Nicholas nodded. He too had showered and changed into one of his almost identical combinations of black jeans and T-shirts. This shirt had the iconic Dark Side of the Moon design on the front. “Everything organic is starting to rot,” he said. He held up a hideously tie-dyed T-shirt. It was dusted with mold spores, and much of the bottom half of the shirt had decayed to curling threads. Even as he held it up for inspection, one of the arms tore away. “I got that at Woodstock,” he complained.

“No, you didn’t,” Perenelle corrected him. “You bought it in a vintage store on Ventura Boulevard about ten years ago.”

“Oh.” Nicholas held the destroyed shirt up again. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. You didn’t go to Woodstock.”

“I didn’t?” Nicholas sounded surprised.

“You didn’t go when Jethro Tull decided not to attend and Joni Mitchell pulled out. You said it would be a waste of time.” Perenelle smiled. She was busy with the lock on a heavy steamer trunk at the foot of the bed. “In fact, you said that several times.”

“Something else I was wrong about, then.” He looked around the bedroom and then pressed his foot against the floorboards. “I don’t think we should hang around here. I’ve a feeling the floor could give way at any moment.”

“I just need a minute.” The fist-sized lock clicked open and the woman heaved the lid back. The faint odor of roses and exotic spices filled the air. Nicholas joined his wife and watched as she carefully brushed dried rose petals off the leather-wrapped bundle within. “Do you remember when we last packed up this box?” she asked softly, unconsciously slipping back into French.

“New Mexico, 1945,” he said immediately.

Perenelle nodded. Peeling back the leather covering, she revealed an ancient-looking carved wooden box. “You wanted to bury it at the Trinity Site so that the first atomic bomb would destroy it.”

“And you would not let me,” he said reminding her.

Perenelle looked up at her husband and a shadow moved behind her eyes. “I am the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. I know…” She paused, and a look of terrible sadness touched her face. “I know certain things.”

Nicholas rested his hand lightly on her shoulder and squeezed. “And you knew we would need these items?”

Perenelle looked back at the box without answering and then lifted the lid. Inside lay a thick coiled silver and black leather whip. She wrapped her long fingers around the dark handle and lifted it, the leather rasping and creaking softly together. “Now, here’s an old friend,” she murmured.

Nicholas shuddered. “It is detestable.”

“Ah, but it saved our lives on more than one occasion,” Pernelle said, winding it around her waist, threading it through the loops on her jeans like a belt. The handle hung down by her right leg.