Bran looked thoughtful. “This reminds me of something. Something that is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t quite reach it.” I glanced at Papy hopefully.
“Why don’t we leave you to think?” suggested Mr. Gold. “Or you can take a walk around the room and see if something else doesn’t jog your memory.”
Bran nodded distractedly, and sat down on the floor right there where he had been standing and stared at the giant incense burner as if he expected the answer to fall off it into his lap.
Papy excused himself and began wandering excitedly from piece to piece, mumbling facts and dates as he went along. Jules was mumbling too, but in his case I could tell his murmurs were part of a conversation. “Theodore,” Jules said, “Vincent and I were just saying that you looked familiar. Have we met you before?”
Mr. Gold smiled. “Yes. I was in Paris just before World War Two. September of 1939 it was. I came over to help with the evacuation of the Louvre Museum’s collections. My French colleagues and I packed all of the artwork and shipped it to various locations in France to protect it from the invading German army. It was during that time that I met your leader, Jean-Baptiste.”
Although this sounded like a private conversation, I was intrigued and had inched closer to listen.
Jules nodded. “Vincent is saying he wasn’t yet in Paris. Have you been back since then?”
A shadow crossed Mr. Gold’s face. “Actually, yes, I returned to France a few years later, when your Paris bardia were in a full-scale war against the numa. A few of us Americans came to your aid. I was the only one of my kindred who was not destroyed.”
“That’s it,” Jules said. “You were one of the Americans living in JB’s house in Neuilly.”
Mr. Gold nodded, his expression grave.
“Vincent tells me you and JB have been in a bit of a spat since then. Not that that’s any of our business,” Jules said, instantly looking like he regretted having blurted out Vincent’s words.
Mr. Gold looked truly troubled now. He thrust one hand into his pocket and rubbed his forehead with the other. “Yes. There were some . . . unfortunate events that occurred—” he said hesitantly, but his words were cut off by a cry from Bran.
“I’ve got it!” he exclaimed. We all hurried back to where he was hopping excitedly around the thymiaterion, tracing the symbols with his fingers as he chanted something. His huge eyes swept our little group excitedly. “It’s a nursery rhyme that my mother taught me, and that her father had taught her.”
“Please,” urged Mr. Gold, “proceed.”
“It goes like this,” Bran said, and then began chanting in a singsongy way:
Man of clay to man of flesh
Immortal blood and human breath
Traces to the spirit bind
Flames give body ghost and mind.
“‘Flesh’ and ‘breath’ don’t rhyme,” muttered Jules.
“It rhymes in ancient Breton,” Bran responded drily. “You see, the pot is clay, there is the blood, the fan stands for breath, and then flames, of course,” he said, and then, pointing to the box, admitted, “but I still don’t know what this is for.”
“What does the poem mean, exactly?” I asked.
Bran’s expression went from excited to gloomy in a second flat. “Unfortunately, I have no idea.”
TWENTY-FIVE
“‘CLAY TO FLESH,’” I REPEATED, MY THOUGHTS suddenly percolating with a memory that I couldn’t quite place. And then I remembered where I had seen those words. “There was an inscription in Latin under one of the wall paintings in your family’s archive that mentioned argilla and pulpa,” I said to Bran. “It showed this curled up figure lying in what I thought was a tub . . . but now that I’ve seen the thymiaterion, I’m sure that’s what it was! You must know the one I’m talking about,” I urged.
Bran shook his head. “During my one visit, I stayed long enough to lay my mother to rest and take account of the books and objects there. I didn’t have time to study the paintings.”
I suddenly remembered the photo I had taken. “I took a picture of it with my phone,” I began eagerly, and then seeing the dark look on Bran’s face, I hesitated. “I’m sorry. But I wasn’t going to show it to anyone else.”
He considered this but still looked upset.
“Well, let’s have a look,” said Papy.
As I fished through my bag, my mood plunged. “It’s in my suitcase back at Mr. Gold’s house,” I said. “In any case, I took a photo of the whole wall. I doubt the inscription would be legible from the distance I got the shot.”
“Do you remember any other details from the painting?” Mr. Gold asked.
“Yes,” I said, looking to Bran for his approval.
“Go ahead, child,” he said, sighing. “I can allow the divulgence of my family’s secrets in an emergency like this.”