I went ahead and described the violence that it seemed Christian was sponsoring—to my house in Varenna, to my mother’s villa. “And when Hugh was hurt, and needed medical attention, I could only think that this was the best place.”
“For both of you,” Astrid pointed out.
I avoided her too perceptive gaze and tried to focus on a map of Jerusalem on the wall to my left.
“You’re not returning to Drieden, then?” she asked.
“Why would I? What’s left for me there?”
“She did strip your HRH, didn’t she?” Astrid said it like she had just remembered that factoid. But I knew my mother’s mother. She kept everything locked up in her brain. I imagined it like the royal vault under the palace. Walls of reinforced steel, heavy, thick locks, a thousand years worth of secrets and scores to settle.
Like this one. Astrid wasn’t particularly status-conscious, but only in the way that the most connected, well-to-do nobles are. A descendant of a branch of the Sevine family, she married back into the main family, then her second daughter married into the royal family. She certainly had the privilege to retreat from society, live on an Alp and devote her days to her deep-dives into archeology and cultural studies.
For instance, for the past twenty years or so, Grandmama had become one of the world’s leading experts on the Crusades, the Knights Templar and the search for the Holy Grail. Think of her as an elegant, female version of Indiana Jones’s father. Before that, she roamed Nepal and China, even followed Marco Polo’s travels, as far as the Soviet Union would let her.
She was obsessed with ancient history, which is why it probably shouldn’t be a surprise that she had some ancient history with my Big Gran, the other grandmother, Queen Aurelia of Drieden. “That woman,” she muttered. “First she was a vindictive bitch to your mother. And then to you. And for what reason? To protect her precious blood line?” Astrid scoffed. “Don’t get me started on the Laurents’ bastards back in the eighteenth century.”
“I…won’t…” I murmured.
“Receipts. That’s what I have.” She waved dramatically at the stuffed bookshelf behind her. “We all know, all these Morganatic assholes, how they manipulate the laws and the titles to protect their fortunes.” Here, Astrid used air quotes around “fortunes.” Between that and the fact that she kept “receipts,” I had to respect her up-to-date knowledge of modern lingo, even as fascinated as she was with the past. “The Laurents were always trying to keep up with the Sevines in that department. That’s because we embraced things like technology and commerce and weren’t content to wallow in the feudal system for an extra useless century.”
“Anyway,” I said, merely to interrupt this train of thought. I knew from experience that it could all too easily devolve into an hour-long rant about the superiority of one half of my family tree. With the longstanding ill will between the two families, how anyone thought my mother and father’s marriage would last forever was beyond me.
“Like I said, I have no reason to return to Drieden. I have no role in the family business. I’ve probably become a total outcast in the past year, and I don’t wish to become a tabloid sideshow like…” I cut off when I realized what I was about to say.
But Astrid knew. “Like your mother?” she said drolly.
It was true. My mother, Felice, had embraced a life of frivolity and fancy after her divorce from my father. She remarried twice (or was it three times? There had been another fiancé, I remembered, an Australian media mogul, but perhaps he had never successfully wrangled Mother to the altar), she traveled the world, hopping between her homes in Argentina, New York and the 6th arrondissement. She posted fabulous photos of herself on a yacht in Sardinia, sat at the front row of fashion shows next to Carine Roitfield and Anna Wintour, was even a guest judge on a drag-queen reality show for a bit. That, I really enjoyed, even if Big Gran nearly blew a gasket when she heard that Felice had worn her wedding tiara on the show.
“My mother lives her own life,” I finally said. “But I’m not interested in all of that.”
Astrid nodded in understanding. “Sevine women, we each must find our own way.” Her expression darkened. “It’s what distinguishes us from the Laurents, am I right?”
“Enough,” I warned her. “You’re talking about me and my sisters.”
My grandmother was unconcerned about any accidental insult. “Yes. And I did notice that your sister Thea is just over there.” She pointed at a mountain outside the window. “I read that she’ll be attending that conference in Davos this week.”
“Yes, speaking on some sort of education initiative, something with technology and girls.”
Astrid smiled. “Someone keeps tabs on her family.”
“I do,” I said evenly. “How better to know when I need to duck for cover?”
She laughed, her signature joyous bark. Another sign of the aristocracy—the complete confidence to let every emotion out if one felt like it. See, also, e.g., my mother. Astrid reached for her fountain pen, flipping it through her fingers. “I had thought to send her a note, invite her for a visit—”
“No!” My answer was firm and loud. Loud enough to drive my grandmother’s eyebrows up.
“Are you on the outs with Theodora?”
I covered my face with my hands and sighed. How could I explain that I wasn’t on the outs with my older sister, that I simply felt extreme guilt over us losing touch, that I wasn’t sure how I would be received and—oh yes—that her once-pretend-dead fiancé was possibly stalking me and threatening me with some sort of…persistent yet unclear threat.
“It’s complicated,” I mumbled.
“You two probably have a lot to discuss,” Astrid said vaguely, pulling up a pad of paper to scribble some thought down that had just occurred to her. But I couldn’t be worried about whatever she was writing because the thought of my sister had reminded me of Christian and the memory of Christian’s phone, and that he was out there…somewhere…and that he really, really wanted to talk to me about…something that I had no business being a part of.
I was opting out, I reminded myself. As much as the story of Christian’s disappearance tempted me, I knew this was going nowhere good. I was leaving. Just as soon as I could.
“Since we’re talking about Sevine women finding themselves…” I started, knowing Astrid wouldn’t be able to resist that lure.
Sure enough, Astrid’s attention was diverted from her personalized stationery. Her clear blue eyes rose to meet mine. “Yes, my dear?”
“Do you happen to have a secure internet connection I could use?”
“You mean, an untraceable IP address from which one could access travel reservations, bank accounts and private emails that self-destruct within thirty minutes of opening?”
Errr…“Yes?”
Astrid gave me a conspiratorial smile. “Let me give you the password.”
Chapter Nineteen
Just as Grandmama had produced a new, ultra-sophisticated-looking laptop for me to use, the door to her office flew open, which was really impressive, since the door was four hundred years old, solid oak, and about five inches thick.
“Oh my,” Astrid said under her breath at the sight of Hugh Konnor barreling into the room. “Can I help you?”
But Konnor only had eyes for me. Those intense, serious bodyguard eyes that made a girl forget that she merely a task on a list of job duties. “There you are,” he growled.
“Safe in my grandmother’s loving care,” I said, irritated that I had let him get under my skin again. That I had, even for an instant, thought he was concerned about me for other, more intimate reasons. “How are you feeling today?” I asked, for good manners’ sake, as well as to remind him that I had put his care first, after all. I didn’t just leave him in an Italian ditch, like I could have done.
He held out something in his hand. His fingers uncurled a
nd I saw a cell phone.
For a moment, I panicked. I thought it was the one that Sergei had given me, the one presumably from Christian and the one I had kept secret from Konnor—until I knew exactly how to execute my escape plan.
But no. I recognized the phone as being the one that Konnor had used in Rome, before I hid the memory card in my bra and rendered it useless, for a short time only. “What about it?” I asked.
“We got a message. From St. Andrews’ University. In Scotland.”
Hello. Yes. This is Professor James Fergus McIntosh. I received an inquiry from Father Baldoni in Rome, regarding your curious symbol. I must admit, it was a head-scratcher at first, but Father Baldoni’s direction was helpful and led me to the text—let’s see—ah. Here we are. Oh, it’s frightfully old. Funny, it was released from the Vatican’s secret archive, which is ironic, isn’t it? Because Father Baldoni is in Rome and, oh yes. The symbol. I do believe I have an impression of it, not a lot of information, but it’s yours if you want it.
I made a noise of exasperation then glared at Konnor. “Really? That’s what you came in here for? Did you call him back?”
He glanced briefly at my grandmother and then said, “Father Baldoni was your friend, and the message was for you. I thought you might want to return the call.”
My fingers clenched around the phone. Out of frustration, and resolve. No. I was not being dragged into this anymore.
“I am not going to call him back,” I informed Konnor. “This really isn’t my business now.”
“Not your business?” Konnor repeated the words back slowly, as if he was having a hard time understanding me. “Not your business, after the way that Christian has targeted you? After he keeps bombing buildings to get your attention?”
“That’s not fair,” I said. “I never asked to be involved.”
Konnor snorted. “I wonder what it must feel like.”
“What are you talking about?”
“To be a princess and have so much fucking privilege that you can just walk away from terror and injustice.”
My mouth gaped open. I felt like I had been slapped in the face, but I knew he was right. I had tremendous privilege, advantages that allowed me to hire a private jet, fly to Cape Town, escape into the bush and never be seen again. If I wanted to.
“I still don’t see why I have to be the one—”
“Because, for some fucking reason, you’re the one that Christian fucking wants to talk to.”
“Watch how you speak to my granddaughter, sir,” Astrid warned from across the room.
Konnor barely spared her a glance. “He’s obsessed with you. So whether you or I like it, that makes you the key to catching him.”
Guilt flared in my chest as I remembered Sergei’s cell phone. Maybe that was a key, but it was also my last bargaining chip for freedom.
“Fine,” I bit out. “I’ll be on the call to this professor. But I’m not flying to Scotland to look through his secret Vatican papers or anything.”
A tut-tut sound came from Astrid. “I’d like a shot at them, if you don’t.”
I rubbed my forehead and wished Konnor hadn’t brought all this up in front of my religious-history-fanatic grandmother. Poor Professor James Fergus McIntosh would probably be receiving a visit from the Dowager Duchess of Aronberg in the near future. She lived for Vatican secrets.
Yes, sometimes I wondered what it would be like to have two grandmothers who liked to knit and make cinnamon streusel cakes. It must be so lovely not to have eccentric, strong-minded grandmothers who didn’t try to control one’s life…and troves of secret Vatican papers.
Case in point: Grandmama Astrid had flipped open the new laptop she had been about to lend me and started typing something in. “We can use my secure IP to video-call the professor,” she said, demonstrating more tech savvy than my regal grandmother. “This way I can be on hand, in case you need my expertise,” she added helpfully.
Konnor shot me a confused look. “Grandmama is the former Duchess of Aronberg and also a Crusades scholar,” I explained. “She talks to professors all the time.”
Konnor didn’t look overly thrilled to have her included, but I’m sure he thought her harmless.
It was almost like he hadn’t met the women in my family before.
Professor James Fergus McIntosh answered with a jolly, Scottish-sounding greeting. I introduced myself, my “colleague” Hugh Konnor and my grandmother, Astrid Decht-Sevine. After that last name, Professor McIntosh’s eyes grew round. “Madame Decht-Sevine? Of the Decht-Sevine-Solomon-Basilica Papers?”
Konnor and I turned to gape at my grandmother.
The professor continued, “Oh, well, yes, of course. This makes sense, why Father Baldoni reached out, then. Thorough research into these topics is so very difficult, wouldn’t you say?”
Grandmama smiled serenely. “But that is what makes it so satisfying.” She leaned toward me and muttered in Driedish. “What the hell are you researching, Caroline?”
“You asked about the symbol,” Professor McIntosh said, holding up a copy of the drawing we had done for Father Baldoni in Rome.
Grandmama reached for her glasses. I nodded. “Yes, your message said you knew what it was?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure, at first. It looks incomplete, as you noticed. But since Father Baldoni suggested that it could be an early form of Masonic heraldry, I decided to start with my very oldest texts. Sure enough, as I said in the message, I believe I found an impression of it, in the Chinon Parchment.”
“I am not familiar with this?” Grandmama sounded accusatory.
“It is a papal document from 1308, signed by Pope Clement, recounting the interrogation and absolution of seventy-two Templar knights. Believe it or not, it was misfiled in the Vatican Secret Archives and was not discovered until several years ago. The only reason that I can think of as to why Father Baldoni didn’t look there himself is that there are no actual drawings in the document and he, as you know, would have been primarily concerned with illustrations.”
“But you said you found the symbol in this…scroll.” Konnor waved his hand about as he searched for the right word.
“Yes, the parchment. Well, the facsimile of the original parchment.”
“How? When there aren’t any pictures?”
“The document goes into great detail about the interrogation of the knights. What they wore, what they said. It’s practically a court document. Well, it is, in a way.”
Hugh interrupted the academic discussion before the professor could fall into a hole of fourteenth-century Inquisition history. “What did you find?”
“Ah, yes. There’s a description of four of the knights.” Professor McIntosh picked up a paper and began to read, as if he were translating as he went. “These four souls, hereby attested to the following, that they had no name, no family and no other loyalty than to their fellow companions. They lived, fought and died as mere shadows, giving voice to the supreme will of God on Earth.”
Professor McIntosh paused, seemingly caught up in the details of a seven-hundred-year-old story.
“But what about the symbol?” I pressed.
“Oh. It goes on to describe it, you see. Here.” He pointed at the page. “The four shadow souls dressed in the garments of peasants, barefoot and threadbare. Upon interrogation and searches, they were discovered to have marks on their breasts, identical all. The four-sided closed eye of Vox Umbra.”
“Vox Umbra…” Grandmother murmured.
“The Shadow Voice,” I translated.
“Quite,” Professor McIntosh agreed. “The paper further describes this symbol accurately, Your Highness. The lines from below and the horizontal direction of the diamond. And once the author called it a closed eye. I saw it then, didn’t you?”
He held up my drawing into the range of the camera and he was right. Th
e horizontal diamond with lines extended downward did resemble a closed eyelid.
“The Shadow Voice…” I repeated. “Vox Umbra. Have you heard of this phrase before? What do you make of it?”
Professor McIntosh hesitated. “I am a scholar of Masonic history, but it is a secretive society. What we don’t know about the Knights Templar, about the secret societies that ruled Europe for nearly a thousand years, would fill yet another secret archive under the Vatican.”
“Or maybe it already does,” Astrid drawled.
The good professor chuckled. “Spoken like a true skeptic, Your Grace.”
“Have you done any other research on this, Professor?” I asked, but as soon as I produced the words, my grandmama clapped a hand over my wrist.
“Oh, he’s done too much, Caroline. Academics like Professor McIntosh have their own scholastic pursuits. Please, dear sir, do not spend another moment on this favor you have done us. We do truly appreciate your time and expertise. Tell me, what can I do in return to repay you for your trouble?”
As my grandmother and Professor McIntosh took turns humble-bragging and complimenting each other, I saw Konnor had taken Astrid’s fountain pen in his hand and was scrawling the symbol from memory in the margins of a newspaper.
Even with the information that the professor had just shared with us, I wasn’t sure that it did any good. Which is what I said as soon as Grandmama hung up on the video-call.
“I don’t even know what to do now. Our only lead is from a secret parchment that was buried under the Vatican for the last thousand years.”
Grandmama smiled benevolently. “Those are my favorite kind.”
I sighed heavily. “We’re not researching the Crusaders, Grandmama. We’re looking for a possible sociopath who left my sister at the altar. Two entirely different pursuits.”
Konnor lifted his eyebrows at me. “We?” he said, a low, careful rumble.
I pressed my lips together. It had been an accidental use of the word. “For the time being,” I said reluctantly. “Until tomorrow, at most.” After all, I hadn’t figured out where I was escaping to next. South Africa? An island in the Indian Ocean? Maybe an anonymous flat in Chicago or Atlanta. Some place where no one kept up with the everyday exploits of younger siblings of European royal families.
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