The Magic Circle by Katherine Neville (top 10 books of all time txt) 📕

yesterday morning,” I told him as I took a deep breath to help quell the throbbing ache. “But we were already in Utah by then.”

“If you’d spoken today, we might have done something about it earlier in Vienna,” he said. “But you understand, those stitches must come out. Even if they dissolve, your arm may become infected, or worse. Our schedule is so close before we leave for Russia—shall I do it myself? Right now?”

“You?” I said, staring at Wolfgang in genuine horror.

“Please—if you could see your face,” he said, laughing. “I have all the supplies right here, disinfectant and ointment and forceps and scissors. It’s really a simple procedure. I worked in the clinic in boarding school, and young boys are always having stitches put in and taken out. So I assure you I’ve done it hundreds of times. But first, I’ll bring our things in from the car so we needn’t worry about them later. It will take me a bit of time to collect the rest from the kitchen.”

He yanked open the door of a nearby wardrobe and pulled out a thick, soft bathrobe. “Why don’t you get undressed here and put this on so you don’t ruin your clothes,” he said. “Then just go down and wait for me in the library—it should be warm there by now. Also, it’s closer to the kitchen and the light is far better there than anywhere else.” Then he was gone.

I didn’t know what I’d had in mind for the evening—but I’m in love with your grandmother followed by Shall I remove your stitches? wasn’t exactly the direction I’d thought it might take.

On the other hand, it would be good to get rid of the itching and throbbing of the past week. Furthermore, the stitch removal might provide time and space to come to terms with the fact that this man I was so attracted to myself seemed to have more intimate relations with everyone connected to my family than he had, so far, with me.

I went into Wolfgang’s bathroom, took off my warm wool challis dress, and studied in the mirror the purplish gash that ran from elbow to shoulder, track-marked with fourteen spiderlike black stitches. My eyelids were puffy and the tip of my nose was red from those unexpected tears. I was a wreck. I picked up a wood-handled brush, ran it through my hair a few times, splashed water on my face, pulled on the fleecy bathrobe, and went downstairs.

When I came into the library, the fire was crackling cheerfully and the room smelled of pinecones. I walked over to the open Biedermeier desk and ran my fingers over the pile of books stacked there. I noticed one that looked rare and old, embossed in gold with a beautiful soft leather cover, nearly the same buttery shade as the nearby sofa. It had a bookmark in it. I pulled it from the stack and opened it.

The first page was illuminated with the title

Legenda Aurea

The Golden Legend: Readings on the Saints

by Jacobus de Voraigne

A.D. 1260

It was scattered with gruesome gilded paintings of men and women in various stages of torture or crucifixion. I turned to the place of the marker: saint number 146, Saint Jerome. I was surprised to learn that his name in Latin was Hieronymus, like the man who, until today, I’d thought was my father’s father.

Apart from his renown for revising the church liturgy fifteen hundred years ago in the reign of the emperor Theodosius, Saint Hieronymus—like Androcles, his predecessor in the famous Roman tale—had healed the paw of a wounded lion. That seemed to ring a bell with respect to something Dacian said earlier today. But I couldn’t put my finger on it at the moment.

Just then Wolfgang arrived bearing his tray laden with tubes of medicaments, a pot of surgical implements soaking in disinfectant, a bottle of cognac, and a snifter. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his tie hanging loose around his open collar. Over his arm was a stack of towels. He set the tray on the low table before the sofa where I’d taken a seat. I put the book beside it. When Wolfgang saw it, he smiled and said, “A little light reading in preparation for your martyrdom, I see.”

He trained a nearby floor lamp over the sofa, spread a few towels on the cushions, and took a seat beside me. Then with one swift tug, my sash came loose and the robe—all I was wearing over skimpy undies—fell open. After a glance at my face, he smiled wryly. “Shall I shut my eyes as we proceed, then?” he asked in mock politeness as he extracted my arm from the robe and drew it discreetly closed again.

“Now let Professor Hauser have a closer look.” He lifted my arm to the light and carefully examined the wound. He was so close I could smell the aroma of pine and citron—but then I saw the expression on his face.

“I’m sorry to say that this looks really awful,” he said. “You’ve healed too quickly—the skin is overgrown in many places. It will only become worse unless these stitches come out now. But unfortunately it will take a bit more time than I’d first thought, and it may hurt more than I thought, too. I must remove them carefully to be sure the wound doesn’t reopen. Drink some cognac. If it hurts too much, bite on a towel.”

“Perhaps we should reconsider doing this tonight?” I suggested hopefully.

Wolfgang shook his head. He set my arm down gently and poured a stiff cognac from the decanter on the tray beside us, handing it to me.

“Look here, I’ve brought plenty of towels to wrap you, but you must lie on your side of the sofa in order for me to get the proper angle of attack. Drink some of that first; it will help.”

My stomach was all butterflies, but I drank as he asked. Then I lay on the towel-draped leather sofa, as soft as