Duncan knew that that was exactly what they were looking for, a vault dedicated towater. Here on an island surrounded by the sea.
“Hopefully we’ll find its door hidden in the church,” Sharyn said. “But I’m certain the vault itself is buried somewhere in the limestone hill beneath it.”
For now, they had to take her word on it. None of them had witnessed the miracle she had seen. He could still picture her kneeling at the foot of the flaming menorah, staring at the burning book.
“Let’s go.” Tag led the way up the hill with his cane. “If it’s in there, I’m not missing out.”
“Me neither,” Naomi said. “Not this time.”
Duncan rolled his eyes and followed, hooking his arm around Sharyn. Their relationship had grown over these past months. He had even spent February’s half-semester break with her back in the States.
Naomi waved to the picturesque village that surrounded the church. “The name of this place.Mellieha. Do you know what that translates to?”
Tag frowned at her. “What?”
She reached and tapped the amulet hanging around his neck. “Salt.”
He gripped the tiny crystal vial. “Really?”
“Said to be named after the bay’s ancient Roman salt pans.” Naomi eyed him. “Hopefully it’s a sign of good luck for us.”
“I’ll take it.”
Duncan knew the story behind the charm. Naomi had sent a sizable wire payment to the two who had helped her in San Vito. Most of those funds had been contributed by Archie’s dad, who had been equally appreciative.
Duncan took Sharyn’s hand.
I am, too.
As the group continued upward, he surveyed the spread of neighboring valleys, all framed by white cliffs pocked by caves, once neolithic homes. Even the church ahead was the island’s only survivingtroglodyticsanctuary, meaning it had been built into caves, rising out of them from below.
Not unlike the bunker in the Dolomites.
For that reason alone, it was worth investigating.
But the more important reason strode alongside him. He glanced over to Sharyn and squeezed her fingers, expressing his trust.
Only she had witnessed the miracle that led them here.
76
10:49 a.m.
Sharyn passed through the gates of a monumental Baroque arch and entered the church’s stone courtyard. High walls surrounded all sides. A towering statue of the Virgin Mary stood at the center, surrounded by a rod-iron fence. The church’s façade rose to one side, the stones glowing a pinkish white under the midmorning sun.
She could sense the history of this place, like a physical weight.
Or maybe it’s just worry.
She had drawn everyone here based on a brief glimpse of a miracle born of alchemical fire. As she stood here now, preparing for this search, she fell back to that moment at the heart of Monte Antelao, surrounded by a golden treasure tied not just to the Jewish faith, but to the history of humanity.
Her ultimate decision in that vault—to burn the book—had come to fruition much like Julian Wright’s description of his own plot:
Long in planning, and frantic in execution.
After viewing the pages of the Third Adage back at the Barbiers’ château, she had remained troubled, disturbed by the sights of skinned bodies, tortured skeletal shapes, and exposed organs. Such horrifying records of human experimentation had left her cold. None of it seemed to match the Saint-Germain described by history. According to those stories, the man had come off humble, wise, patient with his critics, always searching for enlightened paths to help better humanity.
Whoever penned the Third Adage seemed nothing like this man.
