Chapter 7
Gwen
The Caine-Ferraro’s meeting room was all mine.
Sam had cleared the long table, loaned me a laptop, and by nine o’clock, my world covered its surface.
Magnified inscription photographs, UV imaging printouts, cross-reference materials pulled from three different databases, and a notebook I was filling faster than I could organize.
Half the notes were recreating the work I’d lost when the thief took my laptop.
The other half was me dumping out everything my brain had spiraled about through the night when I couldn’t sleep.
The recreation was the part that stung. I’d recovered most of my research from the cloud backup, but some of my annotations on the original photos hadn’t synced.
I’d spent the first hour of my morning reconstructing what I could from memory, and memory was an imperfect tool when the details mattered this much.
But the new work was making up for it.
The sword’s pommel had a ring attachment, which wasn’t unusual for the period.
Ring swords were status symbols, markers of loyalty or oath-keeping, and the rings themselves were often decorative.
But this ring had a symbol engraved on its inner face I’d almost missed.
The gold was worn smooth in places, but the UV imaging had revealed a cross with flared arms, contained within a circle, with what looked like a stylized wave pattern running beneath it.
I was on the fifth database of medieval iconography, searching for the symbols.
My work normally consumed me, but this morning? This morning, I needed a nap.
After Arthur and Lance had dropped me off at Sam and Antonio’s last night, the couple had tried to fill my belly, but I hadn’t been able to eat. Then I’d stared at the ceiling of their guest room until three or four in the morning before I’d drifted off for an hour.
I’d dreamed about Arthur being the only one who’d come to my hotel room. In that dream, I’d thrown my arms around his neck instead of Lance’s, and he’d sat with me on the bed with his arm around me. I’d leaned into him for comfort, but he’d kissed me and eased me back on the bed.
And then I’d woken up.
Closing my eyes again hadn’t brought any more sleep, let alone any more of that delicious dream.
I ran my hands over my face, trying to scrub the memories away—the real ones and the dream ones.
Fantasizing about Arthur Penn wouldn’t fix anything for me.
I shook my head, trying to straighten my brain cells out. I scrolled down the website, searching for the right symbols. Hundreds of circles and crosses blurred past, none quite—
Wait.
There it was. Linked to an architectural survey published six years ago.
I clicked through to the source document, written by a university team studying carved stonework in medieval English churches. The same cross, the same circle, the same wave pattern—on a stone in the tower arch of St. Catherine’s Church in Cornwall, England.
I stood.
Sat.
Pulled up the photograph of the sword’s ring beside the survey image and compared them. The proportions matched. The flare of the cross arms matched. The wave had the same irregularity in both, including a break in the third crest that seemed intentional.
They weren’t just similar.
They were the same.
Masons borrowed from each other, so patterns traveled along trade routes. But the irregularity was specific. It was a signature. It had to be!
I got up and looked out into the Caine-Ferraro office. A petite black-haired woman was bopping her head to unheard music at one of the desks in the open area. At the next desk, a blond woman had her head bent over paperwork. Sam was in her office.
Part of me wanted to run and tell her what I’d found, but why? This was an authentication, and finding a matching symbol in a church in England didn’t authenticate the sword.
But it said something.
What that something was, I didn’t know yet.
I settled back into my chair and began pulling every available image of St. Catherine’s Church I could find. Published photographs, tourism sites, architectural records, online street views. None of them showed the circled cross clearly enough to make out.
The church had been restored in the nineteenth century. Was the symbol added then? Was it an original stone or taken from somewhere else?
I clicked to the next panorama of the tower section. Spun it. Slowly. Zoomed in.
No cross, but in a dark corner, I found five letters: P-O-R-T-A.
Porta. Latin for door.
The sword said key, and the church—with a symbol matching the sword’s ring—said door.
My breath caught, and I pushed back from the table.
Matching symbols. A key and a door. What did it mean?
It meant this authentication exercise had a story behind it. I had a trail to follow.
And it meant I needed to stand in the tower archway and see what was in the stone. Were there more symbols that might match what was left of the sword? Was there more text hidden in the darkness? Could it help me figure out the full inscription on the sword?
No amount of online searches would replace being in the room.
Slow down. Document everything. Don’t commit to a theory based on two data points. Two data points are a coincidence.
But my hands were shaking.
“You look like you found something,” Sam said from the doorway.
I launched out of my chair and grabbed two of my printouts. “I think I did.”
She stopped on the opposite side of the table from me.
“The printouts are from the sword, and the web images are from a church in the UK.” I turned my laptop around to show her the two browser tabs, and slid the matching photos toward her. “I’ve been searching all morning for a match to the symbol on the sword, and this is all I’ve found.”
She picked up the printouts and leaned closer to the laptop. “The lighting in the church doesn’t help, does it?”
“I could pay someone local to take better photos.”
“That might work.”
I paced to the far end of the room. She’d think I was crazy if I said I wanted to go there. My job was to date the sword and try to find evidence of where it came from. It wasn’t to traipse around England hunting for clues in old stones. “Unless…”
“Unless there’s something else you’d spot, and someone you pay to take a photo won’t notice?”
I nodded. Seeing it with my own eyes, in three dimensions, was far better than using someone else’s pictures.
“You’re thinking about going, aren’t you?”
“I am.” I put my hands on my hips and turned to face her. “But it feels excessive.”
“I’m not a big believer in coincidences.” She straightened, sliding the laptop back toward me. “If the only two instances you can find of this symbol are on the sword and in the church, plus one says key and one says door—”
“You can read Latin, too?”
She canted her head at me. “Too?”
Get out of your head, Gwen. “Never mind. You don’t think it’s silly for me to fly all the way there for this?”
“Not really.” She folded her arms and pursed her lips. “I contracted with you on behalf of the FBI because I trust your expertise. But is there something else going on here? Is this about the break-in last night?”
I was suddenly back in my hotel room, realizing the bathroom light was on. Realizing the laptop was gone. Watching Arthur’s shoes track across the floor.
Then my brain went further back, to the last time someone took my work.
To Lionel’s name, where mine should have been, and the soft, certain way he’d explained how the academic world worked when I’d first shown him the published paper.
And when I’d told him to fix it and put my name at the top, his soft words had twisted.
He’d called me a research assistant and claimed everything I did belonged to him.
Everything I did.
Everything I was.
It had all belonged to him for a time.
“Gwen?” said Sam.
This mystery was mine. No one was taking it from me. “The church dates to the twelfth century, and thus far, I’m operating on the belief the sword is seventh century. But provenance is about facts, not belief.”
Still staring at me, she said, “So you need to go to Cornwall.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I think I need to go to Cornwall.”
The petite black-haired woman appeared in the doorway, popped a gum bubble, and said, “Hey, Sam, those knight guys are here.”
A completely irrational flash of heat traveled through me. Arthur?
“Thanks, Lucy. Can you show them up?”
Lucy nodded and disappeared down the stairs.
When Sam turned back to me, I asked, “Knight guys?”
“The Round Table Security guys were scheduled to deliver the results of their facility review. That’s probably Arthur and Lance.”
My throat tightened. Last night I’d thrown myself into my ex-boyfriend’s arms and sobbed, while the sexiest man I’d ever met cleared the room with a gun. I dropped back into my chair and crossed my legs, trying not to lean into the unexpected throbbing between my thighs.
God, Gwen, you’re a professional. Act like one.
“This is a pretty exciting mystery.” Sam unfolded her arms and looked at my printouts again. “I have to confess, I’m jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“If it were my case?” She chuckled. “I’d already be at home packing my bags.”
Past her, through the glass wall of the meeting room, Arthur and Lance appeared at the top of the stairs to the mezzanine. Both of them wore scowls and looked as tired as I felt.
Sam turned and put out a hand, shaking with each of them in turn. “Morning, gentlemen.”
“Morning.” Arthur scanned my spread of images and printouts. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Excited.” For the research. Just the research.
Except Dream-Arthur picked that moment to drag his fingers through my hair.
Arthur turned to Sam. “I emailed you the results of the security assessment. One new camera on the rear of the building and new codes for all staff should cover it.”
“That’s not too bad.” She pulled out her phone, humming and nodding as she scrolled. “I should have it taken care of by this afternoon.”
Lance stepped closer to the table, glancing down at my work, then back to me. “While Sam’s working on that, we wanted to talk to you, Gwen.”
That sounded ominous. “Okay.”