“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Cat handed Madame Blavatsky the paper with their information. “Emailing a translation of something so ancient?”
Madame Blavatsky rolled her watery eyes. “What you think is advanced would embarrass any of the masters of the old. Their capabilities vastly surpassed ours. We are a thousand years behind what they achieved.” Blavatsky opened a drawer and pulled out a sack of baby carrots, breaking one in half to split it between the two turtles awakening from their nap on her desk. “There, Gilda,” she sang. “There, Brunhilda. My darlings.” She leaned toward the girls. “This book will tell of far more exciting innovations than cyberspace.” She slid her glasses back up on her nose and gestured at the door. “Well, good night. Don’t let the turtles bite you on your way out.”
Eureka rose shakily from the couch as Cat gathered their things. Eureka paused, looking at the book on the desk. She thought of what her mother would do. Diana had lived her life trusting her instincts. If Eureka wanted to know what her inheritance meant, she had to trust Madame Blavatsky. She had to leave the book behind. It wasn’t easy.
“Eureka?” Madame Blavatsky raised a pointer finger. “You know what they told Creon, of course?”
Eureka shook her head. “Creon?”
“ ‘Suffering is wisdom’s schoolteacher.’ Think about it.” She drew in her breath. “My, what a path you are on.”
“I’m on a path?” Eureka said.
“We look forward to your translation,” Cat said in a much steadier voice.
“I may start right away; I may not. But don’t hassle me. I work here”—she pointed at her desk—“I live upstairs”—she jerked her thumb toward the ceiling. “And I protect my privacy. Translation requires time and positive vibrations.” She looked out the window. “That would be a good tweet. I should tweet that.”
“Madame Blavatsky,” Eureka said before she stepped through the atelier door. “Does my book have a title?”
Madame Blavatsky seemed far away. Without looking at Eureka, she said very softly, “It is called The Book of Love.”
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Cc: [email protected]
Date: Sunday, October 6, 2013, 1:31 a.m.
Subject: first salvo
Dear Eureka,
By dint of many hours of focused concentration, I have translated the following. I have tried not to take liberties with the prose, only to make the content as clear as water for your reading ease. I hope this meets your expectations.…
On the vanished isle where I was born, I was called Selene. This is my book of love.
Mine is a tale of catastrophic passion. You may wonder whether it is true, but all true things are questioned. Those who allow themselves to imagine—to believe—may find redemption in my story.
We must start at the beginning, in a place that has long ceased to exist. Where we’ll end … well, who can know the ending until the last word has been written? Everything might change with the last word.
In the beginning, the island stood beyond the Pillars of Hercules, alone in the Atlantic. I was raised in the mountains, where magic was abided. Daily, I gazed upon a beautiful palace that sat like a diamond in the sun-dappled valley far below. Legends told of a city with an astonishing design, waterfalls ringed with unicorns—and twin princes maturing inside the castle’s ivory walls.
The elder prince and would-be king’s name was Atlas. He was known to be gallant, to favor hibiscus milk, to never shy away from a wrestling match. The younger prince was an enigma, rarely seen or heard from. He was called Leander, and from an early age he found his passion in voyaging by sea to the king’s many colonies around the world.