13th Apostle by Richard F. Heller, Rachael F. Heller

worker of magic. But around here we use the term as it was used in the Bible; to refer to someone who is an extraordinary artisan of metals.”
    She explained that this Sarkami fellow lived in England and donated his talents and time, crafting metal facsimiles and faux facsimiles whenever the Museum needed them.
    â€œHe’s does much more than facsimiles, of course,” she continued. “He’s a brilliant artist.” Her face glowed with admiration. “And an amazing man.”
    Gil had listened to enough. He didn’t need to hear her sing the praises of some old guy who spent his life making fake scrolls. Besides, her hand no longer rested on his shoulder—or any other part of him for that matter.
    â€œLet me ask you a question,” he said with a grin. “All of those exhibitions my father dragged me to all through my childhood; are you saying they may have been nothing but faux.”
    He didn’t wait for her answer before offering his punch line. “In that case, one might say I was a victim of a ‘faux pa’!”
    Gil chuckled at his pun. Sabbie was not amused.
    She refused to walk him back to the office after that. He needed some time out, she said. He was running on fumes, and it was affecting his mind.
    Gil gave her a few minutes lead time, then caught up with her as she entered her office.
    Sabbie closed her door after him. “Yesterday, you said that you wished you could figure out what you were missing.”
    Gil nodded.
    â€œI think this is it.”
    She slipped on white cotton gloves and, from a small wall safe, removed a plastic zip-lock bag. Gingerly, she withdrew a browned piece of paper and slid it onto another plastic bag that she laid on the desk. “This ought to help but, whatever you do, don’t touch it!” she cautioned.
    He had no intention of doing so.
    â€œIf you have to turn it, touch only the plastic it sits on. Don’t even breathe on it, okay? I’m serious.”
    She reached back into the safe and placed a typed sheet of translation into his hands.
    She waited as he read.
    Forty-four years ago, in the year of our Lord 1053, they found me, abandoned and near death’s door, still encircled within my dead mother’s arms. It is said that upon returning home, The Lord of Weymouth Castle laid me in William’s arms. Barely out of swaddling clothes himself, William was said to have laughed with joy and would not allow them to remove me from his loving embrace until, late into the night, when he was overcome by sleep. From that first moment, we were brothers, bound tightly as any two might be, by fate and by spirit, if not by parentage.
    Yesterday, I took into my arms what remained of William’s tortured body, his face blackened and cracked, his flesh still smoldering. With unrelenting hope for his salvation, I gave him back to the earth. I fear that the very treasure for which William willingly gave his life may likewise meet a fate not unlike his. As may I.
    Only this diary, then, may remain.
    It is my humble hope that this shall not come to be and that these words may stand as a signpost and a testament to that which has been sacrificed but not lost. Then the heavens shall beckon and the sound of angels shall open the heart of the righteous one, for they sing to him as in the words of those who have come before. May they live forever in the song of renewal and the promise of continuance.
    â€œWhat is this?” Gil asked. He waited for the answer he hoped she’d provide.
    â€œIt’s a piece of the diary that was hidden in the binding, probably put there by Elias himself nearly a thousand years ago.”
    Gil’s heart pounded with excitement. This was the last piece of the puzzle. The part he knew was there without ever being told. This was what he had been waiting for.
    â€œNo one else knows about it,” she said.
    â€œNo one?”
    â€œNo one.”
    â€œNot even DeVris?” Gil