"You're right. Croatan must mean something—they're scared of it. It has to be the key." Oliver said.
"Croatan," Bliss said, the word rang distant alarm bells in her memory. "I think I've heard of it somewhere." Her brow furrowed. “And she talks about Roanoke. You remember Roanoke, right?"
"I'm not real good at history, actually," Schuyler apologized. "But it had something to do with a missing colony, right?"
"The Lost Colony," Oliver agreed. "I don't know why it didn't occur to me before. It was the original colony, settled several years before Plymouth. But they all disappeared. There was nothing left of the colony."
"Right. They all died, remember? Nobody ever found out what happened to them. It's an unsolved mystery of American history," Bliss added. "Like the JFK assassination."
"They must have been Blue Bloods," Oliver said.
“And they were all killed. At least, Catherine Carver seemed to think so." Schuyler nodded.
"Is that all there is?" Schuyler asked.
"There's just one more page," Oliver said, showing them the last page of the diary. "About some kind of election or something. Here she writes, 'Flee or stay? Well, we know what happened. They stayed. The Blue Bloods stayed. We wouldn't be here if they hadn't. Myles Standish—whoever he is, he must have won."
"There's nothing more about Croatan, or Roanoke, or anything?" Bliss asked, taking the diary and flipping the pages.
"No. That's it. The diary just ends. Like the pages have been torn out and someone doesn't want us to know about it, or something. But I did find something. Look here, there's a list of the last people who've borrowed it."
They looked to where he was pointing. There was a yellow flap listing the names of the Blue Bloods who had borrowed the diary.
"Most of them are so old, they're gone by now. But look at the final one."
Schuyler peered at the borrower list. The final signature contained three letters written delicately in fine script: CVA. 12/24/11.
"Whoever borrowed this did so in 1911, and that means, they're—"
"Over a hundred years old by now," Bliss interrupted. "How do we know they're still in this cycle?"
"It's possible. Anyway, it's the only chance we've got," Oliver said.
"CVA?" Bliss asked. "Who's CVA?"
"CVA," Schuyler repeated. The letters were familiar, as was the spidery writing. "Those are my grandmother's initials. CVA. Cordelia Van Alen. And it looks like her handwriting. I'm sure of it."
"You think she borrowed this book? Maybe she knows something about it?" Bliss asked.
Schuyler shrugged. "I don't know, but I could ask her."
“When is she getting back from Nantucket?" Oliver asked.
"Tomorrow. I'm supposed to meet her at the Conservatory lunch. I almost forgot," Schuyler said.
"So, Oliver, this Croatan thing, that's what's behind Aggie's death?" Bliss asked.
"I think so," Oliver said. “Although I still don't know what it is."
"But even if we did find out, it still doesn't do anything for Dylan. Even if Croatan is what killed Aggie, how are we going to prove Dylan didn't do it? How are we going to prove he's been set up?" Bliss asked.
"We don't," Oliver said. "I mean, you guys don't. I don't know how much help I can be."
"What do you mean? You've already done so much," Schuyler protested. She gave him an admiring glance that made him blush.
"Research, yes. I can do research. That's what we're good for, but I can't do anything to help with the plan."
“What plan?" Bliss asked, amused.
Oliver looked so serious and purposeful for a second. He had dropped his glib jokes for once. "We've been acting as if the system works for us. It doesn't. You need to think like Blue Bloods. We're never going to convince anyone to let Dylan out based on what we know. So we do something else," Oliver said.
"What?"
"Bust him out."
CHAPTER 35
The Central Park Conservatory luncheon was one of the most important events on Cordelia's social calendar. It was held in a ballroom at the Plaza, and was already well under way when Schuyler arrived. She checked in at the registration table and found her grandmother seated in the center with well-preserved luminaries on either side.
"My granddaughter, Schuyler," Cordelia said, looking pleased.
Schuyler pecked her grandmother's cheek. She took a seat at the table, removing a program from her chair.
The yearly luncheon raised a significant sum for the upkeep and maintenance of the park. It was one of the Blue Bloods most cherished causes. It had been their idea to bring nature to New York, to bring an oasis to the heart of the city, a simulacrum of the Garden they had been banished from so long ago. Schuyler recognized many of the grande dames and socialites from The Committee meetings flitting about from table to table, greeting guests.
"Cordelia—what's Croatan?" Schuyler demanded, breaking in to the gossipy chitchat.
The table went silent, and several ladies raised their eyebrows at Schuyler and her grandmother.
Cordelia startled at the word. She broke the roll she was holding in two. "This is neither the time nor the place, young lady," she said quietly.
"I know you know. We saw it in one of the Repository books. It had your initials in them. Cordelia, I have to know," Schuyler whispered fiercely.
At the podium, the mayor was thanking the ladies of the conversancy for their generous donations and efforts to keep Central Park a vibrant and beautiful place. There was a ripple of applause, under which Cordelia admonished her granddaughter.
"Not now. I will tell you afterward, but you will not embarrass me at this function."
For the next hour, Schuyler sat glumly, picking at the herb chicken on her plate and listening to a host of speakers describe the new activities and developments planned for the park. There was a slide show on the new art exhibit, and a presentation on the restoration of Bethesda Fountain.
Finally, after they were given their gift bags, and she and Cordelia were safely ensconced in Cordelia's ancient limousine, with Julius driving, did Schuyler get her answers.
"So you've found Catherine's diary. Yes, I left my initials there. For someone to find. I didn't know it would be you," Cordelia said, amused.
"It wasn't me. It was Oliver Hazard-Perry actually."
“Ah. Oliver, yes. A very helpful boy. From an excellent family. For Red Bloods, that is."
"Don't change the subject. What's Croatan?"
Cordelia raised the partition separating them from Julius. When it was fully closed, she turned to Schuyler with a frown. "What I am going to tell you is verboten. We cannot speak of it. The Committee has legislated it out of existence. They have even tried to suppress it from our memories."
"Why?" Schuyler asked, looking out the window at the city. It was another gray day, and Manhattan seemed to be lost in a fine mist, ghostly and majestic.
"As I told you, times have changed. The old ways are no more. The people in power do not believe. Even the woman who wrote that diary would disown her words. It would be too dangerous for her to admit her fears."
"How do you know she would feel that way?" Schuyler asked.
"Simple, because I wrote it. It's my diary."
"You're Catherine Carver?" Schuyler asked.
"Yes. I remember the Plymouth settlement clearly, almost as if it were yesterday. It was a terrible journey." She shuddered. "And an even more terrible winter followed it."
"Why? What happened?
"Croatan." Cordelia sighed. "An ancient word. It means Silver Blood."
"Silver Blood?"
"You were told the story of our Expulsion."
"Yes." The car slowly made its way across Fifth Avenue. Because of the bad weather, there were only a few people milling outside the department stores, a handful of tourists taking pictures of the window dressing, shoppers trying to get out of the rain.