My Brother's Crown

by Mindy Starns Clark

  With a groan, I forced myself to put such juvenile musings aside and focus on the task at hand. At the door of my grandfather’s study, I paused for a moment then took a deep breath, pushed it open, and went in.

  Granddad.

  This had been his domain, and it still smelled like him, that familiar mix of teakwood and pipe tobacco and antique paper. The room looked the same as always, the dark leather swivel chair parked behind the massive wooden desk, rows of rare books lining the shelves along the right wall, and a pair of satin-upholstered antique chairs facing the desk.

  Taking a deep breath, I padded across the lush beige carpet to the safe, which was located in a supply closet on the far side of the room. As I knelt and began turning the dial—right twenty, left fourteen, right eight—I could almost feel my grandfather’s presence. What a fascinating man he had been, so intelligent, so generous, so paternal. He’d had eight grandchildren, but somehow he made each one of us feel especially loved and encouraged by him.

  His inviting me in on the authentication process when I was still in grad school had meant so much to me. As a student of colloid and surface chemistry, my goal to work with security printing was about as cutting edge and future focused as one could get. Yet somehow he knew that involving me with this pamphlet from the past would have an influence on that work. The authentication had given me such perspective into the longevity, durability, and stability of not just ink but paper as well. It had been a valuable experience, both personally and professionally, and I would always be grateful for it.

  Swinging open the safe’s door now, I spotted the pale green case atop a pile of papers and some velvet jewelry boxes. I was just pulling it out when a man spoke.

  “Your grandfather sure had varied tastes in reading.”

  Startled, I jerked my head around to see Blake standing in front of the bookshelves, perusing the titles of Granddad’s collection.

  “I like how he organized them, though,” he continued, his eyes slowly scanning up and down. “Looks like he has them grouped by subject, then alphabetized by book title within those groupings.”

  “What are you doing in here?” I demanded, feeling utterly intruded upon. What made him think it was okay to waltz into a private office as though he owned the place?

  “What do you mean?” he asked, his attention still focused on the shelves. “Of course I’m in here. Like I said before, wherever that pamphlet goes, I go. ”

  Pursing my lips, I turned back to the safe and closed and locked the door. Then I looked toward this unwanted protector and just stood there, clutching the case to my chest. How could one person be so appealing on the one hand, yet so obstinate and irritating on the other?

  “Oh, wow,” Blake said, oblivious to my thoughts. He was too busy reaching for a book and pulling it out to take a closer look. “The Little Prince. I loved this when I was a kid.” He held it gingerly and turned the pages with care. “Such a great story. So many layers, you know?”

  Seriously? We were going to stand here and discuss a children’s book when there was work to do? I was about to say as much when he continued.

  “What’s the famous line? Something about learning to see with the heart instead of the eyes?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I replied. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  With that, I started walking toward the door. If he wanted to go wherever the pamphlet went, then he was welcome to follow along—or not, his choice.

  “Wait, what?” he said, quickly closing the book and sliding it back into place on the shelf. “You’ve never read The Little Prince?”

  I kept going, and as I moved into the main hallway he fell into step behind me.

  “Nope. Saw the movie version, the one with Shirley Temple.”

  He caught up and walked at my side. “No, no. That was The Little Princess.”

  “Oh, sorry. Well, at least I’ve listened to the music. I like Purple Rain.”

  “Purple Rai—That’s Prince. The singer.” Only then did he realize I was making fun of him. “Ah. Think you’re smart, huh, Talbot?”

  I shrugged, working hard to stifle a smile. “That’s the rumor, anyway,” I said before moving into the room and leaving him in my wake.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Renee

  As Dr. Underwood pulled on his white gloves, Blake recounted for us the various steps he was taking to ensure the protection of the Persecution Pamphlet during the reunion. It sounded as if he had things well covered, including various alarms and cameras and even a security guard who would be standing watch during viewing hours.

  “Of course, I’ll be around that day myself too,” he added, “to relieve the guard for breaks and make sure things are running smoothly. You know, keep an eye on stuff.”

  Why the thought of seeing him again on Friday wasn’t exactly unpleasant was beyond me.

  Turning toward Dr. Underwood, I opened the case and held it out. He gently removed the document and slid it into the cabinet. Under the warm glow of a UV-safe beam, inside the clear acrylic vitrine display box, the Persecution Pamphlet looked more regal than ever. As he went back and forth between adjusting its position and aiming the lights, I hovered nearby, ready to help, my eyes drawn to the sight of the treasure on display and its unwieldy title:

  Un Recueil de Poésie pour l’Encouragement des Hommes et Femmes Jeune

  “A Collection of Verse for the Encouragement of Young Men and Women?” Blake asked. “That’s a mouthful for such a little booklet.”

  I shrugged, trying not to look surprised at his command of the French language. “Typical for the era.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “So why is it called the Persecution Pamphlet?”

  “Long story,” I said, waving away the question.

  “No, really. I want to know.”

  Glancing at him, I could see he meant it, so I took a few moments to explain a little about the Huguenots’ plight in seventeenth-century France, when Louis XIV was on the throne and he and his government were anxious to convert all the Huguenots to Catholicism.

  “They sent out missionaries and offered financial incentives and things like that,” I said, “but it wasn’t enough to convert the masses. So as time went on, they got meaner about it and started imposing penalties and taking away certain rights and freedoms for those who refused to convert. When that didn’t do it either, they instituted the dragoons.”

  “Dragoons. That sounds familiar. Weren’t they military troops of some kind?”

  “Yeah, but instead of fighting some foreign enemy, they were dispatched against their fellow citizens, the Huguenots within their own country. On orders from the king, the dragoons fanned out across France with the directive to make conversions happen, whatever it took. As you can imagine, the madness that ensued was horrible. They went way too far, ridiculing, tormenting, looting, torturing, raping, killing—you name it. They confiscated homes and businesses, burned down churches, all kinds of things. It was a terrible time of persecution, so bad that ultimately an estimated four hundred thousand Huguenots ended up fleeing the country. Some estimates put that number even higher.”

  “Wow. It couldn’t have been good for France either, to lose so many productive citizens in such a short period of time.”

  “Oh, it was extremely damaging. The Huguenots were bankers, merchants, weavers, that sort of thing, with good job skills and educations. Some had titles of nobility. France may have confiscated many of their homes and money and businesses, but the skills and knowledge and work ethic the Huguenots took with them when they left were worth far more. Their departure created a serious brain drain.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “Lots of places.” I gestured toward one of the posters on the wall, which showed a map of their migration routes, with arrows leading to various other European countries as well as Africa and America.

  He was studying it when Dr. Underwood interrupted to ask Blake if he would mind going up the ladder to adjust one of the direc
tional lamps at the ceiling.

  “Sure thing.” He climbed up and began working with the lamp, twisting it in tiny increments until it was just right. As he started back down again, he asked me what happened to the denomination itself. “I mean, I see the word ‘Huguenot’ in this area all the time—on roads and historical markers and buildings and stuff. There’s even Huguenot High School. But I’ve never seen any Huguenot churches. Is there still such a thing?”

  “There’s one in South Carolina, but that’s about it as far as I know in this country, at least. Over the years most American Huguenots ended up assimilating into other reformed churches, other Protestant denominations—Episcopal, Methodist, Presbyterian, and the like.”

  He reached the ground and set the ladder aside. “So back to the original question, that’s where the Persecution Pamphlet got its name? Because it was created to help Huguenots escape persecution?”

  “That’s what we always thought, but actually there’s another reason. Did you notice the author?” I pointed to the object under the glass, reminding him that the word “Pére” was French for “Father.”

  Blake looked down and read off the name, which was printed below the title:

  Pére S. Écoute

  “This thing was written by a priest?” Blake asked.

  “Supposedly. But look at it again. Really look at it. Do you see?”

  Blake was quiet for a moment, and then he gasped. “Pere-S-Ecoute. Persécuté! The spelling is the same in English, minus a few accent marks. Persecute.”

  “Exactly.”

  Blake grinned. “So it’s a play on words.”

  “Would you believe none of us noticed that except for Dr. Talbot?” Dr. Underwood interjected. “She spotted it during the authentication.”

  Blake looked my way, seeming impressed.

  “Then again, she’s also the one who discovered the ‘mysterious markings,’ ” Dr. Underwood added, his voice dripping with sarcasm. I shot him a glance, but he was focused on adjusting the pamphlet inside the case.

  “Markings?” Blake’s eyes again went to the document under the glass.

  I looked away, irritated. The Persecution Pamphlet contained several markings, tiny curved lines written in by hand near some of the letters. And though at first glance those lines looked random, as if caused by normal wear and tear, I’d always had a feeling they were intentional somehow, perhaps remnants of notes someone had jotted down as they were reading. The other members of the team had listened to my theory and studied the evidence, but when neither UV lighting nor Reflective Transformation Imaging had revealed anything, they dismissed the idea. In the end, I’d given up fighting them on it. Now even this man was trying to tease me about the matter, but I didn’t find it funny.

  Then again, I just might have the last laugh. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I’d thought of a way I might be able to prove those markings were intentional. It had come to me in the wee hours during my flight from Seattle to Richmond. I’d been thinking about the pamphlet and how I wished there was some way to uncover the truth once and for all. Then it struck me, a new method I could use to examine the markings, one based on the principle of interferometry. All I would need was a certain type of microscope and direct access to the pamphlet itself. And though I had no clue yet where I might get my hands on such specialized equipment, the document was mine to study at will—until Saturday, that is, after which it would be out of my hands.

  Of course, I wasn’t about to go into all of this now, not in front of Dr. Underwood. Instead, I simply answered Blake’s question with a wave of my hand and a simple, “Long story. Hard to explain.”

  He nodded, watching me curiously, an intrigued glint in his eyes, a half smile on his lips.

  And what nice lips they were, I thought suddenly, soft but firm, perfectly formed. Eminently kissable.

  Startled by the very idea, I turned away, busying myself with smoothing a fabric panel. I was a scientist, for goodness’ sake, not some googly-eyed teenager. What did it matter if he was good looking or not? We surely had nothing in common, not to mention we lived on opposite sides of the country. Gosh, for all I knew, he was married.

  Was he married?

  Feeling utterly foolish, I stole a glance at his left hand. No ring.

  Not that it mattered.

  Fortunately, I was saved from my ridiculous musings by Dr. Underwood, who was at last satisfied with the setup of the display. He showed me exactly how and where to place the pamphlet on Friday morning and then said I was free to return it to the safe until then. He was ready to go after that, so I saw him to the door.

  As we went, I thought about casually asking if he knew where I might be able to procure an electron microscope with differential interference contrast, to use while I was in town. But I held my tongue, afraid he might figure out what I planned to use it for. If my theory turned out to be correct, of course I’d be sure to tell him all about it. But if I was wrong, I’d rather not advertise my intentions, especially not to someone from the original team who would gloat at having been proven right.

  We reached the door, and after a quick thanks and a handshake, he was on his way. Retracing my steps across the entry hall, I thought about where I might be able to come up with the equipment I needed myself. I could always call around to some of the local universities, but even if they had such a microscope and were willing to let me use it, they would never allow me to do so away from the premises. They would likely offer me time on it there at the school, but the pamphlet had to be examined here at the house for security reasons.

  I decided my best bet would be to go through the family company, Talbot Paper and Printing, which might have such a device available locally that I could borrow. Our Research and Development department, where I worked, was on the West Coast, and we were the ones with all the fancy scientific gadgets. But there was a chance one of the Richmond-area divisions, such as Quality Control, might have one too. I’d just have to make a few calls to find out.

  For now I returned to the mudroom, where I found Blake leaning over the case, studying the pamphlet intently. He looked up when I entered, a strange excitement in his eyes.

  “ ‘It is only with the heart that one can see rightly,’ ” he said. “ ‘What is essential is invisible to the eye.’ ”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s the quote I was trying to remember from The Little Prince. I knew it would come to me.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. My instinct was to scoff, not just because he was spouting quotes from a children’s book as if it were fine literature, but also because the moment reminded me of every book nerd in high school who had tried to woo me by quoting some line from a poem.

  But Blake wasn’t trying to woo me, not by any means. He was just happy to have recalled a forgotten quote. As he returned his attention to the pamphlet, I decided that maybe for guys like him, ones far more physical than cerebral, a high-quality children’s book was fine literature.

  “So much history,” he said softly, gazing down through the glass, “so much suffering, so much bravery preserved by this little document. It’s a testament to a people who refused to give in to intimidation, even to the threat of death, in order to stay true to their faith. I have tremendous respect for that.” He touched his fingers lightly to the glass. “It’s one thing to look at this pamphlet with your eyes. It’s another to understand its worth in your heart, just like The Little Prince says.”

  He seemed so sincere that I found myself repeating the words in my mind: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye.

  Okay, so maybe it wasn’t so bad, as quotes go.

  I was about to say as much when he stood up straight, shoved his hands in his pockets, and met my eyes. “I gotta tell you, Renee, it’s an honor and a blessing to be the one in charge of protecting this thing.”

  I could tell he was sincere, and it struck me suddenly that he got it, the value of this pamphlet. N
ot just in a historical or monetary sense, but in a heart sense. Our eyes locked and held for a long moment, and though it probably shouldn’t have mattered, it did. A lot.

  “I guess as a man of faith myself,” he added, “I can relate to their struggle.”

  A man of faith? My heart skipped a beat, pleased that my earlier suspicion had been confirmed.

  With a smile, I gestured toward the pamphlet. “Guess we’d better get that thing back in the safe so you can get out of here.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I busied myself with pulling on the gloves while he unlatched the case.

  “So what was that thing earlier, between you and Dr. Underwood?” he asked. “You sort of brushed it off, said it was a long story? Something about markings? Not to be nosy, of course.”

  I rolled my eyes, but not at him. “It’s a sore spot. Dr. Underwood was trying to tease me, but I didn’t think it was funny. Never have, never will.”

  Blake seemed intrigued, so I paused to explain, saying how there were some faint markings in the pamphlet, ones that everyone else said were random but that I thought were intentional and could be important somehow. “If I’m lucky, I just might be able to prove my theory very soon.”

  “How?”

  Leaning forward, I carefully pulled the pamphlet from the display. “By viewing this thing through an electron microscope with DIC, that’s how.”

  “DIC?”

  “Differential Interference Contrast.”

  His brow furrowed as he held open the case and I slid the pamphlet inside.

  “You didn’t use magnification tools during the authentication?”

  “Oh, we did.” I took the case from him and clicked it shut. “But not at a microscopic level, and definitely not with the kind of depth that DIC can give.”

  “Why? What’s so special about it?”

  He seemed genuinely curious, so as we moved from the room and headed for the study I attempted an explanation that wouldn’t be completely over his head. “Basically, DIC uses the principle of interferometry to reveal surface irregularities that are invisible under normal magnification.” One glance at his perplexed expression and I took it down another notch. “Think 3D. With DIC, something that seems flat can actually be shown to have ridges and indentations because of optical density.”