useful clues in our notes. Writing down the rhyme we’d been taught as children would seem as silly as writing down the words to “Little Miss Muffet.”
“Three fair figures,” the rhyme starts. “Side by side…”
No, I didn’t need my notes for that. Nor did I need them to understand how Melusine had gone from goddess to fairy tale. Few things just vanish, after all.
But how she could also have changed from a kick-ass symbol of female empowerment to a woman whose man had done her wrong…. That made less sense. Frustrated, I put my seat back and closed my eyes, meditating on it…accessing my Grail Keeper knowledge, passed down mother to daughter for centuries.
Mom had told me the Melusine story from my infancy. Grand-mère and Aunt Bridge had elaborated on it as my cousin Lil and I got older, adding some of the naughty parts.
“Once upon a time…”
The basic story is this. Melusine was a fairy of such beauty that, when a French count came across her bathing in the river, he fell instantly in love. But she’d been cursed with a secret, so she would only marry the count if he agreed to leave her alone, every Saturday night, and never ask about it. He gladly agreed.
They married. She magically built whole castles for him overnight, and they had ten children. Legends vary on the family that resulted—the Lusignans of southern France are the top contenders, closely followed by the Angevins who later became Kings of England and even the royal family of Luxembourg. No matter how you slice it, she birthed a powerful people.
But she had that secret curse. Every Saturday, Melusine changed. She grew a snake tail and bat wings, and could relieve her suffering only by splashing around in a bath, safe in her solitude, until the episode passed.
You can guess the rest, right? The count broke his promise and saw her secret. And Melusine flew out the window, cursed by his betrayal to remain in her serpentine form for eternity.
They did not live happily ever after. In fact, legend holds that every time a Lusignan count was about to die, Melusine could be heard screaming, banshee-like, outside the tower she’d once helped build. Until someone tore it down, anyway.
A fascinating story. But…had she really once been a goddess?
Until this week, my main purpose for researching Melusine remained academic. I wanted to compare her tale with other legends, in hopes of finding an unchanging base myth to all of them. Aunt Bridge was advancing her research on medieval goddess cults by focusing on the group of French women who had worshipped the Mother Goddess in the form of the fairy Melusine.
The idea that those women had really hidden a chalice, much less that we could find it…that had been an amusement. We were Grail Keepers, as our mothers’ mothers had been for centuries. Keepers of the secrets of the goddess grails.
We weren’t Grailgetters.
Now someone was after our information. And if what had happened to the Kali Cup in New Delhi was any warning…
We had to find the cup first. The chalice that Melusine worshippers would have used and which they would have hidden by the time of the medieval witch burnings.
Edit that; I had to find the cup.
I’m embarrassed to admit that the next thing I knew, I was drawing a deep breath and waking to an announcement, in French, that we had started our descent toward Charles de Gaulle. The previous night must have wiped me out, for me to sleep through six hours and at least one meal service.
I cracked my eyes open and saw that at some point I’d been covered with a thick, rich blanket. Mmm; nice service on this flight. Except…
A few other passengers also had blankets, and theirs were fairly thin and flimsy.
Mine was a first-class blanket.
Suspicion contracted my chest. Did that mean…?
My notes! I clenched my hand instinctively, sitting bolt upright. My fingers closed on rubber-wrapped index cards. Maybe Lex hadn’t come back here. Maybe the flight attendants just ran out of coach-class blankets.
Then something small and hard slid off my lap.
It was a small box of gourmet chocolates. The kind they give out in first class. The kind Lex had always passed on to me after his business trips…back when we were together.
In the seventh grade, Alexander Stuart inexplicably returns to public school. He’s no longer a bully; instead, he keeps to himself. I’m one of the few people he’ll speak to, maybe because I stood up to him in kindergarten.
When he sits out PE, we think he’s getting special treatment. Same with all his absences. None of us guesses he’s sick until the day he comes to school with his head shaved.
This, of course, is when kids stop calling him Alex and start calling him Lex Luther. He ignores them.
Our teacher does not. One afternoon when he’s gone, she tells us Alexander has leukemia. He could die. That’s why his parents want him home with them. We must not tease him.
Kids can be cruel. But not all kids. Not most of us.
Lex notices the change, the sympathetic looks, the students who hang back as if leukemia—or mortality—are contagious. He notices the return of his name. “Hi, Alex.” “How are you feeling, Alex?” “Hey, Alex, what’s up?”
I see his sharp hazel eyes go from confusion to to realization to fury at becoming an object of pity. Finally, during English, he stands up. “Miss Mason? I want everyone to call me Lex.”
Miss Mason doesn’t understand. “Now, Alex…”
“That’s what I want.” There he stands with his military-school posture, a twelve-year-old outsider, skinny, bald. I suspect just how exhausted he must be, how sick he must feel. But he prefers mockery to sympathy.
“No, Alex,” says Miss Mason. “I won’t allow it.”
He continues to stand, demoted from sick to helpless by her condescension. An ache grips my throat. It doesn’t seem right.
So I say, “Fine, Lex. Just sit down and shut up, okay?”
Several students turn to me in amazement, but I don’t pay attention to them. I’m watching how Lex’s quiet, hazel eyes slide toward me.
“Did you hear me?” I challenge. “Lex?”
And with a nod of quiet satisfaction, he sits.
“Maggi Sanger!” protests Miss Mason.
“As long as he’s going to act like a jerk, why not let him be an archvillain?”
Of course I’m sent to the principal. But I also get a glimpse of Lex Stuart’s rare smile. He’s waiting outside the almost empty school building when I get out of detention. A black limousine owns the parking lot not five spaces from my mother’s minivan.
“We’re doing group reports for social studies,” he says. “I chose Camelot. Will you partner with me?”
I wait. I know I am not a particularly attractive twelve-year-old. I’m chubby, and my hair is usually messy from running and playing.
He looks intrigued. “Please?”
