Sorry about the wait, folks. Life's got a bit busy just now. Hopefully the final chapter of this episode won't take quite as long!

Episode 5: The Shared Narrative We Agree To Believe, Chapter 5

Eve looked around as their new surroundings resolved themselves into a cacophony of colour and crowds. Tall date palms towered over a narrow culvert running down into a broad pond in the centre of an enormous, circular, walled garden. White egrets and hook-billed ibis hunted in the reeds of the far bank, the occasional flurry of movement signifying the demise of a small fish or frog. Small groups of brightly robed people walked through the leafy paths, paying Flynn and Eve no heed at all. The heady scents of unfamiliar flowers filled the air, mixing with the spicier aroma of frankincense. Beyond the garden, elegant colonnades held up an ornate roof, creating a cloistered shelter from the heat of the sun. Behind them, a paved pathway led down carved stone steps to the shaded vestibule of a tall building.

"So it was the ruins in Yemen," mused Flynn by her side.

Eve looked at him, an expression of weary confusion written across her features. "Excuse me?"

"Well, you mentioned the Queen of Sheba and the map brought us here," her husband explained, waving an upturned hand at the vast expanse of architecture around them. "Thus, wherever we are, the Queen of Sheba is here also, and thus, as the rather unique layout of the surroundings matches one currently being excavated in Yemen, it would suggest that that is our current location..."

Eve held up a warning finger. "Do not say 'thus' again!"

"Therefore, the Queen of Sheba was not from Ethiopia, as popular belief holds, but from Yemen," Flynn finished.

"And you want to go and meet her don't you," sighed Eve.

"Well, if we ever bump into Emily again, can you imagine how thrilled she would be to hear about it? We might even be able to spot something she could dig up as definitive proof!"

"I thought she'd given up on Sheba?"

Flynn shrugged. "She says she has, but this could be just the thing to get her back on that track. I don't much like the idea of her out there digging up magical mythological mysteries and monsters. She has only the faintest idea about what she's dealing with."

"I thought that was a description of archaeologists in general," mused Eve. "Fine, let's go meet the Queen of Sheba. After that though..."

"I know, I know!" Flynn held up his hands in surrender, then grinned and grabbed Eve's hand, dragging her towards the steps.

The sunken antechamber was filled with noise. The percussive beat of a drum gave structure to the winding sound of pipes and the plucked harmonies of stringed instruments. Laughter and chatter in an unfamiliar tongue competed with the music for dominance. The scent of frankincense grew stronger and the air was thick with heat, sweat and perfume.

Flynn, still holding his wife's hand, moved through the crowd with an ease that suggested some invisible force surrounding them and parting the unconsciously moving people before them. They reached the steps upwards without incident and, although a tall guard stood armed at either side of the portal, Flynn and Eve passed through to the flight of stairs unhindered.

"There's something off about this," murmured Eve, interlacing her fingers with Flynn's in an effort to keep his enthusiastic advance under control.

"They can't see us," pointed out Flynn. "It's like everything the map shows us is some kind of illusion. A virtual world, rather than a real one. Like a three dimensional encyclopaedia of the known world."

They reached the top of the stairway and emerged into a sunlit chamber backed by eight tall columns and surrounding a dais on which a golden throne glistened in the light. The occupants of this chamber were far more richly dressed than those in the antechamber below, with gold decorating their arms, legs, necks, hands, and heads. On the throne in the centre sat a beautiful woman, whose smooth, darkly tanned skin, almond shaped eyes, and flowing, dark brown braids suggested an Egyptian heritage.

"Is that her?" Eve whispered in Flynn's ear.

"Must be," he replied. "I don't think they can hear us, you know."

"Does that mean you're not going to try and talk to her?" Eve asked, again in a whisper.

Flynn grinned at his wife. "Of course I'm going to try! We can't come this far and not try!"

He dragged her over to the dais, where a supplicant was just rising from his knees. Waiting impatiently for the peasant to make his way out of the throne room, Flynn filled up the space the man had vacated and knelt, pulling Eve down to her knees beside him.

"Greetings, o great and illustrious Queen..." Flynn began, then faltered when the eyes of the Queen turned directly to him. Suddenly, it seemed that the invisible bubble surrounding them had burst. All eyes were upon them, and great cries of astonishment and fear filled the throne room.

"Whoops!" Eve muttered under her breath.

"Greetings, o great and illustrious Queen," Flynn began again. "We come here as travellers from a distant land to see the fabled beauty of the Queen of Sheba. Tales of your greatness have spread to all corners of the earth and we came to see if they spoke true."

"And did they, traveller?" The Queen replied, in perfect English, fixing them in her gaze.

"No, my Queen," replied Flynn, with his most charming smile.

"No?" Eve hissed glaring at the side of her husband's face. "Flynn, are you trying to get us..."

"No," he repeated, squeezing his wife's hand. "The stories fall far short of the reality. You are far more beautiful, my Queen, than any tale can tell."

The Queen smiled. "You speak well, strange traveller, and in my own tongue too. What boon would you have for such a compliment."

"A token of your gracious self, my Queen," said Flynn, bowing obsequiously. "Any that you should see fit to grant."

The Queen beamed ingratiatingly at him and snapped her fingers. From the side of the room, a young girl arrived, carrying a tray. Another handmaiden stepped forward from behind the throne and, at a signal from her ruler, took up one of the long braids of hair. She bound the braid above its end, then again a short distance above that. Taking a knife from the tray, she cut the braid between the two bindings and handed the lock of hair to the Queen. The Queen rose and descended from her throne.

"Take this lock of hair as a testament to my beauty," she said, handing the braid to Flynn. She removed a ring from her finger and handed it to Eve. "And take this as a testament of your husband's wit. I am no stranger to those bound by heart. I know when a wife kneels before me."

"Thank you, o Queen," stammered Eve.

"I fear we must leave you now, my Queen," said Flynn, closing his fingers around the braid. "My thanks to you for this great token, but I believe the time has come for my wife and I to return home."

Even as the Queen bowed her head in farewell, she faded from view and the beige mist descended once more. This time, when it cleared, Flynn and Eve found themselves standing in the map room, looking down on the map of Eratosthenes.

"Were we here all the time?" Eve asked, looking up at Flynn. "Was it all just some kind of magical VR?"

"Check your hand," Flynn replied with a smile.

Eve looked down to find the gold and sapphire ring of the Queen of Sheba resting on her finger.

XXXX

Da Vinci made his way along the slightly less crowded thoroughfare of Seething Lane. His friend and master had been at home, as expected, grieving the death of his youngest child. Affairs of state never far from his mind, however, Walsingham had taken some pains to direct da Vinci, in his role as the aged scholar, Giuseppe Forliano, in the means of obtaining knowledge critical to the future of the English throne. He had consulted the venerable Italian sage at length regarding the influence at court of the charismatic doctor John Dee and the possibilities of the success of Dee's researches. Forliano had assured him that some means could be taken to remove Dee from court, but they would take some time if they were to avoid suspicion by her Majesty. A con man was known to the Italian, one Edward Kelly, who would easily be able to gain Dee's trust, given the right circumstances. The timing must not seem too propitious, however. Dee was an intelligent man, albeit a naive one. A problem, followed immediately by a solution, would not greatly tax his powers of deduction.

Forliano, as he always thought of himself in the time of Elizabeth, turned West at the end of the lane, heading for his lodging in Cheapside. In everything in life there is balance, he thought. Where Walsingham grieved the loss of his daughter's young life, another acquaintance and neighbour of his, one William Middleton, and his wife were rejoicing in the birth of their first child: a son whom they had baptised Thomas just some three months previous.

XXXX

Ezekiel Jones, World Class Thief, had never found his ability to locate an object of rare and precious worth quite so difficult to obtain. He knew roughly what he was looking for. Sort of. It was just some big magnifying glass, wasn't it?

His hands traced the outlines of books and artefacts. The sensitive fingers of a thief could tell a lot without the need for eyes. Titles stamped into aged leather bindings could be read as clearly as if he had plucked the book for a shelf in the comfortable safety of the reading room. He had reached the volumes by Priestley and was working his way methodically through the surrounding items.

In the solitary, solarised, silent, searing surroundings, his hand brushed against a fabric dark enough to show up even in that overexposed environment. Concealed below its folds, he could make out the shape of something like a desk lamp and its shade. He lifted the cover gingerly. Light flared off a corner of the lampshade-shaped object and the wood of the shelf below began to smoulder. Jones pulled the cover back over the glass and patted the tails of his shirt, tied around his waist, on the now glowing embers. That would be it then.

As sure as he could be that the library wasn't about to burn down around him, he hoisted the Burning Glass, cover and all, and hurried back the way he had came. Quick exits were at least something he definitely had in his skill set.

XXXX

The cold was irritating. Of course, it was absolutely true that any other current inhabitant of the Library - with the notable exception of Leonardo, who had been making himself as much of a notable exception as he could to basically everything since the day he was born anyway - would be dead by now. Jenkins, however, was made of considerably stronger stuff. Like most semi-immortals, and, as Miss Cillian had once jovially reminded him, many bacteria, extremes of environment were little more than a discomfort. The only problems he had in retrieving the jars and kite from Franklin's slew of relics were those of detaching them from their shelves and stands, and of having to constantly remove the icicles from his brows to see what he was doing.

He had made his way back to the meeting point, pink fluffy ear muffs clamped over his ears in an attempt to drown out some of the cacophony screaming past them. The darkness was no trial to him. He knew this part of the Library like the back of his hand. Franklin, Priestley, Maxwell, and so many others. They had all been fascinating men, some of whom he had even had the honour of meeting. He had studied their work, the more so when it began to find its way to the Library. Whether the men themselves had realised or fully understood the impact of their findings in the magical, as well as the scientific, sense, he did not know. Well, other than Franklin, of course. Franklin had always understood far more than was good for him!

Absorbed in the noise-cancelling depth of his memories, it took a moment for the old knight to realise that his name was being called, screamed in fact, by someone on the other side of the dark divide. He shook his head, dislodging a small snowdrift and several icicles that had built up, and unstuck the kite from his hand. The wind was loud, but constant at least. He threw up the kite and unreeled it until an ancient iron key dangled within arms reach. Wrapping the string around his wrist, he dragged the lid off one of the jars and ran its open top along the kite string until he felt the key clink against the glass. A furious buzzing filled his ears, but he ignored it and moved the key into the mouth of the jar. With a shriek of rage and a flash like lightning, the demon was caught. The kite had been illumined with its energy for a mere fraction of a second, but it had been enough. Jenkins slammed the lid on the jar and the wind instantly dropped. Light returned like the dawning of a new day, and the wintry evidence of his past trials evaporated like dew in the morning. Jenkins turned to his young charge.

A half-dressed and sweat-soaked Jones held out the cloth-covered Burning Glass. "Please tell me you have a bottle of water in that bag!"