nice black shadow and I looked in the bottom drawer of Daddy’s desk, where he always keeps the paper, and this is all that was in there. Not any green at all.” She handed the notebook to Finney.
“Green shadows?” he said absently, thinking of the drawer he had pulled out, full of colored paper.
“Of course not,” Megan said. “Green pastures. ‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.’”
He wasn’t really listening to her. He was looking at the notebook. It was made of a soft, dark brown leather, now stiffening at the edges and even peeling off in curling layers at one corner. He started to open the cover. Mrs. Andover made a sound. Finney looked over Megan’s bright blond head at her. Her face was lined with triumph.
“Is it Daddy’s?” Megan said.
“I don’t know,” Finney said. Megan’s sticky fingers had marked the cover with bits of cotton and stuck the first two pages to the cover. Finney looked at the close handwritingon the pages, written in faded blue ink. He gently pried the glued pages from the cover.
“Is it?” Megan said insistently
“No,” Finney said finally. “It appears to belong to T. E. Lawrence. How did it get in your father’s desk?”
“Megan,” Mrs. Andover said, “it’s time for the children to come in. Go and fetch them.”
“Is it time for tea, then?” Megan said.
Finney looked at his watch. “Not yet,” he said. “It’s only three.”
“We’ll have it early today,” Mrs. Andover said. “Tell them to come in for their tea.”
Megan ran out. Mrs. Andover came over to stand beside Finney “It looks like a rough draft of a book or something,” Finney said. “Like a manuscript. What do you think?”
“I don’t need to think,” Mrs. Andover said. “I know what it is. It’s the manuscript copy of Lawrence’s book
The Seven Pillars of Wisdom.
He wrote it after he became famous as Lawrence of Arabia, before he—succumbed to his unhappiness. It was lost in Reading Railway Station in 1919.”
“How did it get here?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” Mrs. Andover said.
Finney looked at her, amazed. She was staring at him as if he might actually know something about it. “I wasn’t even born in 1919. I’ve never even been in Reading Station.”
“It wasn’t in the desk this morning when I searched it.”
“Oh, really,” Finney said, “and what were you looking for in Reverend Davidson’s desk? Green construction paper?”
“I’ve set the tea out,” Megan said from the doorway, “only I can’t find any cups.”
“I forgot,” Finney said. “Jesus was fond of tax collectors, too, wasn’t he?”
Finney went into the kitchen on the excuse of looking for something better than a paper cup for his tea. Instead, he stood at the sink and stared at the wall. If the brownleather notebook were truly a lost manuscript of Lawrence’s book, and if Mrs. Andover was one of the state’s spies, as he was almost certain she was, Reverend Davidson would lose his church for withholding treasures from the state. That was not the worst of it. His name and picture would be in all the papers, and that would mean an end to the undercover rescue work getting the children out of the cults, and an end to the children.
“Take care of her, Finney,” he had said before he left. “‘Into thy hands I commend my spirit.’” And he had let a government spy loose in the church, had let her roam about taking inventory Finney gripped the linoleum drainboard.
Perhaps she was not from the government. Even if she was, she might be here for a totally different reason. Finney was a reporter, but he was hardly here for a good story He was here because he had nearly bled to death in the End and Davidson had pulled him out. Perhaps Reverend Davidson had rescued Mrs. Andover, too, had brought her into the fold like all the rest of his lost lambs.
Finney was not even sure why he was here. He told himself he was staying until his foot healed, until Davidson
“Green shadows?” he said absently, thinking of the drawer he had pulled out, full of colored paper.
“Of course not,” Megan said. “Green pastures. ‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.’”
He wasn’t really listening to her. He was looking at the notebook. It was made of a soft, dark brown leather, now stiffening at the edges and even peeling off in curling layers at one corner. He started to open the cover. Mrs. Andover made a sound. Finney looked over Megan’s bright blond head at her. Her face was lined with triumph.
“Is it Daddy’s?” Megan said.
“I don’t know,” Finney said. Megan’s sticky fingers had marked the cover with bits of cotton and stuck the first two pages to the cover. Finney looked at the close handwritingon the pages, written in faded blue ink. He gently pried the glued pages from the cover.
“Is it?” Megan said insistently
“No,” Finney said finally. “It appears to belong to T. E. Lawrence. How did it get in your father’s desk?”
“Megan,” Mrs. Andover said, “it’s time for the children to come in. Go and fetch them.”
“Is it time for tea, then?” Megan said.
Finney looked at his watch. “Not yet,” he said. “It’s only three.”
“We’ll have it early today,” Mrs. Andover said. “Tell them to come in for their tea.”
Megan ran out. Mrs. Andover came over to stand beside Finney “It looks like a rough draft of a book or something,” Finney said. “Like a manuscript. What do you think?”
“I don’t need to think,” Mrs. Andover said. “I know what it is. It’s the manuscript copy of Lawrence’s book
The Seven Pillars of Wisdom.
He wrote it after he became famous as Lawrence of Arabia, before he—succumbed to his unhappiness. It was lost in Reading Railway Station in 1919.”
“How did it get here?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” Mrs. Andover said.
Finney looked at her, amazed. She was staring at him as if he might actually know something about it. “I wasn’t even born in 1919. I’ve never even been in Reading Station.”
“It wasn’t in the desk this morning when I searched it.”
“Oh, really,” Finney said, “and what were you looking for in Reverend Davidson’s desk? Green construction paper?”
“I’ve set the tea out,” Megan said from the doorway, “only I can’t find any cups.”
“I forgot,” Finney said. “Jesus was fond of tax collectors, too, wasn’t he?”
Finney went into the kitchen on the excuse of looking for something better than a paper cup for his tea. Instead, he stood at the sink and stared at the wall. If the brownleather notebook were truly a lost manuscript of Lawrence’s book, and if Mrs. Andover was one of the state’s spies, as he was almost certain she was, Reverend Davidson would lose his church for withholding treasures from the state. That was not the worst of it. His name and picture would be in all the papers, and that would mean an end to the undercover rescue work getting the children out of the cults, and an end to the children.
“Take care of her, Finney,” he had said before he left. “‘Into thy hands I commend my spirit.’” And he had let a government spy loose in the church, had let her roam about taking inventory Finney gripped the linoleum drainboard.
Perhaps she was not from the government. Even if she was, she might be here for a totally different reason. Finney was a reporter, but he was hardly here for a good story He was here because he had nearly bled to death in the End and Davidson had pulled him out. Perhaps Reverend Davidson had rescued Mrs. Andover, too, had brought her into the fold like all the rest of his lost lambs.
Finney was not even sure why he was here. He told himself he was staying until his foot healed, until Davidson
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