by Mia Sheridan
Initially, I’d been insulted by Callen’s proposal, but maybe the arrangement he had described was actually perfect for both of us. No promises, so no regrets. Just because we weren’t going to have a relationship didn’t have to mean I couldn’t enjoy the pleasure of kissing him. Did it?
And kissing him was pleasurable. At the recent memory of his lips on mine, his taste, a shiver ran down my spine.
The pipes squeaked as I turned the water off, stepping out of the tile shower and grabbing a fluffy towel. I wrapped my hair and then stood in front of the sink, brushing my teeth. I needed to get to bed so I could be fresh for the morning. Callen consumed my mind, but my main focus needed to be my job. Which wasn’t difficult because I was filled with excitement to get started, to get my hands on more of those writings and immerse myself in the words and descriptions of a time long ago, to step into the mind of a girl on her way to serve a saint in the midst of war.
I heard my phone ding with a text and stepped out of the bathroom to grab it.
Frankie: How’s the château, cabbage?
Me: The château is gorgeous. So is Callen Hayes, who’s here as well.
The phone remained silent for a good couple of minutes. I dropped my towel, pulling on underwear and my nightgown. My phone rang, and I chuckled softly, knowing it was Frankie without even looking at it.
“Hello?”
“Um…what the fudge?”
I laughed. “I know. It’s crazy. Unbelievable. But yeah, he’s here on vacation. I ran into him last night in the bar.”
“Are you kidding me? Why didn’t you call me? This is…I don’t know. Wait, are you sure he’s not stalking you or something?”
“No. God, I’m surprised he didn’t think I’m the one stalking him. No, it’s just a crazy coincidence.”
“It’s fate, Jess.”
I smiled as I sat down on the edge of the bed. Coincidence. Fate. Were they one and the same? “I don’t know, but…Frankie, he wants me to spend the next two weeks with him.”
“What do you mean spend the next two weeks with him?”
“I mean, I’m working obviously, but when I’m not, he wants to…hang out, I guess. And we kissed.”
There was a beat of silence. “And after the two weeks?”
“Say goodbye, I suppose. No promises. I agreed, sort of, but…maybe you should talk me out of this, Frankie.”
There was another pause before she said, “I’m not going to, Jess. It might hurt to spend time with him and then go your separate ways, but, I don’t know…I have this feeling…” She paused again, and when she continued, there was an excited tone to her voice. “Fate seems to have her own plans with the two of you, and who am I to mess with fate?”
I let out a huff of breath that was half laugh, half sigh. “The friend who’s going to have to stock a lot of wine at our apartment when I come home?”
Frankie laughed. “You can count on me, cabbage.”
“I know I can, Frankie. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.”
We chatted for a few minutes longer and then said our goodbyes, me promising to keep her updated on everything unfolding in the Loire Valley.
Even though I wasn’t entirely surprised Frankie had encouraged me to take a chance with Callen, somehow I felt better with her support. I would just do what felt comfortable. If agreeing to spend time with Callen meant another day like today, I would gladly take a bit of sadness when he left. It had been one of the best days I’d had in a long time. The picture of his joyful face below me as he’d lain in that field flashed in my mind’s eye, and I felt my lips curve into a smile. He wasn’t asking for anything permanent. He wasn’t asking for anything I hadn’t given before—casual. No promises, no regrets. Perhaps he’d go back to his playboy lifestyle, but that wouldn’t be any of my business. I wasn’t like my mother, and I never would be. Whatever you’re comfortable with. This was on my terms. I was in charge here. Two weeks. Two weeks and that would be it. Callen Hayes and I would part ways once again, and I’d survive just as I had the first time, because this time I’d have the peace of a goodbye.
* * *
I stepped off the elevator and followed the directions I’d been given to a set of back stairs that led to the bottom floor of the château. Excitement drummed through my veins, and I took the stairs quickly, stepping into a dimly lit hallway and noticing immediately the one room that had light pouring from under the door. The low hum of voices met my ears, and I knocked softly before entering.
Dr. Moreau turned from the large conference room table where he was standing and smiled in welcome. “Ah, Jessica, come in. Good morning. How was your trip?”
“Très bien.” I smiled and took his outstretched hand, squeezing lightly. There were two other men standing on the other side of the table, one older and one who looked to be in his late twenties.
“Jessica Creswell is the translator I was telling you about. Jessica, this is Dr. Irwin Roskow. He’s leading the team of scientists testing the documents in order to date them and verify authenticity. He’ll mainly be at the lab they’ve set up near the dig site.” The older gentleman smiled politely and reached across the table to shake my hand.
“And this is my second assistant, Ben Roche, the other translator I told you about, who specializes in French military science. In order to finish the project on time, we’ll need to split up the writings. I’ve given Ben the pieces that mention the name of a battle, and, Jessica, I’ve given you the entries that look to be more of a personal nature. Ben will be able to help with the military terms that may not be familiar, and Ben, Jessica will be able to help with references relating to French life during the Middle Ages. I’m hoping it will be helpful for both of you to bounce questions or ideas off one another.” I nodded, smiling at the young man in glasses with messy dark hair. He nodded bashfully and shook my hand.
“Excellent,” Dr. Moreau said. “Now, then, who would like to see the site where these documents were found? We can take a quick trip and then return to get started. Cela vous convient?”
“Oui,” Ben and I both said in unison, and then laughed.
“There’s coffee and to-go cups over there,” Dr. Moreau said, pointing to a counter against the far wall that held a large silver dispenser and various coffee-making accoutrements. “Grab a cup if you’d like, and we’ll get going.”
Coffee. Oh, thank goodness. I headed for the counter and poured myself a tall paper cup, adding cream and then a lid. The men followed suit, and we all left the room, following Dr. Moreau up the stairs and out the front door, where he had a car and driver waiting.
I knew the cave where the writings had been found was about fifteen miles away, and I sat back, sipping the hot, rich coffee appreciatively and watching the French countryside go by. I wondered if Callen was up yet or if he’d slept in, and decided he was still in bed. The sunrise bit he’d tried to sell was not true. I’d wager that if Callen did ever see the sunrise, it was because he’d never gone to bed the night before. We’d parted after lunch and kite-flying the day before without making any particular plans. I’d needed to study up on a few things for today and ordered room service for dinner, but I’d given Callen my cell number, and he’d said he’d call me.
Jess, stop. You’re on work time. I was bound and determined not to be distracted by him, especially not today.
We turned off the main road and drove through a little village before turning onto a dirt road that wound up a mountain in front of us. Our SUV bumped along for a short way, traveling uphill, before coming to a stop near a grove of trees where several other vehicles were parked.
“The caves are a short walk, but the path has been cleared,” Dr. Moreau said as we all stepped out of the vehicle. I glanced down, thankful I’d worn flats, even though I hadn’t known we were traveling to the dig site on the first day. I’d hemmed and hawed over what to wear that morning, finally deciding it wasn’t the kind of job where I needed to look overly professional, as I’d be in a
basement conference room all day, sitting and translating text. Comfort was paramount, so I’d chosen a nice pair of capri khakis, a white blouse, and a navy blazer. I patted myself on the back for the addition of the sensible floral-patterned flats I’d paired with the outfit. Hiking up a dirt trail in heels would have sucked.
The morning was warm and clear, and the subtle fragrance of wildflowers sweetened the light breeze. I followed the men up the narrow path, the distant sound of voices and a faint, high-pitched hammering carried from somewhere beyond. I wondered vaguely if Joan of Arc had walked this same path once upon a time. Had she smelled the wildflowers, too? Had she turned her face to the sky to better catch their scent? To feel the breeze across her skin?
The tapping sound grew louder, and we turned at a bend in the path, stepping into an open area where we could see the mouth of a cave in the side of the mountain. Dr. Moreau signaled us to follow him, and it struck me again how fortunate I was to be here. This was like a dream come true, exploring the caves of heroes long gone, with the stale, dusty air closing in around me. Surreal.
The tapping sound paused as Dr. Moreau greeted the group in French, one of whom was using a tool to chip away at a piece of rock. Dr. Moreau indicated that we were just there to see where the documents had been found and to observe for a moment. They nodded to us in greeting and went back to work.
I looked around the space, the rock walls, the dirt-packed floor, stepping farther inside and noting the quiet sound of dripping water underneath the murmur of voices and light banging of what I could now see was a chisel. “There are no indications as of yet that anything more than the ancient writings will be unearthed, but it’s still essential that all due diligence be followed, so they’re collecting some of the rock and other natural elements to test for dating purposes.”
“Dr. Moreau, are there any theories about why the writings were found in this particular spot?” Ben asked.
“Not yet, though only a few of the pieces were roughly translated when we were first establishing what they were. I’d like you to go over those pieces again, as the original translators didn’t have any particular specialties. They may have missed things we will not. I’m hoping we’ll understand from the writings themselves how they came to be here.”
Ben nodded, and we all took a few minutes to wander around the cave, to get a feel for where the fragile documents we’d be working on had been hidden for hundreds of years. Why had they been left here? Were they hidden or just…lost somehow? I couldn’t wait to begin.
I ran my palm over the rough wall of the cave tentatively. The floor was clear where there were no workers, no equipment, just tightly packed dirt. The voices faded away, the knocks and bangs becoming background noise as I breathed in the smell: dust and earth and a distant mineral-type scent. Without the lights that had been brought in, it would be dark and cool in here. Those conditions were what had preserved so many of the writings.
As I wandered away from the rest of the workers and scientists, a strange feeling came over me, a shiver of awareness that there was something…happy about this place, as if something momentous had happened here that had created a lingering feeling of calm. I shook my head at myself. Silly. I was letting my imagination run away with me. But Callen had been right when he’d said I liked history because of my love of stories and real-life fairy tales, and I found it difficult to stop myself from pondering what might have happened in this small enclosed space hundreds of years ago.
We didn’t stay at the site much longer, as we’d only be in the way. We got back in the SUV, dropping Dr. Roskow off at the building that housed the lab and returning to the château.
Once we were back at the château, Dr. Moreau led us to a room next to the one we were using, where he pulled a large portrait away from the wall. It swung out on squeaky hinges, revealing a steel vault set into the wall. “Cool,” Ben said, adjusting his glasses. “Is that where the owners of this place kept their jewels?”
Dr. Moreau chuckled. “Among other things as well, I imagine. This château has a rich history. They’ve loaned us the use of this fireproof vault so we can store the documents here as we translate them. Plus, it’s nice and cool down here and the moisture in the air is low.”
Once we were back in the conference room, Dr. Moreau threw a box of gloves on the table and collected three laptops from a cabinet near the door. “As you’re aware, you’ll need to wear these if you take the documents out of the protected coverings. I had to do so a few times to get a better look at a word or paragraph, and you may have to as well.” Ben sat down across from me and Dr. Moreau handed us each a laptop and a document encased in a plastic sleeve, much like the one he’d shown me in his office the week before.
“I’ll want to check your translations, so e-mail me your file, titled with the number indicated on the sticker at the top of each plastic case, after you’ve finished.” We both nodded and got to work.
I was immediately immersed in the words of a young woman traveling with the French army and apparently disguised as a boy. The other soldiers called her Philippe, though as I’d told Dr. Moreau in his office during my interview, it was obvious from her phrasing that the author of the writings was female, even without her disclosing that fact. She’d settled into the tent of “Jehanne,” and the first few writings were descriptions of the camp and information about military strategy she’d overheard. It was all interesting, but I was particularly engaged by her personal observations and the fact that she was obviously having trouble living the life of a common soldier when she’d come from an aristocratic existence.
“She refers to Joan of Arc as Jehanne,” I said.
“Yes,” Dr. Moreau answered. “The signatures that appear on the few surviving documents from that time say ‘Jehanne’ as well. It’s the medieval spelling of Jeanne, believed to be her first name. These writings seem to further support that is what she went by.”
“Interesting,” I murmured, feeling a buzz of excitement over the confirmation that these documents were very likely written by someone who knew Joan of Arc.
After a little while, Dr. Moreau excused himself to attend a meeting in one of the upstairs conference rooms, and for hours, the only sound in the room was the clicking of Ben’s and my fingers on our respective keyboards and a question or two uttered to the other when we became stuck on a word or phrase.
“Ben, a ‘veuglaires’ is referred to here. Is that a gun?”
“Uh, no. It’s like an English Fowler.”
“Yeah, still no idea.”
“A sort of wrought-iron cannon.”
“Ah, thank you.”
“Jessica, have you ever heard of this phrase about a red rag…?”
“Let’s put it this way, Ben—there was no Kotex in the Middle Ages.”
“Oh God…”
Mostly we worked in silence, but there was a pleasant, comfortable atmosphere in the room, and it felt like before I’d even blinked, there was a soft rap on the door and lunch was being delivered. I brought the bags to the conference table and stretched my back. “Do you want to eat in here?”
“I’d like to get some sunshine, actually, before I start getting seasonal affective disorder from being in the dark so long.”
I laughed. “I don’t think it sets in that quickly, but good idea. The set of back stairs leads to a courtyard. If I’m not turned around, I think I walked past it when I was looking for the gardens a couple of days ago.”
“Let’s find out.”
We found the sunny courtyard easily and ate our lunch on one of the stone benches, chatting about what we’d read so far and the theories we each had about who the girl named “Philippe” was, though we knew that reading further might solve at least some of those mysteries. It was wonderful to talk to someone who was as intrigued as I was by talk of ancient French culture, and the hour zipped by.
We returned to the basement conference room and continued as we had before, when I came across an excerpt that I read aloud to B
en:
In the year of our Lord 1429, on the twenty-seventh day of April
Everything is dusty and dirty and foul-smelling, the men even worse than the animals, and I find myself longing for nothing more than a tub of steaming water and a cake of lavender soap. Jehanne caught me murmuring to myself about the lack of hygiene in the camp, and though I wanted to die of shame for being caught complaining so, she only laughed and told me to follow her quietly and to stay among the shadows.
We snuck to a nearby river, where the horses had appeased their thirst earlier that day, and Jehanne taught me how to scrub my dirty skin with sand from the river’s floor and to use the crushed rose petals at the water’s edge to wash my hair. It was simple but heavenly.
Jehanne spoke of her plain peasant upbringing and described the house of her girlhood and her father’s beautiful garden. It was there, she said, that she first heard a voice from God at thirteen years old. I asked her if she had been afraid, for if a voice had come out of the clouds and spoken to me, I daresay I would have perished of fright. She laughed and told me that she had been so afraid, she ran into the house and didn’t go out for days.
“Then how did you come to ease your fear?” I asked.
She smiled so serenely, her hand swirling across the water as she said, “I have learned that my soul rejoices when I listen to God’s wisdom, difficult though it may be.” She paused then, and I waited as she seemed to gather her thoughts. “A wise and devout man once advised, ‘Live fiercely and without regret.’ He did not impart the wisdom to me personally, and yet I find myself repeating the sentiment in my own head. And it is my belief that to follow the path laid before me is to live in such a way.”
