Page 46 of Under Arthur’s Protection

“Not good.” Arthur pulled to the curb a few doors down from Fergus’s shop and pointed across the street. “There’s a hotel right here, if we need it.”

I glanced at the building. Three stories tall, it looked more like a compact cathedral than a hotel. It had two brown signs and a few sandwich boards outside, proclaiming it had originally been built in the mid-fifteenth century.

Part of me hoped Fergus would have so much material we’d need a second or a third day. The other part of my brain snagged on the hotel itself, and on the sleeping arrangements. One room or two? Would Arthur’s protective instincts allow him to sleep in a different room from me? From his job?

The hotel might not have multiple-bedroom suites. Although it might have adjoining rooms? Or would we be sleeping in the same room? They’d have rooms with more than one bed, at least, right?

“It’s getting worse,” Arthur said, checking the sky through the windshield. He patted the center console. “Hold tight for a sec.”

I nodded.

He got out, opened the trunk, and came around to my side, umbrella already open. He pulled open my door, and I got out. In his other hand? The sword case.

I reached for it.

“I’ve got it,” he said.

I tossed my messenger bag onto my shoulder. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own research materials.”

“I’m not questioning your capability. It’s heavy, it’s raining, and I’ve got it.”

My hand was out, waiting for the case. The moment you let someone else handle your work, they get to decide what happens to it. “Give me the case, Arthur.”

His brow furrowed, but he finally relented. “Let’s get inside.”

We walked along the sidewalk, him holding the umbrella over us while I lugged my equipment.

From the outside, McConnell’s of Glastonbury looked like every other tourist shop on the street. The front window displayed rows of small glass vials, polished stones in little mesh bags, and a shelf of replica swords that made me wince. A wooden sign hung above the door, its gold lettering in need of a fresh coat.

If I hadn’t spent the last hour reading Fergus’s blog, I would have considered calling Dr. Hopkins to confirm the address.

Arthur held the umbrella over me until we reached the door, shook it off, and collapsed it. He scanned the interior before stepping aside.

Inside, the shop was bigger than I expected. Tourist merchandise filled the front half: more vials, crystals, books on Arthurian legend, and a rack of keychains shaped like swords. But a large worktable dominated a corner in the back half of the shop, covered in document boxes, folders, and archive sleeves, with a microfilm reader on the floor beside it.

A woman sat behind a register near the door, sorting receipts.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m here for Fergus McConnell. Dr. Theodore Hopkins sent me.”

“Fergus!” the woman behind the register shouted without looking up. “Theo’s woman’s here.”

Theo’s woman?

A man in his late fifties or so appeared from a doorway near the worktable, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a knitted sweater with a hole near the shoulder. “Aye, what’s that?”

“Dr. Lyons,” I said, joining him at the back of the shop. “Dr. Hopkins gave me your contact information this morning.”

“Oh, brilliant! I’d been hoping you’d come.” He engulfed my offered hand in both of his and shook hard, making his excitement obvious. “Theo rang me after your visit. I pulled most of my files before lunch.”

That was encouraging.

His gaze dropped to the sword case. “Is that… is that the actual sword?”

“It is.”

“Michty me,” he breathed. He cleared a space on the worktable, piling items precariously on the edge and some on the floor. “I spend my days selling Holy Grail keychains and telling tourists the stones in the window are from the abbey, and now someone walks in with a genuine seventh-century weapon.”

Maybe genuine.