: CHAPTER 8 ::

Muriel used every remaining minute to both photograph and inspect the artifact. She was mildly aware that people moved about her. She took her pictures and adjusted the lights and took more. Then someone stepped up and offered to assist her, and she asked for notepad and pencil and magnifying glass. She had no idea who it was who handed her the items, only that they appeared. She ordered the lights drawn closer to the table. She used the glass and inspected the letters carved into the side of the silver case. She photographed three plates through the magnifying glass, and then, in case the pictures were not clear, she sketched the letters carved into the side of the silver frame and made notes of their dimensions. She then did the same with the wood itself, noting the brownish-red hue, the small spot where the wood’s grain was visible, how edges still held the markings where the knife had carved out this segment. She noted how the frame’s corners were sealed around the wood. She occasionally felt herself growing overwhelmed by what she studied. She refused to allow tears to blur her vision. She could almost hear the minutes ticking away. She would give in to her emotions once the opportunity was gone.

Some small part of her sought reasons why this was happening. The simplest explanation was that another reliquary had been identified, and they needed an expert who could authenticate it. This made a great deal of sense. Over the centuries, a number of duplicates had been made, some of immense value. But very few of the copiers would have had an opportunity to study either the wood or the original frame at such proximity. All this passed through her mind in fleeting snatches, quick as her tightly compressed breaths. Then she refocused upon what she studied, and everything else became lost. Inconsequential. Dismissed for another, less august time.

And then it was over. Muriel watched as the bishop replaced the silver case into the reliquary and locked the hidden portal. The velvet cloak settled over the reliquary, and a young priest picked it up by the base. Muriel noticed that the young priest’s face was wet with tears. She liked that someone else felt engulfed by the power of this moment.

As they left the chamber, Muriel stopped in the doorway and looked back. The empty table stood beneath the lamp’s glare. The air above the scarred wooden surface trembled slightly.

She followed the priests back up the curved stone stairway and across the nave and into a side alcove. The reliquary was settled upon the altar as the priests donned their formal robes. The prior of Saint Denis looked over at her several times. Muriel could feel the heat of his glare, but she did not care. She continued to stare at the velvet covering. There was room for nothing else.

She jerked slightly at a touch on her shoulder. The bishop was in his vestments, white and crimson and gold. Muriel thought his stern visage fit the station and the moment. He asked solemnly, “Do you wish to witness the unveiling?”

“Please,” she whispered.

The bishop turned to the younger priest, who still bore the emotional weight of what he had carried. “Escort our honored guests into the church and find her a seat.”

Senator Bryan spoke to her, something about needing to return to the embassy on a matter that could not wait. Muriel nodded without even seeing him. She did not want to allow any part of the outside world to interfere.

She left her camera and tripod in the sacristy but carried the case holding the plates. They would not leave her side until they were delivered to a trustworthy developer. The priest led them down the central aisle to the third row, which was occupied by church officials. He leaned over and whispered. Muriel heard him mention the bishop’s name. The officials slid over, granting them room. Muriel slipped into the pew and thanked them in a voice she did not recognize as her own.

She did not try to follow the ceremony. She sat and knelt and stood, taking her cue from the people to either side. She studied the people around her and saw embedded in the faces an exquisite hunger, a beautiful yearning. She felt humbled by their courage. They dared to hope. They clung to faith.

The moment came when the choir’s voice rose in passionate cadence, and the velvet coverlet was drawn back. The bishop lifted the reliquary up to the church. The air vibrated softly about the entire nave, or so it seemed to Muriel.

• • •

When the service was over, they returned to the sacristy, and Muriel retrieved her equipment. She tried to thank the bishop, who seemed to approve of her fumbling words. He took her hand in both of his and held it with the gentleness of a man offering a benediction. He wished her a safe journey, both in her quest and through her life. Muriel left the church feeling hollowed and overwhelmed at the same time.

The Notre Dame Cathedral fronted a small plaza. Traffic trundled along the road to her left, and beyond the road was the broad promenade lining the Seine. The plaza was rimmed by stalls, all of them selling religious articles and books. Muriel approached a booth selling crucifixes. “I wish to buy a cross.”

“These I have.” The woman was dressed for a far colder day, with a woolen scarf knotted over her hair and a heavy sweater covering her bulky frame. She indicated her wares with an arthritic gesture. “Will the lady have silver, perhaps? Or gold?”

“Something simple.” Speaking the words should not cause her eyes to burn. “Something in wood.”

“These are from petrified olive wood. Hand carved.”

She felt the smooth surface, the subtle grain. The cross was suspended from a delicate silver chain. “I would like two, please.”

The woman named a price. Muriel handed over the money without protest. The woman offered profuse thanks and asked, “You wish them wrapped?”

“I want to wear one. The other is a gift that doesn’t need wrapping.”

She handed them over. “You were inside?”

“I was, yes.”

“You saw it?”

Muriel lifted her camera case. “They let me take photographs.”

The woman’s face was seamed and ingrained with what appeared to be soot. “Was it real, what they showed the people?”

“I can only say that the moment was a gift.”

She seemed satisfied with Muriel’s words. “Go with God, Mademoiselle.”

“And you, Madame.” Muriel walked back over to where Charles Fouchet stood holding her tripod. The rugged gentleman looked as drawn and fatigued by the experience as she felt. She handed him the second cross and said, “To commemorate this day.”

He accepted it and studyed the simple carving. “I shall treasure it, and this memory.”

“As shall I.”

They turned and walked toward the line of waiting taxis. Fouchet gave the driver the name of her hotel. As they settled inside, he confessed, “The invitation to a new life, a new day—this is very difficult for me.”

“I understand.”

“It means looking back. Accepting the loss.”

Muriel examined the haggard features, the dark fractured gaze, and guessed, “There was a woman?”

He nodded slowly. “And a child. A baby girl. I lost them both to the influenza.”

“What were their names?”

“Sarah. And Gabrielle.”

“I shall pray for them,” she said. “And for you.”