a different object.
“As you can see, there are seven symbols,” explained Mr. Gold. “The first one in the series is the signum bardia, which was my indication that this was a revenant-associated piece. And the last in the series, if you follow the circle around to the left of the signum, obviously represents fire,” he said, indicating a circle with a single flame etched inside.
“A knife with drops of blood,” said Papy, gesturing to another medallion, “and next to that a fan.” He pointed to a symbol of a stick with a spray of feathers attached to one end.
“This looks like some sort of vase or pitcher,” I said, touching an image of a pottery vessel with two handles on the sides.
“An amphora or a pot,” Papy said.
“That is the symbol of my kind,” said Bran, pointing to a circle showing the same hand as was painted on the cave tombs: palm-side forward, fingers spread, and a tiny flame above each finger.
One symbol was left. It was an open box, its slablike lid slid to one side. “What’s this one?” asked Jules, who had been watching silently.
“A box,” Papy said and shrugged. “I don’t recognize it as one of the typical ancient themes.”
Bran had taken a pencil and was copying the symbols into his book. “The signum and the flame-fingers’ symbols must indicate that the object was used in a ceremony including both revenants and my kind,” he said. “That taken into account, we are left with five symbols in this order: the pot, the knife with blood, the fan, the box, and the fire.”
“How about water, blood, air, space, and fire?” I asked, tracing the symbols with my finger.
“Historically, the earthen pot symbol stands for clay or earth,” Mr. Gold said. “Blood might take the place of water as a liquid. So it’s only the box that doesn’t fit in with the four elements.”
Bran looked thoughtful. “This reminds me of something. Something that is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t quite reach it.” I glanced at Papy hopefully.
“Why don’t we leave you to think?” suggested Mr. Gold. “Or you can take a walk around the room and see if something else doesn’t jog your memory.”
Bran nodded distractedly, and sat down on the floor right there where he had been standing and stared at the giant incense burner as if he expected the answer to fall off it into his lap.
Papy excused himself and began wandering excitedly from piece to piece, mumbling facts and dates as he went along. Jules was mumbling too, but in his case I could tell his murmurs were part of a conversation. “Theodore,” Jules said, “Vincent and I were just saying that you looked familiar. Have we met you before?”
Mr. Gold smiled. “Yes. I was in Paris just before World War Two. September of 1939 it was. I came over to help with the evacuation of the Louvre Museum’s collections. My French colleagues and I packed all of the artwork and shipped it to various locations in France to protect it from the invading German army. It was during that time that I met your leader, Jean-Baptiste.”
Although this sounded like a private conversation, I was intrigued and had inched closer to listen.
Jules nodded. “Vincent is saying he wasn’t yet in Paris. Have you been back since then?”
A shadow crossed Mr. Gold’s face. “Actually, yes, I returned to France a few years later, when your Paris bardia were in a full-scale war against the numa. A few of us Americans came to your aid. I was the only one of my kindred who was not destroyed.”
“That’s it,” Jules said. “You were one of the Americans living in JB’s house in Neuilly.”
Mr. Gold nodded, his expression grave.
“Vincent tells me you and JB have been in a bit of a spat since then. Not that that’s any of our business,” Jules said, instantly looking like he regretted having blurted out Vincent’s words.
Mr. Gold looked truly troubled now. He thrust one hand into his pocket and rubbed his forehead with the other. “Yes. There were some . . . unfortunate events that occurred—” he said hesitantly, but his words were cut off by a cry from Bran.
“I’ve got it!” he exclaimed. We all hurried back to where he was hopping excitedly around the thymiaterion, tracing the symbols with his fingers as he chanted something. His huge eyes swept our little group excitedly. “It’s a nursery rhyme that my mother taught me, and that her father had