Something pressed tightly against him, a warm, pliable shape. He recognized the feel of Lisa. They’d been killed together, then. Together at last. Tarragon had finally won, though Eric doubted it had been his intention to have Lisa killed along with him. The thought of Tarragon discomfited made him feel a little better.
It was dry, chilly, and there was a faint musty smell to the air. That struck him as peculiar, as peculiar as being able to feel Lisa so strongly. The darkness, the angelic voices blending in perfect harmony, that much he could have anticipated, but somehow the ascent toward heaven should not be dry and musty.
He let go of Lisa and found he could walk. He also knew he was breathing. That also didn’t seem right. Surely when you died you dispensed with such temporal necessities as respiration?
Something stopped his progress, and reaching out, he found stone beneath his hand, cold and unpolished. Too many things not making sense.
“Eric, what happened to us?”
“I … I don’t know. We’re not where we were. I thought Tarragon’s people killed us.”
“So did I,” she said, “but I don’t feel dead.”
“A choice contradiction in terms,” he murmured softly. He let his eyes roam the darkness.
There was light, not from above but off to his right. It was weak, faintly yellow, and not at all sublime.
“I don’t think we’re in the Newlin Building anymore, Lisa. I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, either.” He laughed, but the echoes were mocking and he quickly calmed himself. “Do you hear angels singing?”
“I hear something singing. You too?” He nodded, forgetting that she couldn’t see the gesture. They started walking toward the light.
As their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and the increasing dim illumination, he saw they were in a low, vaulted chamber with an arched roof. The walls and ceiling were of hand-hewn stone blocks. Many boasted deeply cut inscriptions; some showed paint and other forms of decoration.
Still clinging to Lisa’s hand, he angled more to his right, chasing the light where it showed the strongest. Above them the heavenly chorus continued in song. He paused to eye one massive stone slab and read the inscription. The English chiseled into the rock was archaic but legible.
HERE LIES COL. JOHN SANTHORPE
FELL IN THE SERVICE OF HIS KING
DURING THE REVOLT OF THE AMERICAN COLONIES
MARCH 3RD, 1775
AGED 33 YEARS
“I always thought crypts were buried well below heaven,” he muttered. Now Lisa was moving faster toward the light, leading him on.
“They are, Eric, they are. Where are we? And what happened to Tarragon and his people? And how did we get here?”
“Plenty of questions, no answers,” Eric mumbled in confusion. “Sounds like life above us, not angels.”
They found themselves in a passage lit by sunlight from overhead. The ceiling was low. They hurried down it and came to a spiral stone staircase. As they climbed, the voices of the choir grew louder.
The staircase opened into a small room barred by a locked door. The lock opened easily at Eric’s touch and admitted them to an epiphany of light and sound.
They stood in a side nave, having finally emerged from the catacombs below. Far away, beneath the immense painted and mosaicked dome, a choir was rehearsing. As they stared, the conductor stopped, irritatedly bawled out an off-key tenor. Then the music was resumed. Eric finally recognized the piece as Vaughn Williams’s Toward the Unknown Region. Heavenly in inspiration, but decidedly secular in execution.
Eric didn’t recognize their locale, but Lisa had prepared well for her forced journey to England.
“We’re in St. Paul’s!” she said excitedly. “But how?” Eric only half heard her. He was lost in awe at the grandeur of the structure in which they found themselves. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “I’ve always heard about it. Never thought to see it.”
“This is not the time to play tourist.” She started pulling gently at his arm. “How did we get here? And can anyone else follow?” Her eyes were darting every which way, as if she expected Tarragon to spring at them any moment from behind one of the immense marble pillars.
“Strange,” Eric mumbled, turning his attention back to her. “I felt the disorientation. There was a mental wrench, not a physical one.”
“I felt something like that, too,” she told him, “but that’s a description, not an explanation.”
“What does it matter?” he said, suddenly feeling very alive and light-headed. He took her in his arms again. “I told Tarragon he’d never separate us again, and he hasn’t.” The kiss lingered until they both felt themselves growing short of breath.
“You’re never going to have to worry about Tarragon again. I’ll take care of that.”
“So naive, Eric. You’re so wonderful and puzzling and handsome and enigmatic, and so naive. Tarragon will find us. He’ll always find us. Somehow we’ve slipped out of his grasp, but only for a moment.”
“It’s a big world,” Eric countered. “And there’s always the satellite colonies on Luna, and Ganymede, and Titan.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said softly. “He’ll find me. It’s his job.”
“Hang his job and him with it! Not if you love me.”
“It’s not possible for me to love you, but I do.”
They stepped clear of the nave and found seats on an empty bench. Other tourists wandered in respectful silence through the immense chamber. Their eyes were aimed upward. A few listened and nodded in contentment to the sounds of the choir.
“When you talk like that," Eric admonished her, “you sound like Tarragon himself. What’s your relationship to him, anyway? I thought he was some kind of mob chieftain, and later that he worked for one.”
“There aren’t such things anymore.” Lisa told him. “The Colligatarch makes them impossible.”
“There are still rumors," Eric insisted. He found that he couldn’t meet her gaze when he asked the next question. “Are you some rich politician’s or corporation executive’s mistress?”
