a fan of custard, there is a crème brûlée.”
“They do serve an awfully good port,” said Cahalane.
“And we can’t both order the brûlée,” said Lara. “That’d be terribly bad form. You’re not kidding anyone, Professor. You know it’s going to be the cheese, and so does that waiter. He’s only waiting for you to put down your menu. He’s practically hovering.”
“Let him hover,” said Cahalane.
“I don’t think you should,” said Lara, smiling. “After all, I never met an academic who knew how to tip.”
Cahalane dropped his menu onto the table and almost twinkled. A moment later he ordered the cheese and the crème brûlée.
“There’s a good man in Oxford, Professor of Antiquities at the School of Archaeology. Man by the name of—”
There was a crash in the kitchen. Cahalane turned to look as the dining room fell silent. The low murmur of chatter quickly resumed, but when the professor turned back to Lara, her face was pale and her fist was clenched around the handle of a knife, her knuckles white.
“Are you quite all right, my dear?” he asked.
“Quite,” said Lara, desperately trying to control the panic welling up in her.
Professor Cahalane glanced at the knife in her hand, and Lara let go of it and wiped her sweating palm on her napkin.
“You’re not all right though,” said Cahalane. “What can I do, dear girl?”
“Nothing,” said Lara, unable to speak more than a word at a time as her heart beat hard in her chest, and she tried to breathe through constricted airways.
“Get the girl a glass of water,” said Cahalane over his shoulder. He drew his chair a little closer to Lara’s and put a hand on her arm. “Someone dropped something in the kitchen. One of those large trays, I imagine. It gave you a fright. I quite understand.”
“Thank you,” said Lara.
The waiter poured Lara more water, and she began to sip at it.
Just breathe out, Lara , she told herself. It’ll pass. Just breathe out.
“There’s a little too much adrenaline in your blood stream, my dear,” said Cahalane, “but it’ll work its way out of your system. Let’s just sit for a moment. Would you like me to tell you about my chap in Oxford?”
“Yes,” said Lara. “Please.”
“Where was I, before we were so rudely interrupted?” asked Cahalane. “Ah yes, Babbington. Professor St. John Babbington. Very knowledgeable chap when it comes to artifacts. This sort of thing is right up his street. The man knows antiquities. He knows what they are, and their stories. He knows the significance of the legends and how they came to be. If he doesn’t know a thing or two about your Golden Fleece, there isn’t a man alive who does.”
He reached out once more to touch Lara’s arm.
“That’s it. You’re doing wonderfully. Another breath or two, and you’ll be as right as rain.”
Lara was beginning to feel a little better. The professor’s calm presence made it easier. His pragmatic reassurance gave her the extra confidence she needed to get over the panic attack quickly. He was also giving her the first piece of her puzzle, the first step on her way to finding out more about the fleece, and the possibility of helping Sam.
“Oxford’s a marvelous place. You might consider it for the next step in your education. Take a look at a prospectus while you’re there, visit a college or two. Some of the older ones are particularly glorious.”
Lara sipped at her water a little more and then managed to take a long, deep breath.
“I might just do that,” she said. “About Professor Babbington?”
“He’s spent a long career tracking and locating artifacts. If anybody knows anything about the Golden Fleece, its history, where or what its alleged healing properties derive from, or how the legend came to be, it is Professor Babbington,” said Cahalane. “There, you see, you must be feeling better.”
“I think I am,” said Lara.
After a short pause, Professor Cahalane asked the