Encounter with Mr. Bad Luck

  Nine

  Henry the Fifth's hooves clattered noisily on the cobblestoned streets. The early morning mist had already cleared, banished by the bustle of London's traffic.

  The carriage ride into the heart of London never seemed so long, peppered as she was with the feelings following her exchanges with Mr. Bad Luck. It was amazing how he could make her feel so good and yet so bad. Never had a man so handsome or with such a fine physique lavished such affection on her. He kissed her not once but twice, and each time it made her heart swell with delight. How his embrace did things to her…made her feel at once safe and adventuresome, attractive and powerful. And most glorious of all, feminine.

  But then she remembered his ulterior motives, and she wished he was sitting next to her so that she could push him from the moving carriage. What a fool she was for succumbing to him as she did. He didn't truly feel those things for her. He was just toying with her, manipulating her for his own ends. She shook her head, dispelling any sentiment for the pranksome scoundrel, and berated herself for a dolt. He must be smart, so much smarter than she, if he could so easily find and prey upon her weakness.

  Well, now it was her turn to do the preying upon him.

  As the carriage turned from Montague Street onto Great Russell, Isha's heart began to race. She hadn't been back to the British Museum since her father took ill, and being here brought back a flood of memories so dense that it made it seem as if the events of the past two years hadn't taken place at all.

  Sir Rupert spent the greater part of daylight hours here in the museum. When he wasn't teaching at the university, he could always be found here, in the vast Reading Room or in contemplation of one of the many antiquities. Isha was never far from his side, especially when she was a little girl. Although children were not permitted entrance into the Reading Room, an exception used to be made for her because of who her father was. In fact, the trustees used to joke that they would soon have to find Sir Rupert accommodations among the museum staff residences so that Isha might be hired to guard the library by night.

  Isha had wrestled all night with the problem of what to do about Mr. Bad Luck, but she could not come up with a plan of action. If her father was alive today and he needed answers, what would he do? The answer to that was easy: Sir Rupert would bury himself in writings penned by learned and experienced men, harvesting the wisdom of the ancients. He would consult dusty tomes like they were royal advisors before a military campaign of war. She would do the same, for that was what she was about to undertake. War.

  The impressive forecourt of the British Museum hove into view. Behind the ornamented wrought iron gates sat the sprawling colonnade. Grooved white columns marched along the portico like stout sentinels guarding an oracle of knowledge. Many were the times she used to run the length of the zigzagging portico, or play hide-and-seek behind the Greek columns.

  Isha strode purposefully through the courtyard and up the stairs to the massive double doors. The place put her in mind of the Greek temples that her father used to talk about, inspiring awe and promising riches. And as she walked inside, the rarefied air just about put her father right there beside her.

  The porter, Mr. Greenly, greeted her warmly and waved her through. Isha knew by name just about every employee of the museum, including the officers and trustees, and she no longer needed to display her reading ticket.

  She marched down the quadrangle, past familiar statuary and displays. Dark paintings hung squarely on each wall, like dim windows into a forgotten age. But just as Isha was nearing the northern doorway, a familiar piece tugged at her. She turned toward the painting of Rubens' Adam and Eve in a Worthy Paradise. A long-ago memory washed over her.

  "Isha, come over here. Look at this painting. What do you see?"

  "Adam and Eve, Papa. In the Garden of Eden."

  "Do you know what is wrong with this painting?"

  "No, Papa."

  "Look at it closely. Take your time. If you analyze it thoughtfully, you'll be able to see a feature that is conspicuously present in the painting which shouldn't be. Think carefully, now."

  Isha peered closely at the painting through her little girl's spectacles, the cornflower blue ribbons in her hair floating back against her long brown hair. In quiet contemplation, she gazed at the ostrich and the tiger and the parrots, at the trees and the grass and the sky, and at the nude bodies of the two figures in the garden. After a considerable time, she bounced up and down.

  Sir Rupert leaned down toward her. "Did you find the feature that the artist mistakenly put in?"

  "Yes, Papa! I found it!"

  "Where is it?"

  "Right there!" Isha pointed her little finger in the middle of Eve's body. "They have belly buttons. Adam was formed from the earth, and Eve was formed from his flesh. They couldn't have had belly buttons!"

  Her father smiled broadly, his grizzled beard spreading wide. He picked her up and perched her upon his arm. "What a clever girl I have!"

  Isha smiled at the memory. Even as a child, she enjoyed her father's love and respect.

  Now, as a woman, the painting offered a new poignancy. Eve was painted as a lovely woman, but it really didn't matter if she looked like Quasimodo. Eve didn't have any competition. There were no other beauties to entice Adam's eyes. He would think she was the loveliest of creatures, because she was made for him. She for him, and he for her.

  Pity there was no one for Isha.

  "Ah. If it isn't my little archenemy now."