“But it’s possible to break the curse?” Esme asked. “Dear girl, anything is possible.” Mr. Nichols smiled.
“As Mr. Grey here has proven by rescuing the box. Of course, with these cursed bracelets released into the world, there is still much work to be done.” He nodded toward Fielding.
Fielding and Esme exchanged glances. He nodded; trying to encourage her, give her hope. Still, he knew the whole ordeal was beginning to take its toll on her. While she still looked lovely, exhaustion had settled behind her eyes. She held up such a brave front, but the edges were beginning to crumble. He longed to comfort her but made no move to do so.
“Ah, yes, here we are. An ancient gypsy tradition of ridding oneself of an evil spell.” His finger followed along the page. “Yes, yes, the art of tattooing.
“I beg your pardon?” Esme said.
“Tattooing. Well, in this case, simply painting one’s body. Not to worry, dear; they are not always permanent. For some it takes only inscribing the body with an anticurse to rid the person of their affliction.”
“What sort of inscription?” Esme asked.
Mr. Nichols grabbed a piece of parchment and scrawled out a note. He handed it to Esme. “It would need to go on the persons’ centers, their lower backs and lower abdomens, as well as across their hearts and at the base of their heads.”
“What sort of tools would one need for this process?” Esme asked.
“I believe I still have some of the paste I used for this very thing.” He opened a cupboard and began rummaging through the contents. “About twenty years ago, I was in Rome with a friend, and we came upon a tomb.” His voice was muffled as he talked into the closet. “In any case, we were both plagued with a skin disease, but this method did the trick, and we soon were good as new. Good, I found it.”
He came over to Esme and handed her a small clay pot, the sides stained with what looked to be dried ink.
“I would simply use a quill,” the older man suggested.
“And write the inscription on the person’s body?” Fielding asked.
“Directly onto their skin,” Mr. Nichols said.
Fielding watched Esme swallow. “How long will the ink last?” she asked.
“It’s temporary, but it does last a good two weeks,” Mr. Nichols said. “I suspect the most difficult part will be catching those two thieves and holding them down long enough to apply the paint.”
Esme released a nervous laugh. “That will be challenging.”
“If the ink is twenty years old,” Fielding said, “will it not be dried out?”
“That’s not ink, my boy; well, not standard ink. It’s a type of herbal paint, and it should be in perfect condition.” To prove his point he took the pot from Esme, opened it, and showed the black liquid to Fielding. “As it should be,” he said, then handed it back to Esme.
Mr. Nichols returned to his seat and again picked up the box. “There are so many theories on the curse of Pandora’s box, it’s hard to know what will happen to those men. I don’t suppose it should be our concern as far as them injuring themselves, but if the curse afflicts others . . . Wait a moment.” He leaned over to the secretary and retrieved a large magnifying glass. “What have we here?”
“What is it?” Esme went and stood next to him. “An inscription, here on the bottom,” he said.
“How did I miss that?” Esme asked.
Mr. Nichols read aloud in what Fielding assumed was ancient Greek.
The older man frowned. “Essentially it says that once the box is breached, you have until the next lunar eclipse before those who opened the box are destroyed.”
“Lunar eclipse?” Esme asked. Her face paled as she wandered back to her seat. “That’s not even—”
“A week away,” Fielding interrupted. He may not believe in this curse, but it was clear Esme feared for her life. He must find a way to remove the blasted bracelet before the eclipse.
Fielding stood and said, “It appears we have work to do.” He placed the box back into the bag. “Thank you for your time and suggestions.” When Esme still hadn’t risen, he held out his hand to her. “Esme, we need to go.”
Her green eyes met his. In that moment he longed to be the hero she believed him to be. He would have to be that hero. He could not allow anything to happen to her.
CHAPTER 13
Esme, are you absolutely certain about this?” Fielding asked. She’d come to his room wearing nothing but a robe and carrying a quill and the paste Mr. Nichols had given her.