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clerk continued to eye Rhys as if he meant to attack her. Or me. With his big, manly hands and all that…testosterone.
    "Perhaps I should go look at… yes, there," said Rhys, choosing the first thing he noticed. "One can't have enough T-shirts, can one?"
    Only after he'd backed away did the "Cup Holder's" shoulders sink in relief. Poor, gentle Rhys.
    "Let me try again," I said. "Hello. My name is Magdalene Sanger."
    "I is Munira," said the clerk, clearly pleased. "It is..
. honor
... to meet champion."
    "To meet what?"
    "Champion of the Holy One." She opened her arms toward me, like a tah-dah move. "It is you, is not?"
    "I'm looking for goddess cups, but I wouldn't call myself a champion." Certainly not
the
champion.
    Even factoring in the number of women who'd forgotten or dismissed the legends, I suspect the number of hereditary Grailkeepers had to count in the hundreds, if not the thousands. The whole world had once worshipped goddesses, after all. We'd just kept such a low profile for so long, we'd lost track of each other.
    There still had to be a handful who understood what the stories meant. Not just me.
    "Blessings upon you, Champion," said Munira.
    I gave up arguing with her, in favor of better information. "Well… thank you. Would
you
happen to know where a goddess cup is hidden?"
    Like the
Isis
Grail?
    She stared, brow furrowed.
    "Did your mother teach you a rhyme or song about where the Holy One's cup might be waiting?" That's how most of our knowledge had been kept. Power mongers rarely think to dissect fairy tales or nursery rhymes.
    "Ah!" She nodded—and recited something singsong in Arabic.
    I smiled a stupid half grin of ignorance, and Munira took pity on me, but her attempt at translating was clearly an effort.
    "She… she sleeps, yes?" She mimed closing her eyes, head tipping sideways in illustration. "With no light She is."
    "She is what?"
    Munira shook her head. "She
is
. And much… always…will she be such."
    Then she nodded at her completely unhelpful attempt, proud of herself. To be fair, her English so far outshone my Arabic that I couldn't do anything but thank her.
    That, and make a mental note to come back with someone—a woman—who was fluent in
both
languages.
    "May she smile upon you," said Munira—then looked down at the wedding ring I'd set on the counter. "What is you wish for this ring, Champion? You say…
trapping
?"
    No reason to confuse matters with the concept of a tracking device. "Is there anything unusual about this ring? Something that does not belong, embedded in it?"
    I felt sick, just having to ask. Lex and I were working on trusting each other, damn it. If it turned out he'd bugged me
again
, the man would need more than a sword to defend himself.
    Munira raised a jeweler's loupe to her eye, a strange contrast to the veiling, and professionally examined the ring. If there was anything artificial there, she would surely see it.
    "
It
is written," she said. "Graven?"
    "Engraved?"
    Nodding, she found a pencil to trace the unfamiliar letters, right to left. They came out sloppy, like a child's—but again, any attempt I made to write the beautiful flourishes of Arabic would have looked worse. All I needed was legibility.
    That's what I got.
Virescit vulnere virtus
.
    Latin. Something about vulnerability and strength. I'd seen the words before—over Lex's father's fireplace.
    It was the Stuart clan motto.
    "Does this…understand… to you?" she asked, and I nodded tightly. "Is all I see. Is fine ring. Very old. Very expensive."
    So, just for giggles… "
How
expensive?"
    She named a price—in American dollars, not Egyptian pounds—which staggered me. For just gold? No diamonds or anything?
    "You have generous husband, no?" she asked.
    No. What I had was a contradiction to Lex's oh-so-casual, standard-for-women-overseas story. Was it also company policy for businesswomen to wear expensive, been-in-the-family-for-generations, complete-with-motto rings?
    "We sell much fine