More Than Words Page 5

  The door squeaked open, and I glanced behind me, smiling as I stood. The older gentleman gestured for me to sit back down, stepping over several stacks on the floor and making his way around the large wood-carved desk. “Madame Creswell”—he reached out his hand and we shook—“it’s very nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Moreau. I appreciate that you could come on such short notice.”

  “Of course, Dr. Moreau. I appreciate the opportunity. I can’t thank you enough.” My heart thumped in my chest and I willed it to slow down, not to get too excited. Getting this job was a long shot. The listing had advertised for an assistant to Dr. Christophe Moreau, the director of romance languages at the Louvre, for a project translating recently found documents thought to be from the Middle Ages. From what I’d heard, the list of applicants was a mile long.

  Dr. Moreau moved a few stacks of papers aside and riffled through a folder, taking out what I assumed to be my résumé. He lowered his glasses, glancing at it with raised brows. “Your list of workplaces is very impressive, although I see you’ve only held unpaid internships to this point. Why is that?”

  “Well, Dr. Moreau, the truth is, I found that the internships provided more for me than the paid positions I was offered when I first graduated college.”

  “Except in a salary.”

  I laughed softly. “Yes, except for that.” I paused. “There are always ways to earn enough money to live. I want to do work that challenges me and uses my strengths to make a difference.”

  Dr. Moreau sat back in his chair, finally giving me his full attention. “Lofty ambitions, especially for a language scholar.” He eyed me. “Tell me what you know about Jeanne d’Arc.”

  Joan of Arc? “I…Well, I know a great deal, actually. In addition to French language studies in college, I focused on medieval French history.” When he kept watching me, I sat straighter and went on. “Jeanne d’Arc was a martyr and a saint, a military leader acting under divine guidance who led the French army to defeat the English during the Hundred Years’ War.”

  “And do you believe?”

  “Believe she acted under divine guidance?”

  “Oui. Do you believe God spoke to her and gave her a mission?”

  I bit at my lip for a moment. “I don’t know. I believe she believed so.”

  His lip quirked. “Ah, a good answer. Intellectuals who pretend everything can be known are the very worst sort of scholars. Those are the people who have stopped learning.” He opened a bottom drawer and took out something enclosed in a clear plastic sleeve. “Six weeks ago, some writings—they seem to be a diary of sorts—were found in a cave in the Loire Valley. We believe they were written by someone close to Jeanne d’Arc, and though it is largely this individual’s personal account of their own journey, they detail the military battles, speak of the saint’s expressed thoughts, and recount conversations between the two. Unfortunately, not all the entries were preserved, but many were.” He handed the clear sleeve to me, and I saw that there was a very old piece of parchment inside. “That is one of the writings, Madame Creswell.”

  I held it up to the light, studying it and reading the old French. My brow furrowed as I read, and after a moment I set it down on my lap and looked at Dr. Moreau. “Dr. Moreau, I’m sorry, but this can’t possibly be from the fifteenth century.”

  He raised a brow. “Non? Pourquoi?”

  “Well…” I pointed at one of the words on the document. “This description—baroque—wouldn’t have been used in France until a hundred years after Jeanne d’Arc’s death. It was an artistic style that didn’t begin until the sixteen hundreds. These were written well after anyone who would have known Jeanne d’Arc personally was already dead as well.”

  Dr. Moreau smiled. “Indeed.” He reached in his drawer again and brought out another clear plastic sleeve and handed it to me. “That is a copy of one of the real documents.”

  I blinked at Dr. Moreau and then examined the document he’d handed me, reading the text slowly.

  “What can you tell me about the person who wrote that, Madame Creswell?”

  I took another moment to study it before answering. “The author is a woman. The language is feminine.”

  “Oui. I agree.”

  “And she’s of the upper class. It would have been rare, though not unheard of, for a commoner to read and write. Especially this well. It’s lovely.” I took a moment to read a paragraph, and as I read I envisioned the feather at the end of a quill wafting gently with the motion of the girl’s moving hand. “Yes, definitely of the upper class. She makes a joke here comparing one of the generals to a swan and says the last time she saw such a bird was on her dinner table and she’d like to see him carved up similarly.” I looked up at Dr. Moreau, whose lips tilted upward along with one brow. I let out a short breath. “Only the very rich ate a delicacy like swan in the Middle Ages.” I paused, reading a few more lines. “And this headpiece she speaks of here, a fronteau, which is a tiara of beads, would only have been worn by a young girl of high birth.”

  I glanced up at the doctor, and he was watching me with a smile on his face. “I believe, Madame Creswell, I have found my newest assistant. If you’re willing, that is.”

  My heart leapt, and I suppressed the grin that wanted to break over my face, giving him what I hoped was a controlled, professional smile instead. “I accept, Dr. Moreau.”

  * * *

  I bounded up the stairs to my apartment as quickly as I could in a pencil skirt, resisting the urge to squeal. I threw the door open, and Frankie, who was on the couch eating a bowl of cereal, started, milk sloshing down her tank top. “Good Lord, what’s wrong with you?”

  I closed the door, grinning at her. “I got a job.”

  She set the bowl of cereal down on the coffee table and jumped up. “Oh my God! What is it?”

  After tossing my portfolio onto the table by the door, I gave her a quick, excited hug and sat down in the chair across from the couch. She sat back down as well, looking at me expectantly. “Well, recently, some writings were found in a cave in the Loire Valley and they’re thought to be connected to Joan of Arc.”

  “Holy cow! They need a translator?”

  “Yes. They’ve already read through a few of the writings, but they’re very old, most likely from the fifteenth century, and some of the words and phrases are difficult to understand. It’s my specialty. They need to have every word carefully translated to ensure we keep the authenticity of the writing, but in a readable prose, and saved to a secure computer server. They’ve formed a team to confirm the dates and determine whether they’re actually connected to Joan of Arc.”

  “Oh my God. That sounds really important.”

  “It sounds…amazing. They’ve put a whole group together to study these writings—paper experts and archaeologists who are still digging in the caves to see if they can find anything more that might carbon-date the pieces. I’m going to be working with another translator with a different specialty and under one of the leading language historians in France.”

  “Holy shit. This is huge. Why didn’t you call me at work?”

  “It’s been a whirlwind. I haven’t had a second. It’s a temporary job, though, and it doesn’t pay a lot, but Dr. Moreau told me if I impress the team, there might be further opportunities.”

  Frankie let out a shriek and covered her mouth. “This is so exciting. But when you say temporary, how temporary?”

  “They’ve assigned a month.” I sat back in the chair, stretching my legs out in front of me. “This is my dream job, Frankie. Just to get a chance to read those writings up close and personal. I’m so excited and nervous I could scream.”

  “Well, scream your way into your room and put on something fancy. I’m taking you out tonight to celebrate.”

  I grinned at her. “We’ll go dutch. I can afford it now. Sort of.” My smile slipped. “There’s only one other thing.”

  “Uh-oh. What?”

  “The job is in the Loire Valley.”

&n
bsp; Frankie’s eyes widened. “The Loire Valley? Quoi? Tu plaisantes?”

  What the hell was right. I sat up, leaning forward. “I know. But that’s where the writings were found, and they want the team to come to them, see the spot where they were uncovered, et cetera. The writings are being kept in a museum in the Loire Valley for now, and they’re putting our team up in this beautiful château nearby that’s provided a work space as well.”

  “A château? Well, damn, girl. You’ve hit the jackpot.”

  “Project-wise, yes. Monetarily, no. Still, Frankie, if I do a good job on this, make some connections, this could be a career starter.” A quiver of excitement moved through me, quickly followed by a flash of insecurity. Paris, this apartment, Frankie, they were my comfort zone, my safe haven, and I was going to have to separate myself from them, even if only for a short time.

  “We’re ordering the good champagne tonight, and you’re wearing the backless Clémence Maillard.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t, Frankie.” The backless dress was a swath of drapey, silken material with cape sleeves and a sheath skirt that, when on a hanger, barely looked like a dress. But something magical happened when it was put on a woman’s body that transformed it into one of the most gorgeous items of clothing I’d ever seen. It was ridiculously expensive, but Frankie was lucky enough to get samples of fabulous clothing from her employer, and that was one of them.

  “Why not? You look fantastic in it, and this is a special occasion.”

  “That’s your favorite dress.”

  “And you’re my favorite newly employed friend.”

  I smiled at her, my heart overflowing with gratitude for her friendship. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

  She grinned. “I know. Now get your butt in there and start getting ready. We have some major celebrating to do.”

  I laughed. “Okay, fine. But I need an hour. Dr. Moreau gave me a copy of one of the writings so I could familiarize myself with the style and the voice of the writer. I can’t wait to look it over and get to know her a little bit.” I shot Frankie a grin.

  “All right, all right. Go meet your new friend and then—”

  “I know. And then the backless Clémence!”

  In the year of our Lord 1429, on the tenth day of April

  I am no longer myself. Now I am Philippe, dressed as a common boy of seventeen who will assist the Maid of Orléans as she prepares for battle and report back that of which I see and hear. She wears white armor, I am told, and rides a white steed as she forces the Anglo-Burgundians to retreat across the Loire Valley. I travel there now, sent off with great fanfare as though I myself am heading to war. And perhaps that is exactly what I should consider it, as the choice was not mine, and I sense a battle in my own future, though I know not why I should feel this way. After all, my place will only be at camp as I serve the girl they call a saint and wait in safety for her return. And yet, despite the assurances given by my father and by Charles VII of my well-being, both excitement and unease reside in my heart. The feather on my quill flutters in the breeze coming through the window of my carriage as I begin my journey. And likewise, I feel destiny swirling around me, a churning gale, and I know not if the winds of fate are benevolent or merciless.

  PART TWO

  All battles are first won or lost, in the mind.

  —Joan of Arc

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Callen

  The French countryside zipped by, and I stared out at it morosely. “You look like you’re marching to the gallows,” Nick said from the limo seat across from me. “Vacation isn’t supposed to be a death sentence, you know. Almonds?” He held up a tray of snacks.

  I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head and squinted at him. “No.” I resisted the urge to open the minibar and see what they had to offer drink-wise. I was laying off alcohol on this trip. Or at least, I was cutting down. Before five anyway. Or at least noon. I checked my watch. Ten forty-five. Damn.

  Nick must have somehow been following the subject of my thoughts because he said, “You had enough last night.” He ripped open a package of almonds and threw back a handful. “You’ve gotta get some work done, Cal, or you’ll be in breach of contract. You told me to remind you of that.”

  “I didn’t realize you’d start lecturing me five minutes into our trip,” I snapped, more hostility in my tone than I’d intended. Maybe I had brought him along to lecture me. Maybe I knew in some part of my brain that was still reasonable that I needed all the help I could get.

  Nick shrugged, obviously unaffected by my sour mood. “I take my job as the only responsible person in your life seriously.” He winked, and I looked away. I knew I’d been avoiding him for just this reason. I’d known what he would say to me, and I hadn’t wanted to hear it. Still don’t. Who ever wanted to truly have their faults dissected, especially when they didn’t know what the fuck to do to change them?

  After a minute I sighed. It wasn’t just that I had the weight of the world on my shoulders because of the compositions I owed the studio, but I was hungover and frustrated. We’d flown into Paris the day before and had gone to the bar where I’d met the cocktail waitress I couldn’t stop thinking about. Hell, I hadn’t really met her; I didn’t even know her name. But I’d kissed her. And for some crazy reason that made no sense at all, she kept popping into my mind. So I’d gone back to the bar to find her, and when I’d described her to the manager, he’d informed me the girl no longer worked there. I’d asked for her name, but the manager had said he wasn’t allowed to give out personal information—even of ex-employees—but that he’d take mine and pass it along. I’d declined. I was only in Paris for a day, I had no idea when I’d be back, and it was very possible the effect the girl had on me that night was a result of far too much alcohol.

  At least that’s what I’d told myself to stave off the disappointment. I sighed again, running my hand through my hair. “The thing is, Nick, my last album wasn’t great, and I need to get my mojo back on this one.” I have to.

  Nick paused, looking as if he was considering what I’d said. “Your last album wasn’t bad, Cal. I heard where you were going. You just…didn’t quite make it there. It felt almost like you were holding back.”

  I shook my head. “I wasn’t, at least not on purpose.” I pressed my lips together. “I don’t know. I don’t know what the problem is.”

  “Maybe you need to stop dwelling on what the problem was with that album and let yourself focus on your current project. You’re looking in the wrong direction, Cal.”

  I nodded, staring unseeing out the tinted window. “Yeah. Maybe.” I looked at Nick, feeling marginally better for having talked about it with someone I could trust. “Thanks for coming along, Nick.”

  “I’m happy to. I needed a change of scenery. But I have work, too, so you’ll be on your own most of the time.”

  I nodded, looking away again. Hopefully he was right. His faith in me felt like both a certain pressure and a blessing.

  I’d met Nick when we were both seventeen-year-old punks who’d been sent to juvenile hall. I’d been fighting in an effort to get kicked out of school yet again, and Nick had stolen something so he’d get sent there to avoid his foster parents, if only for a night or two. He was a skinny, nerdy kid with glasses, a weird haircut, and worst of all, an expression that let everyone know he was scared. Easy prey. When some tougher kids focused on him, I’d fought them off. I’d always despised bullies.

  We’d found that despite outward appearances, Nick and I were more alike than different—both constantly choosing between the frying pan and the fire—and we forged a bond. When we were both eighteen and finally free to make choices that didn’t include regular residency at juvenile hall, we took odd jobs, found couches to sleep on, and shared both food and a very meager supply of hope.

  Music was my passion, and I practiced every spare second I had, carrying around backpacks of notebooks filled with compositions and CDs of my work, which I gave to anyone and everyone wh
o might be able to give it to the right person. I’d met the wife of a bigwig in the music industry at a cocktail party I’d all but crashed, and—after some personal attention in her grand, velvet upholstered bed—she’d put my work on her husband’s desk. So yes, my first break had been a result of my willingness to trade sex for favors, and I wasn’t necessarily proud of that. But it’d gotten me where I was, so I tried not to think about it very much. When an afternoon of casual fucking was the difference between living your dream or delivering pizzas to make ends meet, you did what you had to do.

  After that initial break, I’d sold a few jingles that were used in commercials and a ringtone that became extremely popular. I did a couple of video game scores and then the music for several two-minute film trailers. One (legitimately) lucky break turned into another, and I was able to strike out on my own. Nick, who had always been brilliant with computers, had a few lucky breaks as well and started his own website design company and was successfully self-employed. Hence his ability to come on vacation with me with not much notice. As long as he had his laptop, he could just as easily do business from Los Angeles as from the Loire Valley.

  “So, tell me about this girl you went to see last night.” He used his index finger to push his glasses up his nose.

  “Temporary insanity,” I murmured.

  He raised a brow. “As opposed to all the sanity of your recent relationships?”

  “I don’t have relationships, Nick. I have one-night stands.”

  He sighed. “That’s going to get old one of these years.”

  I made a scoffing sound, and Nick raised his eyes to the heavens and shook his head as if apologizing to the angels for my sins. I laughed quietly and looked back out the window again. “I kissed her last time I was here, nothing more. And…I don’t know, maybe I just didn’t get enough.”

  I could feel Nick studying me. “You not get enough? This is different. Have you thought about looking her up online?” He paused. “I could see what I could come up with if you want me to.”