The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI 5)

“Sadly, I’m not coordinated like she was, nor do I have the necessary talent. To top it off, I’m much too tall for gymnastics. That’s my father’s fault. He was six foot four, and my mother was barely five feet. They always looked mismatched in photos, but they adored each other. I’ve lost them both. My father to a heart attack and my mother to cancer. I miss them.” Why had she said so much? It wasn’t like her.

“Now, enough about me. You’re here to see the Voynich pages I found. I have them laid out for you. Look, but please don’t touch. I’ll turn the pages as you need me to.”

No, no, he wanted more, he wanted to hear every memory she had of her mother and Romania, where she’d traveled—and more, had she lied at her press conference? Was she a twin? Could she read the Voynich? If so, why hadn’t she come forward years before? He wanted to grab her and haul her out of there despite Phyllis in the outer office, despite—No, no, not yet, but soon, very soon. Calm, calm. After all, it was his lucky day. The papers and a new bloodline. If only Drummond had died, he’d have won the trifecta.

“Oh, yes. The papers. Let me see.”

“We’ll start with the full quire, pages fifty-nine to sixty-four of the manuscript. I know you’re an expert on the Voynich, so I don’t have to explain the importance of this section.”

Was she lying?

“With page seventy-four, I believe I’m very close.”

And what did that mean? Maddening, she was maddening, and he knew she was hiding something, but what? Her spicy scent wafted to his nose as she bent and carefully, gently, turned a page. “These are from the astrological section, and as you can see, they are crowned with constellations.”

“These match no constellation I’ve ever seen.”

“I believe it’s Taurus.” She laid down the page on the desk, picked up another. “The long-lost page seventy-four. Someone cut it out, folded it into thirds, put it inside the quire, and stuck it in an original Marcus Aurelius, Meditations. Yes, the handwritten version.” Her lies came so easily now, after so much repetition. “A collector named Sweig had it. His collection was donated to us two months ago, and I found all of this while I was cataloging the collection. It was an incredible moment. I mean, you can still see the bast fiber threads on the linen support. That alone shouted at me. But when I saw the Voynichese, I knew what I had.”

Page 74. He couldn’t believe, yet he was standing there, actually looking at it. Words were difficult. “It—it’s incredible.”

“I know, right? We have the provenance of the Aurelius manuscript intact and verified. It originally came from the library of an Italian estate outside of Venice, Gradara Castle.” A bit of truth: she’d placed the pages there, a tribute, really, to Gradara, to whomever had drawn the picture of the castle. How many centuries ago?

“Gradara? Many a Voynich scholar have speculated the castle on page eighty-six might be Gradara. You know, the one with—”

She grinned. “Right, the one with the curved merlons. Yes. No one has ever known for certain which castle the drawing represented, but I’m certain it’s Gradara. It must have been added to the manuscript at least a century, maybe more, after the Voynich was originally penned. I like to picture a young prince looking through the manuscript, drawing the view outside his window. And I wonder if he was punished.” She laughed. “I know, I have a strange imagination.”

“More likely an imprisoned monk drew what he could see from his cell.”

“I like my imagining better—yours is much too dark.”

You have no idea how dark, or how true, my dear.

“Well, Dr. Marin, since you have all the insights, do you know who wrote the blasted thing?”

She leaned back against the desk, arms crossed over her chest. “No. Your guess is as good as mine. The castle drawing, though, has always looked like a doodle to me. Like someone was drawing a view, not putting it in the manuscript on purpose. Or maybe we’re all wrong, and it’s the signature of the writer.” She shrugged. “Another mystery surrounding the manuscript.”

Roman stared at page 74. He had only a moment before she turned it over and gathered the loose pages very carefully together and slid them into a soft folder. He couldn’t wait to tell Radu, couldn’t wait to have the pages in his keeping.

“Make me a copy of these pages. I need to study them.”

Something in Dr. Bruce’s voice made gooseflesh rise on Isabella’s arms. His voice was too harsh, too intense, and he was standing too close, staring at her as if he was going to—what? She didn’t know, but she suddenly felt a bolt of fear and knew she didn’t want to be alone with him for another minute. Even if he was an expert and a friend of Persy’s, only an odd man, she still wanted to get away from him. Time to get him out of here. She straightened and closed the folder, took a step back.

Roman cursed to himself. He’d alarmed her, been too preemptory, sounded peculiar, obsessive. But he knew these pages were exactly what he needed—he knew it to his soul. He wanted desperately to touch them, to remove the protective casing and feel the gall ink under his fingers. There was blood in the ink, he was sure of it, mixed in with the berries. The blood of his ancestors, and their blood was calling, calling to him over endless expanse of time. He could almost hear their voices.

Roman could see her edging away, her beautiful face now set and pale. Had he said it aloud? His breath was coming faster. Her scent, her blood, the pages—get a hold of yourself!

He straightened, tried to look benign and a bit befuddled. “Forgive me, Dr. Marin. I’m overexcited by this incredible find. I would greatly like to study these pages. Perhaps I could lend my expertise, and together we could—”

Isabella shook her head. “I’m sorry, Dr. Bruce, but we’re not ready to free them into the wild just yet. No one is allowed to remove even the most simple facsimile of these papers from the museum. Not even me.”

“When will you go on your twin search?”

“I begin in earnest tomorrow.” Why had he asked? Again, she felt that tingling fear. Could he have stolen the manuscript? Could her plan have worked so quickly? No, surely not. He was simply an overeager scholar. Still, she hugged the folder to her chest. “Dr. Wynn-Jones asked me to show you the pages, Dr. Bruce, as a courtesy, but now I’m afraid I have to get back to work. Thank you for your interest. Good day.”

Roman pulled on his Dr. Laurence Bruce self again, all deprecating smiles, as unthreatening as a puppy. “It was wonderful for you to take the time, Dr. Marin, thank you. I’ll be keeping close tabs on you so I can share in your achievement when you publish. Congratulations.”

And he left the room.