The Art of Betrayal

visiting her brother in Devon. I felt a warm glow thinking about that. Perhaps she would decide to move permanently to Devon.
Dream on, said the voice of reason. Liz would be home in ten days or so. We hadn’t spoken since that December afternoon at the Suffolk Rose Tea Room when she’d announced that Tom had adored his first wife and had no intention of ever marrying me. I was so shocked, I lost my temper and stalked out, but not before telling her to stay out of my life.
Well done, quipped my conscience, piling on the guilt.
I was transferring a few essentials from my handbag to a small leather belt purse when my phone pinged. A text from Tom: Will be there by 7:30. Love you.
The warm glow returned. Grabbing my jacket, just in case, I flew down the stairs.
I would have to apologize to his mother.
But not tonight.
I parked my car in the alley behind Ivor’s shop and used my keys to open the reinforced security door leading into the stockroom. After flipping on the lights, I punched in the alarm code. Ivor’s stockroom, an open, brick-walled space, served as a combination receiving facility, mail room, and warehouse. There was the húnpíng, right where I’d left it.
My affliction began as it always did with tingling fingers, a sudden flush of heat, and a dry mouth. I used to worry about the violent pounding of my heart but gave up on the grounds that the episodes never lasted long and there was nothing I could do about them anyway. The more alarming symptoms usually settled into what I’d come to think of as a pleasurable buzz. Spending time with Ivor’s treasures every day, I quite enjoyed the sensation—that and the familiar scent of old wood and old dust with notes of linseed oil and a finish of mildew.
Ivor’s shop smelled like my childhood.
The late-afternoon light slanted through the window grille, illuminating the dust motes in the air and casting a crisscross pattern on the wood floor. The húnpíng sat … in repose was the phrase that came to mind. Apt as it turned out, because while none of the jars known to exist had ever held physical remains, scholars believed they were intended to attract the life energy of the deceased, acting as a sort of portal through which the departed soul could enter paradise. I ran my fingers over the network of fine crazing in the gray-green glaze. This jar had lain in an earthen tomb for almost two thousand years. What had become of the person for whom it was created? How did he or she die? Who mourned?
My heart thumped alarmingly. Blood swooshed in my ears.
Ivor was right. This jar was the real thing.
I found the lighted magnifier I always carry with me and bent to examine the complex lid composition. Tiny molded figures had been tucked among the pagoda-like structures: a bearded sage holding a tablet; an acrobat; a musician; a grinning juggler. And creatures—a flock of birds, wings spread in flight; a dog dozing on a lower roof; a parrot; a tiger with a bird caught in its teeth. Exuberance. Joy. This was a scene fit more for a wedding than a funeral.
Then, among the other figures, I saw him, a robed man standing alone in the shade of a parasol tree. His eyes were shut, his mouth open wide in agony. The single note of grief amid celebration was stunning. Did the figure represent the deceased or the mourner?
A thought pinged in the back of my brain: a wedding, a betrayal, a death.
My head swam.
Oh man. What was it about the UK that brought on these flights of fancy? Fortunately, these experiences don’t happen often, but when they do, a word, a phrase—even simply an emotion—coalesces in my brain, as if the atmosphere in which an object existed has become permanently embedded in the cracks and crevices. For the record, I reject all notions of paranormal powers or second sight. Just because something can’t be explained doesn’t mean it’s supernatural.
Shaking off the thought, I positioned the húnpíng behind a rosewood letter box and covered it with a felt polishing cloth. Then I located Ivor’s book on Chinese ceramics—right where he’d said it would be.
After resetting the alarm system, I stowed the book in my car and headed for the village green.

Chapter Four
St. Æthelric’s Church stood on the north side of Long Barston. The large, roughly triangular green south of the churchyard marked the divergence of two roads. The main thoroughfare, the High Street, turned northeast, widening beyond Long Barston to join the A134 toward Saxby St. Clare and Bury St. Edmunds. The narrower road curved in a west-northwesterly direction toward Little Gosling, first in a string of tiny medieval villages leading eventually to Cambridge.
The walk to the green from Ivor’s shop took less than ten minutes. By the time I arrived, the May Fair was in full swing. Tent awnings billowed in the breeze. Children darted excitedly from stall to stall as parents chatted in small circles, keeping one eye on their offspring. All the usual attractions were there—hoopla, coconut shy, white elephant stall, plus a variety of opportunities to eat and drink.
Small food stalls served fish and chips, kabobs, pizza by the slice. The local Chinese takeaway offered jasmine smoked pork ribs and their famous shrimp rolls. The Finchley Arms, the oldest pub in the village, had set up a beer tent with the proprietor, aging hippie Stephen Peacock, pulling pints into disposable plastic glasses. At the other end of the green, The Three Magpies, Long Barston’s increasingly popular gastropub, offered wine and a selection of gourmet flatbreads. Near a guess-your-weight kiosk—people pay money for this?—a mob of children surrounded a tent advertising candy floss, ice lollies, and something mysteriously called “Nobbly Bobblys.” The largest tent belonged to the Suffolk Rose Tea Room, providing tables and chairs where weary fairgoers could sit for a spell, enjoying tea and cakes. Since