Chapters (46)
- Front Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Contents
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Epilogue
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgments
- Back Cover
It had started when she was in leading strings, when her father had worked for the War Office as a handwriting analyst. As a student of graphology, he kept Camino Baldi’s book Trattato on his desk as a reminder of the power of the written word in deciphering clues about the writer. Baldi’s book, coupled with Charles Grohmann’s treatise on inferring character from handwriting, had been elemental in her father’s work of studying the handwriting of a potential criminal or threat given in writing.
The late earl had traveled to Germany to talk to Professor Grohmann and returned with piles of notes, which had fascinated her. Thankfully, her father had encouraged her reading, and as she watched him work, she’d learned how to apply what she’d read. One day, she was in her father’s office looking at the same paper as him. When he denied finding anything suspicious about it, she’d placed her hand over his, halting him from shifting the parchment to the side. The memory was still strong in her mind as she recalled the scent of his tobacco that clung to his jacket and the crackling of the fire in the hearth. There was a small discrepancy, one that was almost imperceptible, in the second line of the missive.
“Father, look.” She pointed a dainty finger and lightly traced the shape of the T. “See, it’s different from this one. Look at the slope and angle.” She paused as her father looked closer.
It was the first time she had spoken up, had dared to prove she understood and that she could apply such knowledge.
The earl had nodded his approval, made a note, and from then on, welcomed her assistance. They had worked together until he passed away suddenly and the War Office lost a valuable mind. Morgan, aware of her penchant for deciphering and studying handwriting, offered her an option for continuing the work she’d loved so well. He had begun working for the War Office the year before, under the careful watch of their father.
Through his connection, Morgan devised a plan—one that both protected her and set her free to do what she loved, an arrangement that made her feel like her father was still somehow close by. Her brother gave her a job.
The War Office was desperate for another analyst. And as it so happened, there was one available. Morgan said the person wished to remain anonymous and went by an alias: Saint.
It took some convincing, and a little hint that perhaps the anonymous person was actually Morgan, before the War Office agreed, but agree they did and Joan went to work.
Her learned skill wasn’t glamorous. She didn’t see visions like her namesake, or have waking dreams of archangels, nor did she anticipate saving all of Great Britain in some heroic crusade. No, but it was satisfying to make a difference.