My Brother's Crown (8 page)

“Wait, what?”

I grinned at Blake, whose eyes were wide. I repeated that last part slowly. “‘
So much work searching for circled letters and counting them off,
only to reveal in the end these words:
Young ladies walk, never run, especially at church
. That wasn't fair of him and no fun at all. I won't complain though, lest he stop playing the game. Except for this particular message, I still enjoy it very much, and I do believe it continues to provide good practice for my counting, handwriting, reading, and spelling.' ”

“Renee, this is incredible. I think you're really onto something here.”

Still smiling, I skimmed a few pages until I found the next entry, from when Catherine was twelve. “This is about two years later. ‘To my surprise, Jules gave me a coded message today, something he hasn't done in quite a while. It was hidden inside a booklet about cookery that was recently printed at the shop, and at first I thought he'd simply given me a copy of it for myself, as I have been working a lot lately on my household skills. But then I flipped through and spotted the telltale circled letters. Though I no longer need the decoding game as practice for my studies, I enjoyed it all the same. His message was an important one:
Our trip to the Plateau will be taxing on the animals. Do not forget that your horse is your responsibility. Keep an eye on her gait, which may alter if she is injured, and check her periodically for rubs, sores, swollen areas, and debris in her hooves. The sooner observed, the sooner attended.
It
was a good reminder and managed to increase my excitement tenfold. We are leaving in less than a week, and I simply cannot wait.' ”

When I finished reading, I set down the pages and looked at him. “If I recall correctly, that's the last mention of the code in the journal. But I think it's enough.” Leaning forward, I worked through my theory, counting off each point on my fingers. “One, Jules gave Catherine secret messages by circling letters inside materials printed at his shop. Two, the Persecution Pamphlet has at least two circled letters inside it. Three, it was printed at his shop.
Voilà
. It seems obvious to me that Catherine's brother Jules must have given her a coded message in the Persecution Pamphlet via circled letters. Given the evidence, I think that's a fair and logical conclusion.”

“Totally feasible,” Blake agreed, nodding emphatically.

Setting the translation aside, I pulled over the microscope and again peered into the lens. If I was right, there would be other circles around other letters in the same pages, circles that had disappeared from normal view but would be visible under this microscope.

Blake grew quiet as I slowly shifted the pamphlet and searched for the same sort of indentations. Given the level of magnification, the process was slow and tedious, but if I found what I was looking for, it would be more than worth the trouble.

“One question,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “I thought the Persecution Pamphlet was created in 1685.”

“It was.”

“But Catherine would've been eighteen by then. If the code was something from when she was a child, why would it show up in a pamphlet that didn't even exist until she was an adult?”

My eyes still on the lens, I thought about that for a moment. “Maybe the code was something they continued to share once in a while. As she said in that last entry, he did it even when she no longer needed it as practice for her studies. I'm thinking he probably gave her some message when she was grown, using the code from when they were younger.”

Blake grunted in agreement. “Mind if I take a look at the translation?”

“Be my guest.”

He picked it up and began slowly flipping through as I continued to scan for circles, micrometer by micrometer.

“I'm curious,” he said. “I know you're really smart and all, but how could you possibly have remembered a few obscure references from a journal you read four years ago?”

I smiled at the compliment. “I've read it several times since then. I have my own copy at home. I love that journal. Catherine was my eleven-greats grandmother, you know. But even if she wasn't, I'd still find her story fascinating. Totally inspiring. You're welcome to borrow it. You should give it a read yourself.”

I glanced his way, but his eyes were on the pages in front of him.

“Does she say anything in here about how the Huguenots were persecuted for their faith?”

“Yes, lots.” I returned my attention to the lens. “The entries from the spring of 1685, when persecution was on the rise, are especially compelling. She was only eighteen then, but within the span of several months, it's like she went from an innocent and somewhat pampered girl of means to a wise and proactive woman. She was very brave. Far braver than I would have been in her shoes.”

Blake began reading one of the passages aloud, but he lost me after the first few words. That's because at the other end of the lens I'd finally come across what I'd been looking for: another indentation surrounding one of the letters.

I gasped.

“What?”

“Another circle,” I whispered. “That helps confirm it.” I sat back, shaking my head in wonder. “Do you realize if we could find all the circled letters in this pamphlet, we could probably figure out Jules's code and read the secret message for ourselves?”

I met Blake's eyes and we shared a grin.

“Of course,” I added, “finding all the circles wouldn't exactly be easy. We're talking about going through eight pages under the lens, one micrometer at a time. That's crazy. Super tedious and time-consuming.”

“So worth it though, in the end.”

I thought for a moment, going through the next few days in my
mind. With so much already on my plate, I wouldn't have a lot of time, but I might be able to work on it in the evenings after everyone was in bed.

“When does the microscope have to go back?”

Blake checked his watch. “In about half an hour.”

My eyes widened. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “I borrowed it from a buddy who works over at VCU Medical Center, but I have to return it before the end of his shift.”

“Aw, man. I was assuming we had it for a few days. Can you borrow it again tomorrow night?”

“Highly doubt it. I had to call in a lot of favors just to get it this time.”

“Okay. Let me think.”

Looking at the sophisticated piece of machinery, I considered the situation and decided it was just as well. With so much else going on around here, there wouldn't have been enough time to get this done anyway.

“That's okay,” I said. “I think I'll have to delegate. I'll call Dr. Underwood in the morning and tell him what we found. He should be able to help me figure it out from there.”

Rising from my chair, I carefully removed the pamphlet from the stage and returned it to the safe. Blake attended to the microscope.

As he loaded it back into its carrying case, I thanked him profusely for what he'd done.

“Are you kidding me? This was fun,” he said, pausing to meet my gaze.

“It was fun, wasn't it?” I replied, struck anew by the sparkle of his green-gold eyes. “And just think. If I hadn't been so stubborn about the markings, and you weren't so resourceful and helpful, those circles—that secret message, whatever it turns out to be—would've gone undiscovered forever.”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Catherine

Lyon, France

19 April 1685

C
athédrale Saint-Jean-Baptiste de Lyon was the last place Catherine Gillet should have been trying to go to on the Thursday of Holy Week—or any day, for that matter. Yet despite the risks she simply could not stay away.

With a tug at the black mourning veil covering her face, she stepped through the wide front center doors of the massive church, paused long enough for her eyes to adjust to the shadowy interior, and then angled toward the nearest row of chairs. After quickly slipping onto a seat, she took in a deep breath and forced herself to look toward the front of the sanctuary, to the sight of the coffin.

She could not believe her Uncle Edouard was gone. Yes, he had made some terrible choices in the past eight months, ones that had left him estranged from much of the family. But prior to that he had been a big part of their lives, and Catherine missed him. Now she was here to mourn his passing, whether that was against the rules or not.

She missed his daughter, Amelie, even more. Scanning the small crowd gathered near the nave, Catherine search for the beloved cousin she had not seen or spoken with since last summer. Sadly, it did not look as if she were present. Thus far, except for the monks seated
together behind the coffin, the only people here were old, unlike Amelie, who was just nineteen.

Blowing out a breath, Catherine told herself to relax, that surely her cousin would arrive soon. The convent where Amelie had been sequestered was nearly prison-like in its protectiveness, but the powers that be had to let a young woman attend her father's funeral. To do otherwise would be unspeakably cruel.

Then again, Amelie's entire internment there had been cruel, the misguided act of a man who had convinced himself his decisions—to convert from his Huguenot faith, to send his daughter off to be cloistered following the death of her husband, to essentially cut off himself and Amelie from the entire family—was in all their best interests. Now he was gone, and here Catherine sat on this chilly April afternoon, waiting for his funeral service to begin.

Her brother, Jules, would be furious if he knew she was here, as would plenty of others on both sides. Huguenots were forbidden to attend Catholic services, but Catherine had never been one to follow rules if she believed them to be foolish. She deserved the right to observe her beloved uncle's passing, not to mention that she would not have missed this chance to see Amelie for all the world, not even under threat of capture and punishment.

And, really, what difference did it make? Life for Huguenots throughout France had been getting so much worse. The threat of persecution hung over her head almost constantly these days regardless of where she went or what she did.

Catherine's thoughts were interrupted by a strong scent tickling her nose. Turning, she saw two boys making their way down the aisle, waving incense. Behind them came Father Philippe, a friend of her brother's and the first person she had spotted here who would be able to recognize her. She turned her head away and tugged again at her veil, hoping it sufficiently obscured her features.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Father Philippe continue up the aisle without hesitation, his stocky form moving slowly behind the altar boys and their swinging orbs of incense. Either the priest had not spotted her or he was acting as if he had not. If the latter, she knew it
would not be the first time he had turned a blind eye toward something he did not personally consider an infraction. Among her family at least, he was known to be sympathetic to the Huguenots' plight.

As Protestants, the Huguenots viewed the Christian life as simple belief in God centered around His sovereignty in salvation and all things. And though they avoided any semblance of ritual and pageantry, Catherine had always secretly enjoyed the beauty of the Catholic churches, which were so elaborately adorned.

For as long as she could remember, she had been curious about the inside of this striking cathedral and had peeked through the door several times over the years. But she had certainly never sat down and allowed herself to absorb it all, never attended an actual service. Her father would not have allowed it. Despite the fact that this was where King Henri IV, hero of the Huguenots because he believed everyone had the right to worship as they pleased, had gotten married eighty-five years before, Papa always maintained his conviction that this church was full of idolatry, that there was no hope inside, that God had no part in it.

Catherine disagreed, though she would never say as much aloud. Here she felt a rush of emotion along with an underlying sense of peace.
God's
peace. As a Huguenot, she may have disagreed with various tenants of the Catholic religion, but her sense of the Lord's presence told her that it was not up to her father or anyone else to determine which places God did and did not sanction.

She was also moved by the beauty of the statues. As the monks began to chant, she focused on an icon of the Madonna to the right of the altar. When she was a child, she had thought the statues of Mary were in honor of her own mother, who died when Catherine was just four years old. Her only memory of Maman was when she was ill, a shawl wrapped around her head and draping down over her frail body as she sat up to comfort her little girl. When Catherine first saw a figure of a Madonna soon after, she recognized not just the shawl but also her mother's pale, luminescent skin and sorrowful yet peaceful expression.

Catherine's gaze continued on to the astronomical clock, which stood as tall as three men behind Father Philippe. She loved the way
the clock's hands moved, tick-by-tick, a reliable given in their rapidly changing world. She had heard once that the clock was built in the fourteenth century, long before her ancestors had broken off from the Catholic faith to become Protestants.