The Scrivener s Tale - By Fiona McIntosh Page 0,10

the box made for it.'

Gabe lifted the lid carefully. Lying on navy satin was a pure white feather. He opened his mouth in pleasurable astonishment. 'It's exquisite.' He meant it. He fell instantly in love with the feather, his mind immediately recalling its symbolic meanings: spiritual evolution, the nearness to heavenly beings, the rising soul. Native Americans felt it put them closer to the power of wind and air - it was a sign of bravery. The Celts believed feathers helped them to understand celestial beings. The Ancient Egyptian goddess of justice would weigh the hearts of the newly dead against a feather. He knew the more contemporary symbolism of a feather was free movement ... innocence, even. All of this occurred to him in a heartbeat.

Reynard smiled. 'I'm glad you like it. It's a quill, of course.' Then added, 'You British see it as a sign of cowardice.'

Gabe was momentarily stung by the comment that he wasn't sure was made innocently or harking back to his refusal to see Reynard's patient. Too momentarily disconcerted to find out which, Gabe noticed that the shaft of the feather was sharpened and stained from ink. Now it truly sang to his soul and the writer in him as much as the lover of books and knowledge.

Reynard continued. 'It's a primary flight feather. They're the best for writing with. It's also very rare for a number of reasons, not the least of which is because it's from a swan. Incredibly old and yet so exquisite, as you can see. Almost impossible to find these days.'

'Except you did,' Gabe remarked lightly, once again fully in control.

Reynard smiled. 'Indeed. You are right-handed, aren't you?' Gabe nodded. 'This feather comes from the left wing. Do you see how it curves away from you when you hold it in your right hand? Clever, no?' Again Gabe nodded. He'd never seen anything so beautiful. Very few possessions could excite Gabe. For all his money, he could count on one hand the items that were meaningful to him.

'Where did you get it?' he added.

'Pearlis,' Gabe thought he heard Reynard say.

'Pardon?'

'A long way from Paris,' Reynard laughed as he repeated the word, and there was something in his expression that gave Gabe pause. Reynard looked away. 'Apparently it's from a twelfth-century scriptorium. But, frankly, they could have told me anything and I'd have acquired it anyway.' He stood. 'Have you noticed the tiny inscription?'

Gabe stared more closely.

'Not an inscription so much as a sigil, in fact, engraved beautifully in miniature onto the quill's shaft,' Reynard explained.

He could see it now. It was tiny, very beautiful. 'Do we know the provenance?'

'It's royal,' Reynard said and his voice sounded throaty. He cleared it. 'I have no information other than that,' he said briskly, then smiled. 'Incidentally, only the scriveners in the scriptorium were given the premium pinion feather.'

'Scriveners?'

'Writers ... those of original thought.' His eyes blazed suddenly with excitement, like two smouldering coals that had found a fresh source of oxygen. 'And if one extrapolates, one could call them "special individuals" who were ... well, unique, you might say.'

He didn't understand and it must have showed.

'Scribes simply copied you see,' Reynard added.

'And if you extrapolate further?' Gabe asked mischievously. He didn't expect Reynard to respond but his companion took him seriously, looked at him gravely.

'Pretenders,' he said. 'Followers. Scribes copied,' he repeated, 'the scriveners originated.'

Again they locked gazes.

This time it was Gabe who looked away first. 'Well, thank you doesn't seem adequate, but it's the best I can offer,' Gabe said, a fresh gust of embarrassment blowing through him as he laid the feather in its box. He stood to shake hands in farewell, knowing he should kiss Reynard on the cheek, but reluctant to deepen what he was still clinging to as a client relationship.

'Is it?' Reynard asked and then smiled sadly.

Gabe felt the blush heat his cheeks, hoped it didn't show in this lower light.

Reynard looked away. 'Pardon, monsieur,' he called to the waiter and mimicked scribbling a note. The man nodded and Reynard pulled out a wad of cash. 'Bonsoir, Gabriel. Sleep well.'

Something in those words left Gabe feeling hollow. He nodded to Reynard as he headed for the doors, toying briefly with finding another bar, perhaps somewhere with music, but he wanted the familiarity of his own neighbourhood. He decided he would head for the cathedral - Notre Dame never failed to lift his spirits.

Clutching the box containing his swan quill, he walked with