Her Knight at the Museum

Chapter Two

Two

She can hear me!

This woman, this Emily—a pretty variation of Emelye , often used in his time—could sense Griffin was more than an object. He was almost sure of it.

Every time she looked his way, his heart leaped…or so it seemed. How he could feel such things while being made of stone, he didn’t know. Hundreds of years ago, Mordrain—his friend from childhood, turned foul enchanter—had turned him into a statue. A statue that could think, hear, see, feel, yearn, and grieve; the most hellish torment that had ever been devised.

When Rose had first mentioned doing a spell against the red-haired woman named Laurie, Griffin had recoiled, wondering if she was in league with demons, like the conjuror who had damned him. Even if Laurie was as nasty as ditch water, she didn’t deserve to be cursed. But as Rose spoke more about it, he’d realized there was no harm in her. In his time, there had been a dame in the village who had dispensed charms, advice, and simple cures, and even the priest hadn’t objected to her services.

“Keep it in your pocket,” Rose said now of the green stone. “It helps you heal old traumas and break free of the past, which I figured, after a divorce…” She shrugged.

Emily said, “No, yeah, I love it.”

Yeah meant the same thing as yea or aye or yes , Griffin had learned, but what did no, yeah mean? Something between a nay and a yea , or both at once?

Why had Emily gotten divorced? She had a dog, but no children; had the man failed to render his marital debt? Young wives, it was said, required swiving thrice a week at least, for their health and soundness of mind. Griffin had always supposed that when he did marry, he’d gladly perform the services of Venus as often as his lady wife should desire.

Especially if he had a wife as beautiful as Emily. Her uncovered hair hung loose, but no braids or ornaments could’ve improved upon the wavy dark brown tresses. What a pleasure it would’ve been to idly twirl a lock around one finger. She had a pale complexion, touched with powder, and was about thirty years of age, he guessed—the age he’d been before the curse, when he could still speak whenever he liked, roam wherever he wished, and lift his face to the sun.

Behind her eyeglasses were kind, chestnut-brown eyes. He’d seen men wearing eyeglasses, but had he ever seen them on a woman?

How long had it been since he’d seen any woman? A long while, which no doubt made her all the fairer in his eyes. For over a century, he’d stood in the foyer of a grand manor. Its last master, Richard Burke III, had died and men had borne the body away. After that, for two years, no one had come. Griffin had marked the time by the changing of the leaves and the snowfall outside the windows.

Emily said to the green stone in her hand, “Don’t let me brood about my ex, okay?”

“Nooo, not like that,” Rose said in dismay.

Emily’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “What?”

“You have to say things positively! If you cast doubt, you ruin the magic. Like if you say, Don’t let me brood , a small part of the universe is going to hear that as, Let me brood .”

Emily tilted her head, looking as perplexed as Griffin felt by this logic, but then she said, “Okay, how about this?” She addressed the stone again. “Let me break free of the past.”

“That’s good!” The two women shared a smile.

Emily thanked Rose again, and they exchanged parting words. Maybe it was a shame that Rose wasn’t a mighty sorceress, even one who consorted with the Devil himself, that she might save Griffin. But no, she still would’ve been no help, because she’d never know Griffin existed, and neither would anyone else.

Emily locked the door behind Rose and walked back to face him.

“Well,” she said, in that voice he already loved, sweet but slightly scratchy. “It looks like you and I will be spending a lot of time together.”

He would be grateful for this. As long as she graced him with her presence and attention, he would heed her every word and gesture, to give him good things to remember later.

She pushed up her eyeglasses on her nose. Perhaps her vision was weak from long hours of study, for his lady was not only fair, but knowledgeable and wise. She’d already compared his armor to Edmund Mortimer’s, and Griffin’s armor had been commissioned from the same shop. Whatever else one might have said of Sir Edmund, he had fine tastes.

“First things first,” she said. “Let’s get the rest of these rags off you.”

When the men had come to the country house and wrapped him in cloths, he’d welcomed even their impersonal touch. He longed for carnal pleasures, yes, but also for a friendly pat on the shoulder or a brotherly embrace. In life, he’d scarcely noticed such things.

Then they’d bound his face, as though he were a corpse and, it seemed, closed him into a coffin. Terror had seized him, and for a long, dark hour or more, he lay in mute despair. But he never heard the sound of gravediggers’ spades, nor felt a lowering into the ground; instead, he was placed somewhere higher, and he moved forward. Then he supposed he was in a wooden shipping box, like a merchant might use for Venetian glass or wine.

If his lady’s hands brushed him again as she unwrapped him, he didn’t feel it through his armor. Still, as they neared his codpiece, he imagined the caress of a lover, a sublime joy forever out of his reach. Christ. He half wondered that his ache for it didn’t crack the stone.

Once she finished, she stood back and gazed at him. “I’m going to take photos for my assessment report. But I need to fix the light first.”

She dragged the stool to the center of the room. Her shirt was green and her trousers black. Once upon a time, his green shield had been emblazoned with the sable griffin, his namesake, half eagle, half lion. So had his banners in battle and the painted panels in his dining hall. Had Griffin not been cursed, and had he taken a wife, she would’ve dressed in green and black with him on Yuletide, Midsummer’s Eve, and all the feasts.

But this woman’s clothing signified nothing, other than the fact that she was wealthy; bright fabrics like the emerald hue of her shirt were expensive, and her shoes were made of the spotted skin of the leopard, exceedingly rare. They revealed her naked ankles, and he could well imagine kissing her there, or even giving her a gentle bite to make her squeal.

She stepped onto the stool, reached up, and adjusted the angle of one of the metal cones hanging from the ceiling. Her movement pulled her green shirt taut over her small, delectable breasts.

“I don’t usually talk to sculptures,” she added. “Just so you know.”

Demoiselle, please do not stop speaking to me.

She darted another astonished look at him, and his heart seemed to leap again.

He’d been able to communicate with a handful of people over the centuries…but not like this, in waking life. Only in their dreams. Unable to move, often staring at the same scene for years on end, he had reached with all his soul to those around him. Perhaps no living man or woman could ever be still enough, or would ever have time enough, to develop such a skill. However, one night, after countless attempts to touch other people’s minds, he’d walked right into a serving woman’s slumber. She’d recognized him at once. An aging widow, somewhat lonely herself, she’d welcomed his company.

He’d befriended many others over the centuries. Most recently, he’d known the owners of his statue: Richard Burke, his son, and then the grandson, who’d become his closest friend of all. One night, Griffin had gone to visit the third Richard in his dreams and had been unable to find him, and he’d known the old man had died. The sorrow had hollowed him out.

None of them, of course, had ever believed Griffin truly existed. Each person had assumed that their imagination had turned a statue into a make-believe friend.

From the side table, Emily pulled blue rags out of a box—no, they were gloves; she put them on and they fit her small hands like a second skin. Then she picked up a black book and a pen—he’d seen those. As she came back toward him, she opened the book and clicked the pen.

“Let’s take a closer look at you.” She drew near and looked over his right arm, the one that had been holding his helmet for centuries.

“There must have been a repair here at some point,” she murmured. He could see why she would say that. The helmet rested on his hip, but his arm jutted out from his body; in an ordinary statue, that thinner part would’ve been vulnerable. In his time, at the chapel in Colchester, there had stood a statue of St. George slaying the dragon, but George’s upraised sword arm had broken off, making it look like the dragon had devoured it and was about to finish off the rest of him.

Emily’s fingers delicately traced his shoulder, then his wrist. If only he could’ve taken off his gauntlet and her glove, to feel her touch on his bare skin. She was so close that he could smell a light, floral perfume on her, the scent of springtime and new life.

“I don’t see any repairs, though,” she said in wonder and stepped back to scribble something in the black book.

She looked over every inch of him, front and back, sometimes standing on the stool. He guessed it took the better part of an hour.

“Amazing,” she said finally, sitting down at the side table. “There’s no pitting or flaking…or any kind of real deterioration. But there’s some discoloration from soluble salts, and I can see where moss grew on your shoulders, so you must’ve been outside part of the time.”

He had been indeed: first in the clearing in the woods where he’d met his doom, and later in a garden. On some windy days, leaves and twigs had blown into his face, and on some winter nights, icicles had hung from his nose and ears while his insides seemed to shudder from the cold. The birds had been a mixed blessing.

She made some notes, then peered up at him. “What kind of super limestone are you made out of?”

A burst of music distracted her and she touched the screen on her nearby phone. Griffin knew about phones; he had seen Richard Burke III use one, there in the foyer where Griffin had stood, and he’d asked Richard about them in one of Richard’s dreams. Richard had used them to talk to people in other towns and, occasionally, to tell innkeepers they could expect him later for dinner.

“Hey! Happy anniversary!” Emily said. She set the phone down and began picking up the discarded wrappings on the floor as she talked. “I was going to call you at lunch.”

Another woman’s voice filled the room. “Do you want us to call back?” This was different. Griffin hadn’t been able to hear the person Richard had been talking to.

“I can talk now,” Emily said. “Are you at Mackinac Island yet?”

“We’re leaving bright and early tomorrow,” the voice of an older man said.

“It should be beautiful, just like today,” the woman’s voice chimed in. “That reminds me, I saw Sharon at Twin Lakes.” Emily frowned and shrugged as though she didn’t know who Sharon at Twin Lakes was. “Did you know her daughter had a baby?”

“No.” Emily put some of the wrappings, which looked like sheets of bubbles, into a barrel. “Why were you golfing? I thought you were resting that knee before your trip.”

The woman clicked her tongue. “It’s all better.”

“Sure, all better three weeks after surgery,” the man said, with what sounded like both fondness and irony.

These were Emily’s parents, Griffin supposed. How lucky they all were to have one another and to engage in easy and friendly conversation whenever they liked.

“How’s that presentation coming along?” her father asked.

Emily winced. “A little slow.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing to stress over.”

“I don’t know.” Emily glanced at the door as if to make sure it was closed. “I feel like they’re more likely to take me on full-time if I do a good job.”

“You’ll do great,” her mom said. “How are you liking the people there?”

Emily folded one of the long fabric strips she’d unwound from him. “One of the other conservators is nice. He talked to me about fun things to do in town.” She set the bundle on the side table.

“You mean he asked you out?”

“Nooo, he’s gay. And married. But he told me about the farmers market in Logan Square and things like that.” She meant the one called Terrence, Griffin guessed; the one who also wore glasses and had deep brown skin, like the emissary from Ethiopia who had been a guest at the Duke of Burgundy’s court.

“Are you getting along okay with your boss?” her father asked.

That would be Jason Yun. Griffin had seen him a few years ago, at the Burke estate when Richard was still alive, and Jason had given his name to the maid who’d answered the door. At first, Griffin had thought that Emily might be married to one of the men, and although it hardly mattered—it wasn’t as if Griffin could woo her—he’d been glad to figure out that Emily worked with one and for the other.

“I actually haven’t talked to him all that much,” Emily told her parents, folding another strip. “He’s kind of hard to read. But there’s this girl in social media who’s really friendly. I don’t think we’re going to be best friends or anything.”

What made her say that? The witchcraft, perhaps.

“If you don’t get hired there full-time, you can always fall back on your chemistry degree,” her father suggested.

Her mom clucked her tongue. “I wish you’d never moved to California.”

“Well, I loved the Getty. The Silicon Valley move was the mistake.”

“I never understood that,” her father said. “They were making an app, right? They couldn’t do that from home?”

“I mean, his business partners were up there, and they thought they had to have a fancy office to impress investors. And a launch party and booths at tech conferences.” She shook her head. “They did everything except make a working prototype.”

Griffin was listening with every fiber of his being. They all spoke with more or less the same accent, which fell strangely on his ears. Perhaps he was merely confused. Inflections and manners of speech had changed so much over the centuries that he always strained to understand people, and for a long while, he hadn’t heard any voices at all.

Emily’s father said, “I don’t know why he was making a dating app, anyway. Those never work.”

“They do for some people,” Emily said, a dismal note in her voice now. She sat down in the chair, stripped off her gloves, and picked up her phone. “I’m going to sign up on one. I just keep putting it off.”

“I think you should do it!” her mother said. “You don’t understand, Ed. This is how people meet each other now. They don’t go to bars and hook up with strangers.”

“It worked for us.”

Emily said, “I don’t want to hear that story again.”

Her father chuckled. “Well, if you’re going to shop online for a boyfriend, find someone with a good, steady job. Like insurance.”

“Or accounting,” her mom added. “You don’t want to get carried away by a handsome face and a lot of talk.”

“Are you saying I’m not a handsome face?” her father joked.

“Now, honey. Not everyone can be the whole package.”

“You guys are adorable,” Emily said, a wistful look in her eyes. “It’s no wonder you’ve been married forty years.”

“You just need to find the right person,” her mom said.

Emily glanced up at Griffin, as if she knew he was listening. “I should get back to work. But call me tomorrow when you get to the Grand Hotel!”

After they said their goodbyes, Emily sighed. In the short silence, he tried to communicate.

My lady, ’tis no stone that stands before you but a man.

She stiffened slightly. Had she heard him? He didn’t want to frighten her away, and sending thoughts in this way was difficult, but he couldn’t stop trying to make himself known…not when she was the first person who had ever seemed to sense him.

“I keep wanting to talk to a statue,” she said. “I think that means I really need to set up a dating profile.”

He had no guesses as to what that might be. She took in a deep breath, for all the world like a squire about to go into battle.

“I’m going to look for men my father would like,” she told Griffin. “The ones who’ve lived in Chicago their whole lives and have dinner with their parents every Sunday.”

Was this new country called Chicago , then? He would’ve gladly had dinner with her parents every Sunday. As lonely as he was, he would’ve had dinner with almost anyone every Sunday, given the opportunity, but her parents sounded particularly agreeable.

She tapped her phone as she spoke. “Let’s see. I’m a woman, I’m thirty-four, I want to date men, long-term dating…and now they want six pictures of me.” She grimaced. “This is actually the worst part. I deleted about a hundred of them last month since Tom was in them.”

After about a minute of tapping the phone, she said, “Okay, maybe this one. It’s from a year and a half ago, though…” She looked up and showed him the screen, adding playfully, “What do you think? Too much skin?”

In the image, she wore a black dress that left her arms and décolletage bare, with only thin straps over her shoulders to hold it up. If Griffin had been able to breathe, he would’ve forgotten to in that moment. Had her former husband put that joyful sparkle in her eyes? Having done it once, how could he not have become devoted to doing it again and again?

Emily lowered the phone and studied the image. “I was about eight pounds lighter then, so maybe it’s false advertising.” She shook her head. “It’s like putting yourself up for sale on Amazon. ‘Divorced museum nerd! Free shipping!’ You know what? I’m going to do the compatibility quiz first.”

She sat down in the chair and touched the screen a few more times. Then she said, seemingly reading out loud, “?‘What do you hope a partner will like about you?’ They’ve got like thirty traits to choose from,” she added to Griffin. “ Spontaneous …that’s what guys are looking for, right? I used to be.” She wrinkled her nose. “I think. I barely even remember the person I was before Tom. Empathetic …that means understanding, right? All right, I’m going with kind , educated , and empathetic .” She gave Griffin a rueful smile. “I may as well just write boring , huh?”

An understanding nature and a kind heart seemed to Griffin to be two of the best qualities one could ask for in a wife, and while many men didn’t believe a woman should be educated, the sentiment was hardly universal. Griffin himself was a learned man; after centuries of solitude, he couldn’t think of anything he’d enjoy more than discussing history and poetry with a lovely lady. Well, he could think of some things he’d enjoy more…but still, it would be delightful.

As far as he could fathom, she was returning a letter filled with questions from someone who could introduce her to suitors. A trusted priest, maybe, or a well-connected aunt. She fell silent for a few minutes, not reading other questions aloud, to his disappointment, though he was hardly surprised.

But then she read, “?‘What is your opinion on cheating?’?” She jabbed the screen. “?‘Cheating is never acceptable.’ That one was easy…last one. ‘Besides love, what are the three things you’re hoping for in a romantic partner?’’’

He loved how she included him in the conversation, even if he couldn’t reply. She’d called him he instead of it to the others, and that had warmed his heart.

“?‘Someone I can trust’…yes.” She touched the screen again.

You can trust me. He couldn’t help but send the thought to her. She rewarded him with another glance in his direction.

“?‘Someone who values family’…I totally do, but that could get taken the wrong way, you know? ‘Someone I can be intimate with regularly.’?”

She looked up at him again. “Actually, you’re the perfect person to talk to. Like a therapist, but free.”

What was a therapist? Griffin attempted to answer. My lady, whatever you tell me, I shall not judge, and I cannot but keep your confidence.

“When I found out about Tom’s affair, I felt…repulsive,” she told him softly. “Like this disgusting, farting lump. For weeks I couldn’t stop thinking about them kissing and, you know, doing everything else…and I would imagine them lying around in bed afterward, making fun of me.”

Griffin longed to take her into his arms and murmur reassuring words. What a scabrous plague-sore this Tom had been, and what a shame Griffin would never have the pleasure of thrashing him within an inch of his life.

“I’m feeling better about myself lately, though.” She looked back down at the phone. “That’s a yes on ‘Someone to be intimate with.’ Now I need to pick one more…‘Someone who makes life exciting’? Hard no. ‘Someone who provides me with security’…oh boy.”

She set the phone down, steepled her fingers, and pressed her lips against them, considering. “I don’t need someone to be rich, you know? And companies lay people off all the time these days. But I do need them to at least be okay with the concept of a job. Even if it’s not the perfect job.” She paused. “I’m picking security.” She picked up the phone again and pressed the screen. “And save . I’ll finish it tonight. And who knows, maybe I’ll meet a decent guy. But more likely, I’ll just get a bunch of messages from creeps.”

She glanced up at him again. “Don’t look at me like that.”

If Griffin could’ve laughed, he would’ve. He couldn’t look at anyone in any kind of way.

“I know I sound very unromantic,” she told him. “I’ll have you know I wasn’t always that way. In fact, when I was a kid, I read fantasy novels and King Arthur stories. About guys like you .”

Griffin’s spirits lifted. He, too, loved King Arthur stories. With any luck, she was comparing him to Gawain or Lancelot. No, not Lancelot, given her recent experience with infidelity.

“When I was a teenager, I posted all this really bad emo poetry on Tumblr…and when I was in college I fell in love with art history, and I’d be holed up in the library learning about medieval guilds and the Pre-Raphaelites. I was like the most romantic person ever.”

She pulled another pair of blue gloves out of the box. “I don’t know what happened. Life, I guess.” She put them on, stretching them taut over each finger, sealing them off from contact.

“Reality isn’t like the stories, you know? Or like romantic art.” She smiled sadly. “There’s no such thing as a real knight in shining armor.”

He couldn’t stand it. His soul cried out to her with all its might. For Christ’s love, my lady. I am here.

She froze like a deer at the sight of a hunter. Her eyes widened and she pressed her hand to her chest.

Oh, she’d definitely heard him that time. Every word.

She asked, “Am I losing my mind?”

If he’d had a heart, it would’ve beaten loudly enough to echo off the black walls. She walked over to him. He could scarcely hear the light footfalls of her leopard-skin shoes on the floor.

Her chest rose and fell with a shaky breath. He strained to hear her voice, hardly more than a whisper.

“Why do I keep feeling like you’re talking to me?”

God in Heaven. Longing shuddered through him.

Please see me , he begged in his thoughts. Please touch me.

Slowly, she removed the glove, then raised her bare hand to hover close to his cheek.

Aye, my lady, please…

Then she lowered it, shaking her head. She turned and left, extinguishing the lights before she closed the door.

Griffin stood in complete blackness and despair.

Maybe she would refuse to work on his statue now. Maybe he’d chased away his first chance in centuries for a true friendship, one in which the other person knew he was real.

No. It couldn’t be. She’d said she had a kind heart and an understanding nature, and he believed it. He would reach her the other way, and she would be kind enough to hear him out, and she would understand him.

Come eventide, he would venture out in his mind among souls in slumber, like walking among the stars…though truly, each was more like a ball of fine silver thread, pulsing with light. He would search for her and hope to find her dreaming, and if he did, he would let himself flow into those dreams, becoming part of the twinkling filaments.

His loneliness mixed with something far less familiar and possibly more devastating: hope.