At twenty past eight, the kitchen was quiet enough to hear the clock over the stove.
Damien had laid the coded journals out in a row across the oak table and was photographing every page. Aria stood at the window over the sink with the key. Out in the garden, the children were arguing over a wheelbarrow, and every so often Séverine's voice cut through them and the arguing stopped.
Daylight did the key no favors. Rust had crusted over the teeth and packed every groove of the bow, the flat round end you held it by. She tilted it toward the glass, and something under the rust caught the light.
Not pitting. A shape. Two of them, side by side, too regular to be damage.
"Damien. Come look at this."
He came up behind her. One hand settled on her hip, and he bent until his chin rested on her shoulder and his mouth was beside her ear. She ran her thumbnail across the bow so he could see where the edges were.
"Letters," he said.
"I think so. I can't read them."
"Then we clean it."
