“Curious said Dorothy, in fact—on this occasion. I’m sure you noticed how many ‘king’s daughters’ are mentioned. It’s piqued my interest, yes. I must run. Call me when you hear. Emma’s on a pledge to bleep me.”

Lucy rifled through the bundle of pictures, pulling out the two Alex had nominated. She placed them in front of Simon. “Focus on these. Alex says the number thirty-four is in there somewhere and that his grandmother wrote—or copied—this one herself. It’s her typewriter, apparently. My pride will be mortified if we can’t find the connection.”

Simon downed the last of his coffee, then bent his head to join her over the sheet.

“It’s particularly this bit about the twister and the girl and the Madonna’s robe. Is it something to do with the life of one of the saints?” Lucy searched in her Catholic upbringing for what she could remember about the lives of the earliest martyrs. “Maybe there’s a Rapture-relevant event that happened in AD 34?”

Simon read aloud: “‘The history of the state is written on the flag—and all begins in the silk of the same hue as the Madonna’s robe.’”

“Well, a state sounds much more modern to me. A dozen possibilities exist, but the most obvious is surely the United States. What color is the Madonna’s robe?”

Lucy was animated. “Oddly, they have the gown the Madonna is said to have worn when she gave birth to Christ at Chartres. I saw it—a particular treasure. It’s white; but in art history Mary is usually depicted in a blue robe to represent heaven, of which she is queen. And her robe proper, or habit, might be red: so take your pick.”

“Clear as mud, Lucy. You’ve just offered me red, white, and blue. Enough flags there for a summit meeting. How about this ‘twister’ in the next bit? It’s a tornado, right?”

They read in unison: “‘The little girl in the path of the twister looked up at the gathering storm—a veritable tempest blew. Without its weather the story would never have taken off. The smell of the orange blossom is like a walk through a field of sunflowers—one of which has been plucked and placed center stage. The brickwork matches, but the shoes do not.’”

“Let’s put a sunflower center stage, then.” Lucy entered the word in a search engine on her computer, and Simon scanned the opening data.

“Begins blooming in July…Eleven species of sunflower found in…Kansas. That’s interesting. It’s the state flower, it says here. Awarded 1903.”

“The color of a sunflower is yellow, which will make the brickwork yellow.” Lucy flew on at another angle, grabbing her cell phone simultaneously, while Simon usurped her seat and added a new search. “But the shoes are a different color…” She drifted into a new vapor of thought, as the line connected.