Page 147 of Under Arthur’s Protection

“Don’t finish that sentence.” I liked women. So what? And why had liking women become the sum total of who I was?

I would have laughed it off two years ago. But then I’d met a woman while I was on a short-term job in New York, and things changed. I was alone. Millions of people around me, a beautiful woman on my arm, and I’d never been so fucking alone.

If I’d told Arthur I hadn’t slept with a single woman in those two years, he wouldn’t have believed me. Of course he wouldn’t, because you’ve told him about at least a dozen you’d taken to bed in that time.

I swiveled the big chair by them and dropped into it. Outside the oval windows, the Atlantic stretched below us. Same view as the flight over. Same jet, same people.

Different everything.

“So what’s the play?” I said. “On Bonicelli. If she’s got some sort of link to Rick⁠—”

“We’ll figure it out when we land. I don’t want to think about journalists, Custodians, or Rick Younge right now.” Arthur tightened his arm around Gwen. “I want to get off this plane and sleep for three days.”

“Three days?” I lifted an eyebrow at him. “Can I take the jet back to Malta?”

“For the translator?” Arthur rolled his eyes at me, and Gwen just laughed.

I grinned at them—the easy grin, the one that came naturally. But nothing felt natural right now. The laptop pulled at me, the voice in the back of my mind demanding answers about Celine Bonicelli and why her eyes were so familiar.

The voice might have been insistent, but the hard ball settling in my gut said I wasn’t ready for the truth.

Epilogue

Gwen

Two months later…

I sat at my desk in the early-morning quiet, yesterday’s coffee reheated in yesterday’s mug. I’d hurried downstairs after my shower without drying off completely, because I’d had an idea while I was under the water. Arthur was moving around in the kitchen within earshot, which meant I had maybe ten minutes before he came in and reminded me Caine-Ferraro expected me by eight-thirty.

The map of Western Europe was spread across the desk, pinned down at the corners by an empty mug, a paperweight, and two books I’d been studying. I’d marked the countries in three colors: red for eliminated, yellow for possible, green for the two I considered most likely. Germany had gone red last night, after I’d tracked down a fourteenth-century property record that broke the chain of custody I’d been following.

Five countries left in the green-and-yellow group. I’d started with forty-four.

Progress.

My notebook was open beside the map, filled with the notes I’d rushed down to write. Arrows connected dates to locations. Question marks in the margins. A rough sketch of the symbol with its circle, cross, and wavy line.

I highlighted a passage I’d rewritten from one of the books, about a Hospitaller property transfer in 1307, that mentioned a “seat of witness” in language unlike any of the standard administrative terminology. It could be nothing. It could be the thread that unraveled everything.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Gwen.

But that was exactly what I did now. I got ahead of myself, followed hunches, trusted my read of the evidence. Nobody was grading me. Nobody was going to steal this research. Nobody was going to tell me I was wrong or publish my conclusions under their name.

This was mine, no matter what I promised those assholes in Cornwall.

“You’re not dressed.” Arthur appeared in the doorway with two travel mugs. He’d pulled on jeans and a gray sweater, and he looked annoyingly good for so little effort.

“I got distracted.” I took the mug he offered and sipped. Fresh, hot, and significantly better than my reheated version. “Germany’s out.”

“When did you figure that?” He set his own mug on the corner of the desk and studied the map over my shoulder.

“After you fell asleep last night, I found a property record that was two hundred years too late.” I tapped the red-marked section. “Which means I’m getting close.”

He rubbed my back. “You know what I love about when you get deep into your research?”

“What?”

“Your whole body leans toward the desk like you’re trying to climb inside whatever you’re reading. You did it at St. Catherine’s, you did it in the cave, and you’re doing it right now.” His hand moved lower. “It’s incredibly sexy.”