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Her face brightens. “How marvelous.”
Logan nods. Obviously she knows all of this.
“And what does he have to say about your discoveries?”
“We haven’t really talked about it, not recently.”
“But he must be proud of you,” she says. “His own father, in charge of an entire continent.”
“I think that’s a bit of an overstatement, don’t you?”
“I’ll rephrase. Going back to North America—you’d have to concede it’s pretty controversial.”
Ah, thinks Logan. Here we go. “Not to most people. Not according to the polls.”
“But certainly to some. The church, for instance. What do you make of their opposition, Professor?”
“I don’t make anything.”
“But surely you’ve thought about it.”
“It’s not my place to hold one voice above any other. North America—not just the place but the idea of the place—has sat at the center of humankind’s sense of itself for a millennium. The story of Amy, whatever the truth is, belongs to everyone, not just the politicians or the clergy. My job is simply to take us there.”
“And what do you think the truth is?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. People will have to judge the evidence for themselves.”
“That sounds very…dispassionate. Detached, even.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I care a great deal, Miss Tripp. But I don’t leap to conclusions. Take these names on the stone. Who were they? All I can tell you is that they were people, that they lived and died a very long time ago, and that somebody thought well enough of them to make a memorial. That’s what the evidence says. Maybe we’ll learn more, maybe we won’t. People can fill in the blanks however they like, but that’s faith, not science.”
For a moment she appears nonplussed; he is not being a cooperative subject. Then, reviewing her notes again: “I’d like to go back to your childhood for a moment. Would you say you come from a religious family, Professor?”
“Not especially.”
“But somewhat.” Her tone is leading.
“We went to church,” Logan concedes, “if that’s what you’re asking. It’s hardly unusual in that part of the world. My mother was Ammalite. My father wasn’t really anything.”
“So she was a follower of Amy,” Nessa says, nodding along. “Your mother.”
“It’s just the way she was raised. There are beliefs, and there are habits. In her case, I’d say it was mostly a habit.”
“What about you? Would you say you’re a religious man, Professor?”
So, the heart of the matter. He feels a growing caution. “I’m a historian. It seems like more than enough to occupy myself.”
“But history could be said to be a kind of faith. The past isn’t something you can actually know, after all.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“No?”
He settles back to gather his thoughts. Then: “Let me ask you something. What did you have for breakfast, Miss Tripp?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a straightforward question. Eggs? Toast? A yogurt, perhaps?”
She shrugs, playing along. “I had oatmeal.”
“And you’re quite certain? No doubts in your mind.”
“None.”
“How about last Tuesday? Was it oatmeal or something else?”
“Why this curiosity about my breakfast?”
“Indulge me. Last Tuesday. It wasn’t very long ago, surely you ate something.”
“I haven’t the foggiest.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not important.”
“Not worth remembering, in other words.”
She shrugs again. “I suppose not.”
“Now, how about that scar on your hand?” He gestures toward the one holding the poised pen. The mark, a series of pale, semicircular depressions, runs from the base of her index finger to the top of her wrist. “How did you get that? It looks to be quite old.”
“You’re very observant.”
“I don’t mean to be impertinent. Merely demonstrating a point.”
She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “If you must know, I was bitten by a dog. I was eight years old.”
“So you do remember that. Not what you ate last week, but something that happened long ago.”
“Yes, of course. It scared the hell out of me.”
