Marchand Residence
Paris, France
Present Day
“I
can’t believe there might be protests at the gala. What is this world coming to when people protest such a stunning discovery?”
Professor Yves Marchand shrugged at his wife, Sophie. “The world has gone mad. I can’t believe people give any credence to anything they read on social media. The fools are claiming that we’re going to announce a project to attempt to create another copy of the Bible we found, using the same materials and methods the monks did.”
“What’s the big deal about that?”
“It would require a thousand pages of vellum.”
“Vellum?”
“It’s made from the skin of young animals, in this case, calves.”
“Baby cows! No!”
He gave her a look. “Oh, don’t you start. It’s a nonsense story that doesn’t need any credence given to it by you getting upset over animals killed thirteen-hundred years ago.”
She frowned. “You’re right, but you could see how people would get upset if they believed the story was true.”
“Agreed, but they seem to be completely willing to believe the nonsense stories that are obviously fake news, but are also completely unwilling to believe our denials. It’s ridiculous. Nobody is going to slaughter five-hundred calves to recreate a Bible. It’s complete bullshit spread by that damned Internet. They should shut that thing down. The world would be a better place.”
His wife gave him a look, a wry grin emerging. “Well, that might be a little extreme. The world does kind of rely on it.”
“Then shut down social media.”
She jabbed a finger at him. “Now that
I could get behind, though I don’t know how you’d do it.”
He sighed. “Neither do I, but there needs to be serious consequences for libel and slander, especially if committed on the Internet. This anonymity we have today is ridiculous. You used to have to say something to someone’s face, then get the knuckles taken to you if needed. And when we were young, nutbars didn’t have a platform to spread their vitriol or idiocy like these anti-vaxxers and their ilk.”
A knock at the bedroom door ended their conversation. “Can I come in?”
He rolled his eyes at his wife at the sound of their sixteen-year-old daughter. “Speaking of people obsessed with social media,” he muttered. “Come in!”
Petra opened the door, staring at the messed bed. “Eww, were you two doing it?”
“Like animals!”
“Yves!” His wife admonished him with the stink-eye, then turned to their daughter. “Not that it’s any of your business, but your father took a nap after work. He had a busy day.”
“And a long one, what with the gala next week.”
Petra frowned. “About that, can I go to Zoe’s birthday party instead?”
His wife saved him from being the bad guy as he bristled with anger and hurt. “You know very well that you can’t. The gala at the Guggenheim is important to your father.”
“I don’t want to go. It’ll be boring.”
“It’s only boring if you make it boring. There will be plenty of famous people there for you to post to your Facebook or whatever it is you’re using, and great food.”
“But I don’t want to go! I’m sixteen! I don’t have to go! I have rights!” Her hands were on her hips now, her face red with wasted indignation.
“As long as you live under this roof, you don’t. You’re going whether you want to or not.”
Tears poured down Petra’s cheeks. “But I want to go to Zoe’s birthday party! Everyone is going to be there!”
His wife shook her head. “You barely know her!”
“I hate you!”
He sensed his wife was about to lose it, and had been the bad cop long enough. He stepped in front of his daughter, putting his hands on her shoulders, keeping his voice calm, a gentle smile on his face. “Sweetheart, this is an important night for me, okay? I need my family with me to help me get through it.” Her expression softened slightly and her shoulders slumped in his hands. “Listen, do this for me, and I’ll pay for you and your friends to go to that restaurant you’re always talking about.”
Her face brightened. “L’Espadon?”
“If that’s the one you can’t stop talking about, then yes.”
His wife cleared her throat. “Umm, dear, that’s awfully expensive.”
He paused, glancing at her. “Is it?”
She nodded. “It’s two Michelin stars.”
His eyebrows popped. “What? I thought you kids went there all the time!”
“We do, but Marie’s father pays. He’s rich.”
He pursed his lips. “Umm, well, I’m not. How about McDonald’s?”
“Dad!”
He laughed. “Fine, fine. Burger King.”
