They had put the elixir in all of their products, even the hair tonic for men. Not only that, but Calliope was selling bread to a local bakery, infused with herbs they’d watered with the elixir. They had spread the elixir, covering the largest territory possible, trying to ensure the Chosen One would have a very difficult time homing in on them in their little shop at the edge of Piccadilly Square.
“It is, actually,” she said. In truth, they had done nothing more than find a recipe for a facial crème in an old book and added the elixir and some scented oils.
“Interesting.” He leaned in closer. His breath reeked. “I’m in the business myself. A chemist by training.” He pressed his card into her hand. “Tell me, do you use lanolin?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss the recipe of any of our products. You understand,” she said firmly. She needed to make certain he knew that she would not give away any information.
He looked around the room, fidgeting with the buttons on his coat, when she realized he was missing two of them. He pulled the worn fabric closer around his lean body. “Of course.”
He took a step closer to her. A slight twinge of body odor tweaked her nostrils, but she held her ground. There were other customers around, and she could not appear inhospitable. They needed people to continue buying and using their products until the Chosen One was caught.
“It works, you know,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” Sabine asked.
“The crème. It works. Makes women look younger, more supple, lovelier.” His watery brown eyes scanned her face. “I see you use it.” He reached up with one finger as if he would touch her, but he brought his hand down. “Not a line to be seen on your perfect skin.”
She repressed a shiver. “I do not use it,” she said. “Sir, I believe I have other customers to whom I need to attend. If you will excuse me.”
He nodded, but before she could walk off, his bony hand grabbed her elbow with surprising force. “Any sum you require,” he said, his voice shaking with nerves. “I will pay you any sum if you would sell me the recipe.”
She attempted to break free from him, but his grip held fast. “I will do no such thing,” she said, trying to remain calm and keep her voice low.
“I’ve tried,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’ve taken apart several jars of this”—he glanced down at the crème in his other hand—“and still I cannot pinpoint all of the ingredients. There is something I simply cannot identify. And I must know what it is.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to remain disappointed, as I will not share our ingredient list. Good day.” She jerked her arm free and went to the opposite side of the room to a group of ladies looking at the hair rinses.
The man wandered around the store awhile longer, perusing the materials, and every now and then glancing in her direction. She made certain, though, that she was always with a customer so that he could not approach her again. Eventually he left the shop, though he lingered a moment outside the window before he walked on.
She wondered briefly if she should mention the visitor to Max, though it would seem the man was harmless, probably nothing more than a competitor trying to improve his own products. Still, Max had told her to be on the lookout for anything peculiar, and that man had most definitely been odd.
She eyed the card in her hand—Mr. Bertrand Olney. When she looked up, it was to see Mr. Olney standing across the street watching her.
CHAPTER12
That evening Sabine and Max were in a coach on their way to Dorset to find some sort of hidden weapon, if in fact the dove was a weapon at all. They had decided to go by coach this time, since the trip was shorter, and they wanted more flexibility in case they encountered another clue and had to travel elsewhere. Not to mention that being in an unmarked coach made it easier for them to be anonymous. Someone was after them.
Max was right. It made far more sense to try to locate the dove, the thing that would supposedly destroy the Chosen One, rather than trying to uncover his identity.
They had essentially no clues to his identity. And Scotland Yard had not had any luck either. Max had received a note from Justin saying that they had followed a lead to a disgruntled former military man, but he had only just returned from a trip to the continent and had been absent during two of the murders.
If they found the Chosen One without the dove, they would not be able to stop him. What bothered her most, though, was that she’d never even heard a rumor about a special weapon or anything that might be the dove. Her people had not had access to the prophecy for many years, but it still seemed that sort of secret would have been passed on through the generations.
Where should they go once they got to Dorset? She knew of the chapel on the cliff overlooking Lulworth Cove. She’d heard her aunts and other villagers speak of it. Historically, Atlanteans had made a pilgrimage there once a year, but during the Crusades it had become too dangerous, so the tradition had ended.
She watched her travel partner sitting casually across from her. He seemed far more accomplished at locating hidden objects than she was. Her people had searched for that map for centuries, and he’d found it when he was little more than a boy.
“It makes sense that something would be hidden at Lulworth Cove,” she told him.
“If he’d located the dove, why didn’t he go and get it, or at least tell the other two guardians the location, so that they could retrieve it?”
“Perhaps he intended to reveal the location, but he was interrupted before he had the chance. Or he kept it secret for protection. He said the dove was safe for now,” Sabine said.
“Meaning at some point it will no longer be safe,” Max added.
Of course, neither Phinneas nor Madigan had thought to tell Agnes any of this. Had they planned to simply fight the Chosen One without her? Had Phinneas kept her uninformed in order to protect the woman he loved?
A few moments later, they pulled up to a very old tavern and inn. A few torches lit the drive and the walkway to the front door. When the coach rambled to a stop, they both climbed out. An old wooden sign hung above the door, but only one of the chains remained, so it drooped to the right. The Tudor-style building boasted one stable and a small dining room, which they passed through on their way to the front desk, and they discovered only one remaining room for the evening.