Soon the very old, very special box was downstairs in the heart of the church, laid on the altar. Rachel, Joon, Linda, and Terry clustered around it.
“We could contact a locksmith,” Dave said.
“I handle historical artifacts,” Linda said. “I’ll be careful. It’s possible the lock has rusted enough that it opens without any special equipment. We should at least try.”
“I can fetch the toolbox,” Terry offered.
“You might damage it,” Dave said. “If you don’t want a locksmith, then how about contacting a museum? Maybe they can X-ray it first to see what’s inside?”
Joon nudged Rachel with his elbow.
“I know,” Rachel said. “But they’re not even listening to each other.”
The three adults tossed out ideas about who to talk to, and who had responsibility here: Was it the church because it was on their property, should it be the historical society, should they contact Preservation Long Island or the Long Island Museum—
As soon as they all took a breath at once, and before they could launch into more discussion, Rachel stepped forward. “Or we could open it with the key.” She held up the key from the clock in Sherwood-Jayne House.
All three adults stared at her.
“Nancy told us where to find it,” Rachel said.
Linda smiled at them.
“I have questions about that key,” Terry said.
“We have answers,” Rachel said. Don’t know what you kids are up to, he’d said the first time they’d met them. Rachel should have replied: More than you’d ever guess. “But first . . .”
Linda shook her cane. “First, open it!”
Rachel turned to Joon. “Do you want to do it?”
Joon shook his head. “Way too nervous. Go on, Rachel. Open it.”
Stepping forward, Rachel fit the key into the lock. It slid in as if it had been made for it, which it had. She held her breath as she turned the key. There was some resistance—the lock hadn’t been touched in centuries. She wondered if it would still work, if it had rusted in place, if it was too clogged with dust . . . but then the key twisted horizontal, and she heard a click.
She glanced up at Joon.
He nodded encouragingly.
Behind him, Linda was beaming with a smile as vivid as sunshine. Dave was looking on with bright eyes and a smile too.
Slowly, Rachel lifted the lid. Dust flew into the air, but she turned her head, held her breath, and didn’t sneeze. Sunlight poured into the shadows of the box.
Lying inside . . .
No silver.
No gold.
No jewels.
Just papers.
She lifted the first one out. The edges were frayed, and the paper was faded brown-yellow, but the print was still clear. She read out loud, “‘By the Honorable Samuel H. Parfons . . .’ Then the letters E, F, and Q.”
“The F was pronounced as an S,” Linda said. “Samuel H. Parsons, Esquire. He was brigadier general for Washington’s Continental Army.”
“Wow,” Dave said.
“It’s the Parsons Proclamation,” Linda said. “Given to those who were Patriots but forced to take the Oath of Allegiance.” She looked at Rachel and Joon. “You’ve seen the murals in your elementary school, yes? Remember the scene with the British soldiers on horseback in front of this very church? They were forcing citizens to take the Oath of Allegiance to King George. This proclamation declared that those who took the oath but never aided the enemy were still Patriots. It was written to protect spies from retaliation.”
Rachel laid it down carefully. It wasn’t addressed to Nancy. Or Selah. Or anyone in particular. But it had been in Nancy’s document box . . . a puzzle piece.
She lifted up the next item inside. This one wasn’t printed but instead was in scrawled handwriting. She squinted at it, trying to read, and Linda read over her shoulder.
She heard Linda gasp, and Rachel looked back at her.
Linda looked so faint that Dave rushed to her side to hold her steady, but Linda ignored him. “Look at that signature,” she whispered.
“I see it,” Terry replied. His voice was a squeak.
“Whose signature?” Joon asked.
All of them squinted at it. Rachel could see where it was signed in swooping letters. One was clearly a capital W . . .
“It’s a letter from George Washington,” Dave said.
“Addressed to Captain Selah Brewster Strong,” Linda said. “And to his wife.”
Rachel felt her eyes widen. “Nancy.”
Everyone was called then: historians, archivists, journalists.
Within a half hour, the area was swarming with people.
Rachel didn’t know who all the grown-ups rushing around on the Village Green were, but she found herself on the outskirts. The document box and its precious treasure was being handled by experts now. But it was already clear what they’d found:
A letter from George Washington, thanking the Strongs for their service. It didn’t use the words “spy” or “intelligence” or even mention any letters, as far as she’d heard from the first reading. There weren’t any details on what this service was. And it wasn’t addressed exclusively to Nancy, though Linda pointed out it was unusual for her to have been included at all. Combined with all the other puzzle pieces . . . Rachel liked the picture they formed.
“We found her,” she whispered. Her throat felt clogged, and it was hard to speak. “Like Nancy wanted us to.”
Two hundred fifty years ago, a woman had left a trail to her secret self, and Rachel and Joon had followed it. Nancy hadn’t been able to share this side of herself while she was alive, or while any of the other spies were alive, but she wanted someone to know—someone who’d understand, someone like her. Someone like us.
She watched Linda and Terry talking excitedly about the find to a reporter from a local news station. Mid-answer, Terry waved at the two kids, and his voice carried, “It was all those two. I underestimated them. You shouldn’t.”
Rachel was sure there would be reporters asking them questions too, as soon as they were done with the adults. She wondered what she should tell them. The truth, she answered herself. We tell our story, in our own words. They’d become part of the larger story too, more puzzle pieces for people in the future to try to fit together.
Before the reporters could finish with the historians, Joon’s parents, who had arrived at the same time as Rachel’s mom, approached him. His parents had determined expressions on their faces, but Rachel couldn’t tell if they were happy or upset. Maybe they were both.
Joon clutched Rachel’s arm. “It’ll be okay,” she whispered to him.
Scuffing his feet and staring at the ground, Joon said, “I’m really sorry I wasn’t home when you wanted me to be.” He looked up at them.
They exchanged glances. “Rachel’s mother called us and explained,” his dad said. “You were doing something you thought was important.”
“We wish you would have told us first, though,” his mom said.
His dad said, “We don’t like it when you don’t tell us things.”
“I didn’t like it when you didn’t tell me we had to move,” Joon said, blurting out the words all at once, as if they’d been building up in his throat.
His parents looked at each other again. “We should have told you sooner,” his mom said. “We’ve been trying to involve you since then, bringing you to see houses.”
“I know. I just . . . don’t want to move away.”
His mother sighed. “We may not have a choice. Sometimes life works out a certain way, and we can’t control everything we wish we could,” she said. “We don’t want to move far either, but we’re short on time, and the market in this area is short on options.”
As Joon and his parents continued to talk, Rachel watched Linda wave her cane in the air as she spoke animatedly with the reporters. And Rachel had that lightbulb-in-her-brain feeling again.
It’s all puzzle pieces, she thought. You just have to find them and fit them together.
She and Joon weren’t the only ones with a story. Everyone had one.
Out loud, to Joon’s parents, Rachel said, “You know, Linda is moving in with her daughter in Bay Shore soon. She hasn’t said whether she’d sold her house here yet.”