“This is a chunk of Coleridge, Lucy. From The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” Simon was seeking a connection, when a taut expression from his companion made him set the paper down again abruptly. “Have you seen a ghost?”

“Simon, how could they have known? This must have been written years ago. It’s Calvin: do you remember where he’s been studying?”

Her face was ghastly, and they said with absolute synchronicity: “Kansas!”

But the word was dwarfed by another sound: Alex’s cell phone.

Lucy breathed deeply, then picked up calmly. “This is Lucy King.” Her voice was rock steady.

“Ah, what a nice surprise. You slipped below our radar for a day or two.” It was the voice of the man to whom she had been an unwilling companion on Friday night, and she chalked up the information he’d just—perhaps unwisely—let slip.

“Very ill-advised of you to make an enemy of Dr. Stafford. That was a crass gesture yesterday. I’d have had you down as a man of more subtlety.” Lucy had gauged the American Frenchman as a man of ego, and explored this ground with him now.

“My aide, whom you had the pleasure of meeting, can occasionally be clumsy executing orders. Which, however, you’d do well to bear in mind.”

“And I’d have seen you as a man in much tighter control of your team.” She shot Simon a look and saw he was impressed, which emboldened her. “Now, let’s make arrangements. Don’t imagine you can do any of this without Dr. Stafford. You know he’s implicit in the whole design of this quest. He is sewn into the saga, and you can’t surgically remove him. If you’ve been sharp enough to solve any of the riddles, you’ll know it would be better for you to work with him, not to lose him completely.”

“A valid point, Miss King. But don’t underestimate our reach. We have long arms.”

“Well, let’s see if they’re long enough to scratch your own back. Shall we decide how to proceed?”

Simon grinned. Her adversary had met his match.

HE COULD TASTE SALT IN THE SHARP CLEAR AIR. THE VISTA STRETCHING away from him had a band of tight daffodils coming into bloom at the bottom, a thin ribbon of sand above that, and a broader swathe of varying blues at the top broken with minute dots of white. From the veranda overlooking the garden there was a long view out to sea, and it was here that Faith Petersen set the coffeepot down with a padded cover for insulation. It was impossible to miss the chance for lunch outdoors with her son on a day as fine as this one. She settled in the cane chair and pulled a quilt over her legs.

“Does this mean you can’t get home in a couple of weeks for Easter?”