Her Knight at the Museum

Chapter Eighteen

Eighteen

Griffin woke up from a deep sleep into darkness, and fear shocked his heart. He’d been stone again and lowered into a grave. Mordrain, in his armor, had stood over him, staring down. Though Griffin hadn’t been able to see his face, he’d known it was Mordrain from the gilded design etched onto the side of his helmet: the jackdaw, eater of carrion, an ill omen.

Then he felt the softness of Emily’s giant bed beneath him and, as his eyes adjusted, made out the outline of her sleeping form. He took in a deep breath and let it out.

The sun had not yet risen from its own bed in the east. He showered and put on his new jeans, a perfect fit, and the green shirt. They pleased him more than he could say. In the living room, he watched the rest of the play on the TV that he’d begun last night. It was a story about a band of heroes named the Avengers, and Emily had told him if he enjoyed it, there were twenty or thirty more very like it.

Emily had told him that much of the fighting and spectacle was mere illusion, but it looked very real, and the actors were wonderfully adept at feigning joy, anger, fear, and sorrow. Of course, this was one reason why actors couldn’t be trusted; they made their livelihood as liars, betraying their souls for no more than a shilling. They wandered from town to town like hungry wolves, having no home to call their own, not even as much as a swineherd’s hovel or a whore’s quarters at a brothel.

There were actual women in this play, rather than youths dressed up to play them, and Griffin could only wonder at what had led such lovely demoiselles to such shameful conduct. Nonetheless, he loved the characters, especially the man who’d been revived after decades of being frozen in ice. They were becoming a band of brothers, like King Arthur’s knights or Robin Hood’s men. Griffin liked the growing friendships at least as much as the fighting, though that part of the story also gave him a twinge of yearning.

No doubt, he, too, would have a band of brothers, at Medieval Legends. Once again, he would be admired by all. He would ask for Emily’s hand in marriage as soon as he was invited to join the glorious company of sparring knights.

“And I thought I was up early! You look nice.”

Griffin looked up to see Emily standing there in her T-shirt and the soft loose pants she’d worn for sleeping, fuzzy and printed, improbably enough, with the images of many purple owls reading books.

“Good morning, my cinnamon,” he said, switching off the play. “Has the sun risen, or is it only your presence that fills this room with light?”

Smiling, she shook her head. “How’d you get to be so smooth?”

“You are the smooth one, or so I recall.” He pretended to look thoughtful, touching his finger to his lips. “Though we should go back to bed so I can make sure.”

She laughed. “I’d enjoy that, but I have to go to work.”

He would rather not have been left alone, but with the company of endless plays, and so many books, not to mention the agreeable hound, he could hardly complain. “And what work are you doing, my lady, now that your chief task has come to life?”

“Good question.” She sat down on the chair of the sofa, next to him. “At least we’re back in the conservator labs again. I got an email about it.” She shrugged, but he could see anxiety in her eyes.

The room filled with chiming music. “That’s probably my parents,” Emily said. “They should be back from vacation.” She swept the room with a glance. “Where’s my phone?”

At least twice a day, she asked that question. She was marvelously careless with the device, considering she relied on it to do a hundred things or more. Griffin stood up, went to the little table by the door, and with a touch of smugness took it out of the tray.

“It was under the sofa,” he told her.

“Thank you!”

It had already stopped ringing by the time he handed it to her. She looked at the screen. “Oh, it was Rose.”

She pressed a couple of buttons and sat down in the chair. It rang for a moment.

“Emily!” Rose’s voice filled the room. “Have you left for work yet?”

“No. I mean, it’s six thirty.” Emily gave Griffin a quizzical look. “Why?”

“What are you and Griffin doing tonight?”

“Um…just hanging out, I guess.” Her face flushed.

“So like, Netflix and chill?”

“No…” Griffin didn’t understand the question, but Emily’s tone of voice made it the least convincing no he’d heard in centuries. She herself must’ve realized it, because she laughed. “I mean, yesterday, it was chill and then Netflix.”

“Oh my God! Was he—”

“You’re on speaker,” Emily nearly shouted.

“I need to hear about this later. But I have a favor to ask.” Rose’s deep inhale was audible over the phone. “Remember that guy at the food trucks?”

“What—the cute guy in the white shirt?”

“After we went shopping yesterday, I went over to the taco truck, and he was in line! We talked for a while and then he asked me out.”

“Oh, wow,” Emily said. “See, I told you he was looking at you!”

“He admitted it,” Rose said cheerfully. “He has the nicest eyes. And the nicest voice.”

“What’s his name?”

“Aaron Johnston. He works at Sotheby’s.”

Emily blinked. “Like the art auctions?”

“Yeah. He’s a VP of European art, I guess?”

“Wow. That’s impressive.”

“He’s a little older than me, but I don’t care about that. And he’s a Sagittarius. They’re perfect matches with Aquarians.”

Griffin hadn’t understood all of the conversation, but he perked up at this. Apparently, Rose was well-versed in the science of the stars. He himself knew much of it, from a section in his Book of Hours called On the Heavenly Spheres .

“We took our tacos down to the lakefront and sat on a bench to eat them.” Rose’s voice sounded dreamy. “I thought it was impossible to get a date these days without an app.”

“But here in Chicago, you can just buy a taco or kiss a statue,” Emily joked, and she and Griffin exchanged a fond glance. “Are you going out with him?”

“Um…that’s what I need to talk to you about. Can you and Griffin come with me?”

“On a date?” Emily laughed. “I’m no expert, but I don’t think you’re supposed to bring friends.”

Rose’s sigh rustled static over the phone. “He asked me out for drinks tonight, and I mean, he seems so great . But I just have really bad judgment about guys, you know? So I wanted a second opinion. I told him I was going to happy hour with a couple of friends, and he could join us, and he said okay.”

“But there wasn’t really a happy hour?” Emily guessed.

“No. I asked a couple of my other friends, but one of them’s teaching a Pagan Ethics workshop, and the other one has vortex therapy.”

From the expression on Emily’s face, Griffin gathered that she was nearly as flummoxed by these activities as he was.

“Listen, I know this sounds like you’re my backup choice,” Rose said. “But you’re actually one of my favorite people. But since we haven’t been friends that long, I didn’t feel comfortable calling you in an emergency. Except now I am.”

Emily smiled and touched her hand to her heart. “You’re one of my favorite people, too. You can always call me in an emergency, okay? You’ve helped me out with huge emergencies!”

“So you and Griffin can come?” Hope and desperation touched her voice. “I’d really like your opinion.”

Emily’s amused gaze met Griffin’s. “Where are we meeting?”

“At Cindy’s?”

“ Fancy. I’ve only been there once.” She turned to Griffin and explained, “It’s, um, an elegant tavern at the top of one of those tall buildings. It’s practically across the street from the museum.”

Griffin thrilled to the idea. Now that he thought of it, he was astounded that he had yet to visit a tavern since his transformation. Often, he’d imagined that if he were free of the curse, that was the first thing he’d do. He could judge whether this Aaron was a worthy gentleman, and perhaps converse with other friendly folk, too. Although Emily filled much of the void within him, he’d always hated being alone, loving the company of friends.

“This will be a rare pleasure, Lady Rose,” he called out so she could hear.

“Hang on, though,” Emily said. “I’m not going to have time to come back here after work and go downtown again for happy hour.”

Griffin had already worked this out in his head. “I will go on the train with you and spend my day perusing the museum.”

“That’s a great idea,” Rose chimed in. “You’d learn about thousands of years of culture. Not just American and European, either.”

The corner of Emily’s mouth turned down. “That’s true. But won’t people recognize him from the videos?” Noticing Griffin’s bewildered look, she explained, “People have been watching you. Kind of the same way you were watching the Avengers movie.”

It took him a moment to understand. “People are watching my life? Every moment, like a play?” Horror gripped him. Had they seen him swiving Emily? Or, worse, pissing and shitting?

“Noooo, no,” Emily said. “They just saw you in the museum, after you came back to life.”

“Ah.” He breathed a sigh of relief.

“If he’s wearing his regular clothes, I don’t think anyone will notice him,” Rose said. “Thousands of people visit every day. He can ride the train with you, then go through the main entrance like any tourist.”

Emily snapped his fingers. “Plus, he can wear glasses.”

“You have a spare pair?” Rose sounded dubious. “But he won’t be able to see in them.”

“No, I have a pair of clear ones. To protect against blue light on the computer. My mom got them for me, but I never use them since I don’t wear my contacts. Hang on.” Emily trotted to the bedroom, and he could hear her opening one drawer, and then another.

She returned triumphantly, glasses in hand. “Here!” She thrust them toward Griffin. “Try them on.”

Griffin obeyed. They felt strange and modern on his face.

“What does he look like?” Rose called out over the phone. “Clark Kent?”

“Like a fool, I am sure,” Griffin called back to her good-naturedly.

“No, you look smart!” Emily said. “They’re a little small on your face, but it does change your look.”

“I will also wear my cap,” Griffin said. He looked very different in it, and he was fond of it.

Emily nodded. “That’s a good idea. We’ll go.”

···

Griffin rode the train with Emily and a crowd of other passengers, most of them looking sleepy, grim, or both. They weren’t looking forward to their labors in the city, but he’d be glad when he had labor to go to. One lady had tattoos, such as one might have gotten to commemorate a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, but they covered the whole of her bare arms, and the butterflies, roses, and skulls might or might not have been symbols of faith. She was working some kind of small tapestry depicting another skull wearing a crown. He complimented her on her handiwork.

She gave him a wary look and muttered, “Thanks.”

“It reminds me of the Prince of Portugal,” he said.

She peered at him. “What?”

“Peter, the Prince of Portugal? And the Corpse Queen?” There had been an extremely rude drinking song about them, in the Before Times.

The lady put down her needle. “This sounds like my kind of story.”

Very well, then. Griffin scanned the train just to make sure no children could hear.

“The prince fell in love with his wife’s lady-in-waiting, Inês, but as you can imagine, his father-in-law didn’t like that.” For Emily’s sake, he tried to use the plain, modern manner of speaking, as well as he could. “The father-in-law had her murdered. Peter got revenge and executed the hired killers, ripping out their hearts.”

“Holy crap ,” the lady said.

Emily’s eyes widened. “Did this really happen?”

“Aye, and it gets worse. When Peter became king, he had her body dug up from the grave, dressed in queenly garments and jewels, and crowned and put upon a throne next to him. Then all the nobles were compelled to pay homage to her by kneeling and kissing the hem of her gown.”

The lady’s mouth fell open. “That’s amazing.” But Emily shuddered, and another dame, and a gentleman, too, were screwing up their faces in disgust.

“I will tell a more cheerful tale,” he assured them, and launched into the story of Guillaume and Melior. It gave him a soft, warm feeling to recount the story of the werewolf king, and the lovers who lived happily ever after in Sicily, because his mother had told it to him when he was small. He told the story with such flair and wit that the ending brought a smattering of applause from a few listeners.

“I thank you, good sirs and demoiselles,” he said, flushed with pride. “What kind of tale will you hear next?”

Grinning, Emily laid a hand on his arm. “Sorry,” she said to him and their fellow passengers. “This is our stop.”

“You should be an actor,” a man said to him.

Griffin flinched. He should be a homeless, traveling buffoon, no better than a thief? Indeed, the two trades often went hand in hand. But the man’s smile suggested nothing but goodwill, and Emily beamed at him. It was a joke; one he didn’t understand.

Nonetheless, he let out a hearty laugh. “I would not say that, sir! Good day to you.”

At the corner of the busy street, Emily gave him directions to the café where she would meet him for lunch, adding that he could ask anyone in a uniform if he got confused. Her coworkers, she said, never ate there. She was going to go in the side entrance as she always did, and he would go in the front and give the ticket she’d printed out to the gatekeeper.

She stood on her toes and gave him an enthusiastic kiss. “Eleven thirty!”

The museum was a marvel beyond Griffin’s wildest imaginings. He’d seen a bit of it before, of course, but he’d been distracted by the fact that he was alive.

All the tapestries, statues, and fine objects in a grand palace in his time would’ve been just another chamber in this vast castle of treasures. Galleries displayed sculptures and riches from the Far East, some a thousand years older or more than he himself was, and objects from this very continent made long before Europeans reached its shores.

When he glanced at the phone Emily had given him, it was eleven twenty, though it seemed that no time had passed at all. The museum had filled up by now, and Griffin smiled to see a throng of children bouncing and giggling down the hall under the watchful eyes of women who he supposed were their nurses.

After he’d greeted Emily at the café and they’d gotten lunch and found a table, he asked her, “How is your work, sweet bird?”

She grimaced. “I don’t really have any, so I’ve been trying to work on my symposium presentation. At least Laurie wasn’t there. She was out at the dentist.”

“How is your…” He paused to find the word. “Your boss, Jason? Has he spoken more of the theft?”

“I haven’t seen him yet today. So far, he’s hardly seemed upset.”

“It surprises me. He was interested in the statue for years.”

Emily scrunched up her face in confusion. “What makes you say that?”

“Because he came to the Burke house to look me over and speak with Richard Burke, five or six years ago.”

“Seriously? Are you sure it was him?”

“Aye—yes,” he corrected himself. “He gave his name to the housemaid.”

“That’s so weird . Jason didn’t work for the museum then.”

Griffin shrugged. “Did he work for another one?”

“I have no idea, actually. But yeah, he must have.”

She asked him about the galleries he’d visited, and he told her about his favorite things—the giant bronze man with the long earlobes, sitting cross-legged, which had made Griffin feel tranquil just to gaze upon; the jade mask; the gold filigree frog.

“You’ve hardly even seen anything yet!” she exclaimed.

“I could scarcely go faster. There is so much of history I don’t know.”

“Most people don’t know much of it,” she said. “But most people aren’t as curious about it as you are.”

“I can understand why you love your work. You imagine what life must have been like for the people who made the thing or used it.”

“Exactly! It’s so exciting working on old pieces. Even if they don’t come to life,” she added with an impish grin.

“It must be an honor to restore and preserve them.”

Behind her thick-framed glasses, her eyes shone. “You really understand me. You know that?”

“Because it is a pleasure to do so. What should I see next?”

She bounced a little in her seat. “I want to show you a couple of things myself. As soon as you’re done.”

Griffin set the rest of his sandwich aside. “I am done now.”

She led him in brisk strides down the hall and up a flight of stairs. “I’m going to show you where Andy War-Howl got his name.”

He supposed there was a portrait of a lord’s dog by the same name. Instead, she led him to a painting of a woman’s head, rendered in garish hues of pink, black, and yellow.

“I do not understand,” he confessed.

“This woman is Marilyn Monroe, and she was very famous, and so was the artist.” She pointed to the little sign next to the work. “Andy Warhol. He did those others, too.” She gestured at other ugly paintings around them. “So Andy’s named after him, but he’s Andy War-Howl. Because he’s so loud.”

Griffin burst out laughing. “That is very good!” He added, “I hate this painting.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me. Let me show you one you might like.” As he followed her, she added, “But it’s okay if you hate this one, too!”

She led him to a huge painting depicting men, women, children, and even a couple of hounds, enjoying a summer afternoon at the lake. Several others had gathered to gaze at it, too.

“You’re right. I like it,” Griffin said. He hesitated, then asked more quietly, “But why do the ladies have such enormous arses?”

She let out a little chirp of laughter. “They don’t really. There’s like a cage under their skirts, holding their skirts out? It’s called a bustle. I don’t know, it was just the fashion then.”

“Ah.” He pointed. “One could eat one’s dinner off that one.”

“Come here, you haven’t seen the best part yet.” She took his hand and, sidestepping another couple, led him to stand inches away from the painting. “See? It’s all made of dots.”

Griffin gasped. The more closely he looked, the more the dots ceased to have shape or meaning. “How did he do it? How did he know how?”

“That’s a good question. He was ahead of his time.”

He turned to her. “Show me more things you love.”

She looked charmingly overwhelmed. “Oh, gosh, we need to take a whole day sometime. This afternoon, you should go to the medieval galleries. We have all kinds of paintings and objects and armor from your time.”

“Yes, I would like that very much.”

“Did you see the Chagall windows before? The big blue ones?” He shook his head. “Well, anyone who visits the museum needs to see those, and they’re close to my office.”

When they reached the wall of windows, casting rich cobalt light on the floor, Griffin’s mouth fell open in awe. His heart lifted.

“What do you think?” Emily asked eagerly.

“It is as if I am looking at Heaven itself.”

“That’s what I thought the first time I ever saw them, as a kid,” Emily said, her voice soft. “The artist is Jewish. He came to America to escape the Nazis.” She gave him a questioning look.

“I remember what you told me about them,” he said soberly. He gazed at dancing figures, the yellow sun, the lavender bird, the books that had taken flight, all glowing like a bright dream. “And yet this is pure joy.”

“It is. And hope.”

He’d felt this way when he’d visited the Canterbury cathedral with his father and his sister, who’d been no more than five. The memory of the pilgrimage flooded back to him now. The rosy apples and little venison pies the cook had packed for the journey. Alyse had bragged that she’d helped make them. More likely, she’d chattered with the cook nonstop; she’d been gay as a spring lamb then. The scent of camphor incense in the sanctuary. The bright stained glass windows, entrancing Griffin and Alyse both.

The recollection was more sweet than bitter. The past and the present, usually separated by an unfathomable gulf, felt not so vast now. Pieces of him were coming back together like these pieces of stained glass, arranged into an unbroken pattern.

“Thank you for showing me,” he said.

Emily’s brown eyes sparkled. “You know, people have been known to kiss here.”

“Have they, sweeting?”

“Mm, yes. I would say it’s almost a Chicago tradition.”

Warmth spread through his chest. “God forbid that I should ever neglect the traditions of this great city.”

He gathered her in his arms and, in a moment of inspiration, picked her up off her feet and swung her around. She squealed and then giggled. He set her down and kissed her mid-laugh, and she pressed up against him. In a few moments, he broke away and stepped back, because even if kissing was a tradition here, being in an obvious state of arousal was probably not.

At the very least, he’d made her forget about her worries at work for a while. This was a beautiful place, very like a church. Maybe soon, he would marry her here.