Grace’s strong handwriting.
Amy flipped through them. “These are duplicates,” she said. “These files are all downstairs in the study.”
“Why would Grace need two sets of files?” Dan wondered.
“Because these are a cover,” she said. She began to remove the files, stacking them neatly on the desk.
Then she reached down into the drawer. With some tugging and pulling, she found that there was a panel on the bottom. She lifted it up, then withdrew a metal box.
“This is what we’re meant to find,” she said.
Dan studied the lock. “An alphabet combination lock. So we need a word, not numbers.”
“Something only we would know,” Amy said. She bit her lip. “Whenever Grace has left something she hopes we’ll find, she also gives us a clue. There’s got to be a clue in this room.”
Dan looked around. “There’s not much here to go on.”
They went through the files carefully, but nothing leaped out at them. Then they examined the room, but it was as bare as it looked.
“There’s got to be something,” Amy said. Amy’s gaze rested on the painting. The blob of yellow bush was painted so badly. It was nice of Grace to hang it. Especially when she’d done much better paintings than this one.
Something only we would know . . .
She returned to the box. She spun the letters.
G-E-O-R-G-E
The lid opened.
Amy lifted out a notebook, and underneath that, another box, this one wrapped in kitchen twine. Dan hovered over her shoulder as she untied it.
She opened the top of the box. Inside sat an old journal, a little bigger than a paperback. It was leather bound, and she could see the ruffled, yellowed pages on one side. “It looks ancient,” she murmured.
“It
smells
ancient,” Dan said.
It was true. It smelled like old paper, musty and dry, but something else . . . something medicinal. Amy opened it carefully. There must have been plants or herbs pressed in its pages at one time — she could see the ghostly traces they’d left on the yellowed pages. There were beautiful ink renderings of plants and leaves and flowers. Carefully turning the pages, she saw a recipe for a poultice against “the ague,” the best method for bleaching stains out of muslin, a list of prices next to items like a bolt of linen, a cask of wine, tea. . . .
“It’s a household account book,” Amy said. “Definitely written by a woman. And a kind of diary. I mean, you can figure out her life by reading what she did every day. It looks like some of it is in Latin . . . or Italian? Both, I think.”
“Who owned it?” Dan asked. “And why did Grace hide it?”
Amy turned back to the inside cover.
A shiver ran down her spine. Dan let out a long exhalation.
“Whoa,” he said. “It’s Great-great-great-great et cetera grandma’s book!”
Amy turned to the back cover of the book. In a strong clear hand, faded over time, was written:
Ret’d for safekeeping to the care of the village of Meenalappa. 1526 M.C.
“Madeleine Cahill,” Amy breathed. “She brought the book back to Meenalappa in 1526. After her mother died. And somehow it survived, all these years! Amazing.” She carefully leafed through the pages. “Look, Dan — there is a gap here. Five pages completely inked out.”
“Why would someone do that? To cover something up?”
“Maybe.” The ink was dark and black, line after line bleeding into the next until it covered every bit of blank paper. There was something somber and chilling about it. Something that reminded her of the dark days she’d spent after the funerals of Evan, Alistair, Natalie. . . .
“Or maybe these pages are a memorial,” Amy said slowly. “Remember the story? That Gideon was killed, and her four children scattered. . . . These five pages are her grief. And then look, she doesn’t write anything until July 10, 1508. . . .” Amy counted on her fingers. “That could be the date of Madeleine’s birth! Look, here she drew the Madrigal
M
.”
She pointed to the
Amy flipped through them. “These are duplicates,” she said. “These files are all downstairs in the study.”
“Why would Grace need two sets of files?” Dan wondered.
“Because these are a cover,” she said. She began to remove the files, stacking them neatly on the desk.
Then she reached down into the drawer. With some tugging and pulling, she found that there was a panel on the bottom. She lifted it up, then withdrew a metal box.
“This is what we’re meant to find,” she said.
Dan studied the lock. “An alphabet combination lock. So we need a word, not numbers.”
“Something only we would know,” Amy said. She bit her lip. “Whenever Grace has left something she hopes we’ll find, she also gives us a clue. There’s got to be a clue in this room.”
Dan looked around. “There’s not much here to go on.”
They went through the files carefully, but nothing leaped out at them. Then they examined the room, but it was as bare as it looked.
“There’s got to be something,” Amy said. Amy’s gaze rested on the painting. The blob of yellow bush was painted so badly. It was nice of Grace to hang it. Especially when she’d done much better paintings than this one.
Something only we would know . . .
She returned to the box. She spun the letters.
G-E-O-R-G-E
The lid opened.
Amy lifted out a notebook, and underneath that, another box, this one wrapped in kitchen twine. Dan hovered over her shoulder as she untied it.
She opened the top of the box. Inside sat an old journal, a little bigger than a paperback. It was leather bound, and she could see the ruffled, yellowed pages on one side. “It looks ancient,” she murmured.
“It
smells
ancient,” Dan said.
It was true. It smelled like old paper, musty and dry, but something else . . . something medicinal. Amy opened it carefully. There must have been plants or herbs pressed in its pages at one time — she could see the ghostly traces they’d left on the yellowed pages. There were beautiful ink renderings of plants and leaves and flowers. Carefully turning the pages, she saw a recipe for a poultice against “the ague,” the best method for bleaching stains out of muslin, a list of prices next to items like a bolt of linen, a cask of wine, tea. . . .
“It’s a household account book,” Amy said. “Definitely written by a woman. And a kind of diary. I mean, you can figure out her life by reading what she did every day. It looks like some of it is in Latin . . . or Italian? Both, I think.”
“Who owned it?” Dan asked. “And why did Grace hide it?”
Amy turned back to the inside cover.
A shiver ran down her spine. Dan let out a long exhalation.
“Whoa,” he said. “It’s Great-great-great-great et cetera grandma’s book!”
Amy turned to the back cover of the book. In a strong clear hand, faded over time, was written:
Ret’d for safekeeping to the care of the village of Meenalappa. 1526 M.C.
“Madeleine Cahill,” Amy breathed. “She brought the book back to Meenalappa in 1526. After her mother died. And somehow it survived, all these years! Amazing.” She carefully leafed through the pages. “Look, Dan — there is a gap here. Five pages completely inked out.”
“Why would someone do that? To cover something up?”
“Maybe.” The ink was dark and black, line after line bleeding into the next until it covered every bit of blank paper. There was something somber and chilling about it. Something that reminded her of the dark days she’d spent after the funerals of Evan, Alistair, Natalie. . . .
“Or maybe these pages are a memorial,” Amy said slowly. “Remember the story? That Gideon was killed, and her four children scattered. . . . These five pages are her grief. And then look, she doesn’t write anything until July 10, 1508. . . .” Amy counted on her fingers. “That could be the date of Madeleine’s birth! Look, here she drew the Madrigal
M
.”
She pointed to the
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