“Someone’s set a place for communion,” Michael said.“But there’s no pulpit or service times.”
“Maybe it’s come as you can,” she said.“I feel like we’re being watched.”
“Perhaps we are.”Michael pointed to the daylight draining from the spire.“The Eye of God.”
Scottie gazed up and stepped forward.“It’s magnificent.”
“Dad emailed me some old microfiche images of testimonies where people saw a waterfall of colorful light coming through the spire.The baroque period desired a connection with the Divine.The records indicated people came from all over to wait for the Eye of God to shine.They believed it healed them, brought them nearer, gave them wisdom, answered prayers.”
Scottie stretched her hand upward through the light and presence.“I don’t think God only answers prayers when He shines a light.”
“No, two thousand years ago a bright light shone and answered the prayers of humanity.”
Scottie glanced back at him.“The Christmas story.”
“Some say the greatest story of them all.”Their eyes met but only for a moment.“Shall we see what we can find?”Michael glanced around then started for a door behind the altar.“There’s only one door.It must be the way.Let’s check it out.”
Scottie followed with a slight limp, hoping to find this worth the climb.She owed it to Kate for interfering.And to Michael for his kindness in leading her up the hill.She’d bet “wild-goose chases” were not part of the HMSD job description.Though maybe it was his Cross DNA that drove him to help her.
But not the kiss in the doorway.Nope, not the kiss.
The brass knob turned under Michael’s hand and the door gave way, exposing narrow wooden stairs descending into darkness.He pulled a flashlight from his pocket.
“Told you we’d need these torches.”He went down first, surprised to find the steps in good condition.At the bottom, the stone floor unfurled beneath the scent of cedar and leather.
“Is there a light switch?”Scottie said, moving through the flashlight’s glow toward a long wooden table.“There’s an oil lamp.”
“Then that’s all we have.”Michael produced the matches he brought and lit the lamp.
With the lamp aglow, the cellar became a warm cocoon of books.Every wall was a bookcase.Scottie dug out her headlight and scanned the shelves, looking for something to catch her eye, almost immediately discovering the private journals of past kings and queens, princes and princesses.Other shelves held leather books of government records, the marriage and death certificates of noblemen and women.
“There’s a whiff of smoked meat,” Michael said.“The cellar was probably used to store food at one point.Now its fragrance is archived along with these testaments of past Lauchten lives.Did you ask the queen about this room?”
“I will now that I’ve seen it.”Scottie found another lamp and lit the wick with Michael’s matches.“I didn’t tell her the details of our trip.”
She moved about the room, going toward the back, finding a label for textiles.She carried several heavy books to the table.Between the bindings were samples and details of working with leather, wool, cotton.There were patterns for shoes and hats, quilts, knitting and weaving.
“Michael, this is incredible.A history of textiles and patterns.”
When she retrieved another book, a framed painting of a beautiful young woman on a garden swing, her yellow dress floating around her and her long reddish hair curled over her shoulder, tipped from the back of the bookshelf and tumbled to Scottie’s feet.
“Who is this?”She picked up the painting, the size of a modern eight-by-ten, and moved to where Michael was bent over a stack of dated ledgers.“She’s beautiful.”
Michael studied the image a moment, then regarded Scottie.“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you.The painting style looks like early baroque, so if I were to guess, hidden down here, I’d bet on Wenthelen.After all, the chapel is named after her.”
“What do you mean, me?”Scottie aimed her headlight for a better look.“You think she looks like me?I don’t have reddish hair.”
“You do when the sun hits it.Your strands of brown and gold turn ruby.”
She regarded Michael as he regarded her.They smiled at one another.“So,” Scottie said, drawing a deep breath.“This is King Magnus the Third’s illegitimate daughter.”She studied the face of the woman again.“I feel you, sister.”
The paint showed signs of cracking, but the conditions of the cellar seemed to have preserved it.Her bright blue eyes observed the viewer with a slight smile on her pink lips.She looked to be in her thirties, but who really knew, and she wore a gold necklace with a crown pendant.
“Hey Michael, the background of this picture is here, I think,” Scottie said.“This scene is outside the chapel.”The woods were smaller and the ivy less dense, but this painting showed the grounds they’d walked on from the climb.
Michael leaned over her shoulder, the scent of his skin more alluring than the warm bread in the altar basket.“The swing is where the bench is now.Isn’t that the front door?”
“Let’s go look.”
