At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(69)

“Evan, my dear friend,” he said in his deep basso. “So good of you to come by.”

After he relieved himself of the tray by setting it on the library table, he ignored Evan’s proffered hand and pulled the semiotician into a manly hug that involved much back slapping. The two men were of similar height. Which, translated, meant that Simon had a foot on him, but in Evan’s estimation, that was close enough.

The two men had known each other for the better part of a decade, having discovered each other at a book fair while wrangling over an eighteenth-century copy of the illuminated Book of Kells. They’d bonded quickly over their shared interest in languages and literature.

“So tell me about this lady friend,” Evan said as they broke apart.

The book dealer had a definite twinkle in his eye, but he shook his head. “I’m not ready to tempt the fates by sharing her with the world. Or even with you. Ask me again in a month.”

Evan unwound his scarf and draped it over a chair. “You’ve always been a tease,” he said.

Simon laughed. “It’s part and parcel of the business I’m in. Show a little leg, then close the robe until the client shows their coin. Now, do take a seat. The Beowulf translations are there on the table along with an assortment of books on Vikings. My apologies for the dog-eared pages and the highlighting. They’re mostly old college texts.”

“Okay if I take both translations of Beowulf?”

He waved an indifferent hand. “Be my guest. They offer rather different interpretations. Heaney has a whiff of the Old Country about his. Sturdy language and plain folk. Tolkien is all high language and soaring prose. Both a pleasure. Now, take a load off your feet. Tea? With milk, yes?”

“As always. Thank you.” Evan pulled out a chair, folded his hands, and smiled at his friend. Simon’s mild and gentle manner had no doubt fooled many a bookseller who walked away thinking they’d gotten the best end of whatever deal they and Simon had agreed on. But Simon always came out ahead. At least when it really mattered.

Simon poured the rich brew into china cups. “What’s prompted the interest in Beowulf?”

“It’s related to some research I’m doing.” He accepted the steaming cup Simon slid across the table. “Plus a bit of nostalgia for simpler times.”

“When’s the last time you went home?”

It was Evan’s turn to wave a hand. “Years. There’s not really much of a home to go back to anymore. Mum moved here, of course. She’s in DC. Not that we have much to do with each other. And River hasn’t touched English soil in a decade.”

“What about Anna?” Simon asked.

“Fit as a fiddle, according to both her and her daughter. She broke her hip last summer, but she’s as feisty as ever. We talk every month or so.”

Anna Woodstone had served as Evan’s surrogate mother, nurse, playmate, and philosophy teacher for much of his childhood and teenage years. It was Anna who had taken him to the British Museum in London at the tender age of six and launched his lifelong fascination with languages.

“What about your family?” Evan asked.

They chatted for a bit about events across the pond and touched briefly on Simon’s new love interest—brilliant, beautiful, and an excellent squash player was as much as he’d allow—before he fell silent.

Evan picked up one of the books on Vikings. He thumbed through it, picked up another. “Any recommendation on where I should start?”

“I’m afraid I’m not much help in that regard. I’ve merely assembled a variety of tomes for your reading pleasure. Perhaps you’ll find something useful. There is, of course, no literature that’s actually from the Viking era. But there are later collections of stories and myths. The family sagas. The legendary sagas. And most famously, the Prose and Poetic Eddas. What most people don’t realize is that all the Icelandic poems and sagas were written decades—even centuries—after the Vikings had come and gone.”

“I assumed as much. It would probably behoove me to brush up on my Nordic mythology.”

“Then you’ll want Rudolf Simek’s Dictionary of Northern Mythology. It’s in the stack along with Neil Gaiman’s Norse Mythology. But if you’re looking for general information on Viking history and culture, I found something better than musty old books.”

Evan bit into the scone. Raspberry. He sighed his pleasure. “And what is that?”

“She should be here any—ah, there she is now. Perfect timing.”

A key rattled in the lock at the front door, and a woman entered the shop, chased by a gust of wind. She pushed the door closed behind her, shook raindrops off her coat, and removed it along with the scarf that covered her cropped hair.

“It is a bitch out there, Levair,” the woman said in faintly accented English. “Damn wind. Like Loki himself trying to get into my pants.”

Both men froze, but the woman laughed. She approached the table and extended a damp hand to Evan.

“You must be the famous professor, Dr. Wilding. Based on everything Simon told me when he called, I expect you to go outside and walk on the lake as soon as we’re done here. I’ll applaud you from the safety of the shore. Along with the rest of us mortals.”

Heat rose in Evan’s face. He stood and accepted the woman’s proffered hand. “I’m afraid you have me at a loss.”