‘Tired?’ his wife asked.
‘Nope. I feel good,’ he replied.
It was night-time. They’d had a late supper following an afternoon nap, their usual routine on barn nights.
Rochelle was a speck of a town in central Pennsylvania, a farming town nestled in rolling hills. It was founded in 1698 by Huguenots, French Protestants who couldn’t abide the Catholic Church. It was off the beaten path, just like the founders had wanted. There’d never been more than a few hundred residents, then or now.
Pierre Durand, the town’s founding father, had left his own village in France for the Huguenot hot-bed of La Rochelle on the Bay of Biscay back in the 1680s. He hadn’t wanted to leave his village in the Périgord but there’d been a terrible dispute involving the village’s leading family over money and there was violence in the air. Although he’d never been religious, he settled upon a Huguenot woman in La Rochelle and she wound up turning his head and his beliefs. They set sail for North America in 1697.
The couple finished stacking the plates and returning the cutlery to the drawer. They sat back at the kitchen table and watched the clock tick for a while. There was an USA Today newspaper half-folded on the counter. Nicholas reached for it and put his reading glasses on.
‘I still can’t get over it,’ he said to his wife.
The front page of the paper was mostly devoted to the explosion that had destroyed a place in France named Ruac. ‘Are you sure your father was from there?’ she asked.
‘That’s what I understand,’ the old man said. ‘He never wanted to talk about it. He had a blood feud with a man in Ruac named Bonnet. Bonnet apparently got the best of him and that was that.’
‘You think they were our sort of people?’ she asked.
The man shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘According to the paper, there’s no one left to ask.’
Through the kitchen window they saw head lights in the distance coming down their mile-long lane. One car, then two, then a steady stream.
‘They’re coming,’ he said, pushing back his chair.
‘How’s the tea tonight?’ she asked.
‘Good and strong,’ he said. ‘It’s a good batch. Come on, let’s get up to the barn.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First and foremost, thanks to Simon Lipskar who I consider more than an agent, but a partner in the craft and enterprise of writing. This book is better, no much better, for his participation. And thanks too, to Angharad Kowal, for her fine representation in the UK. As usual, my first reader, Gunilla Lacoche, kept me going with her encouragement. The fascinating and multitalented Polly North gave me my very first book on the star-crossed medieval lovers, Abélard and Héloïse and inspired me to include them in my story. Miranda Denenberg was kind enough to let me read her excellent dissertation on the interpretation of prehistoric cave art which was a wonderful jumping off point to the vast literature on the subject. Laura Vogel, amazing psychiatrist and lover of literature, helped me put more character into my characters, and for that I am extremely grateful. My fantastic editors at Random House, Kate Elton and Georgina Hawtrey-Woore are doing more than publishing my books, they are helping build my career, and that has not gone unnoticed. A toast to my pantheon of archaeology mentors, some gone, all remembered, particularly the incomparable John Wymer, my late father-in-law. And finally, for Tessa, who continues to be my bedrock.
About the Author
Glenn Cooper graduated with a degree in archaeology from Harvard and got his medical degree from Tufts University School of Medicine. He has been the Chairman and CEO of a biotechnology company in Massachusetts and is a screenwriter and producer. He is also the bestselling author of Library of the Dead and its sequel Book of Souls.
