by Stuart Gibbs
Greg winced. “I guess.”
“Where does such a book come from?” Aramis asked.
“Um, I brought it with me.” Greg remembered his promise to himself to tell the truth whenever possible. “It’s my great-great-grandfather’s diary.”
“Incredible.” Aramis turned the book over in his hands, amazed. “It must be quite old. And yet it’s made with a process I’ve never seen before.”
“Yes, well, to be honest, I’m curious about it myself.” Greg reached for the diary, but Aramis stepped back and flipped to the first page.
“I can see why.” Aramis peered intently at the neat handwriting. “Your great-great-grandfather wrote in English, for one thing. . . .”
“You can read that?” Greg cried. And all this time I’ve been speaking French? he wanted to add.
Aramis nodded, studying the page carefully under the candlelight. “I can read English far better than I can speak it. It appears he also used a cipher. . . .”
Greg’s jaw dropped. “You can tell that just from looking at it?”
“Well, I have some knowledge of ciphers. The church has used them for centuries to protect documents of great importance. As a cleric, I routinely translate them. This appears to be a basic word-skip cipher.” He handed the diary back to Greg and tapped the numbers at the top of the page.
Greg squinted at them, baffled.
4/7
“I’m sorry . . . I don’t understand,” Greg said. “What do you mean by word-skip?”
“Often, if there is a cipher within a book, the first page will give the key to decoding it,” Aramis explained. “The key will be hidden at first glance, of course. But consider the date: Four/seven.”
“Right. April seventh.”
“Well, I was going to say the fourth of July,” Aramis muttered, sounding amused. “But perhaps in Artagnan you prefer your dates backward. In any case, the year is missing. Why is that, do you suppose?”
“I have no idea,” Greg admitted, though he was secretly glad Jacob hadn’t written the year. Aramis would have freaked out if he’d seen something like 1885.
“Because it really isn’t a date. It’s a clue to deciphering the text. In the simplest form, it’s telling us to read only the fourth word, then the seventh, then the fourth again, and so on.” Aramis plucked a charcoal pencil from the desk and quickly underlined a series of successive words, skipping in clumps of four and seven.
4/7
In any life, there comes a time for introspection. This is my time. Or more importantly, to detail what I know. Here now, perhaps more than ever, it is important that pen meets paper. This is the task I will undertake for thine eyes.
“‘There is more here than meets the eyes,’” Greg read, amazed. But the excitement of the discovery faded quickly. “That’s all?”
“It’s merely another clue,” Aramis said. “What else do you find mysterious about this diary?”
“Most of the pages are blank.”
“Ah! That is interesting.” Aramis flipped through the last half of the book, holding the paper so close to the candle that Greg was worried he’d singe it. “Yes, very interesting indeed.”
“What?”
“Someone has written on these pages.” He handed the book back to Greg. “You can still see the slight indentations and scratches from the writing implement even though it was done long ago.”
Greg looked closely and saw the faint scratches. “You still can’t read it.”
“‘There is more here than meets the eyes,’” Aramis quoted with a chuckle.
Greg suddenly understood. “It’s invisible ink?”
“Yes.” Aramis sniffed the pages. “Of a vinegar base, I believe. Invisible inks are not uncommon in the church either.”
“Then—”
“Yes, I can make them appear,” Aramis cut in, as if reading Greg’s mind. “Though first, I’m going to need a cabbage.”
“A cabbage?! Why would you . . . ?” Before Greg could finish the thought, Aramis held a finger to his lips.
Greg fell silent and listened. The wooden staircase leading up to the garret was creaking. Footsteps. Aramis dropped to the floor and peered down through a knothole in the wood. “It’s Richelieu and his soldiers!” he gasped. “They’ve found us!”
Chapter Eighteen
GREG HADN’T BEEN THAT IMPRESSED BY THE HEIGHT OF Notre Dame when he’d first seen it, back in the twenty-first century. For one thing, it was dwarfed by the Eiffel Tower. It was also shorter than half the buildings in New York City. But now that he was skittering across the peaked roof toward the two bell towers, it seemed very tall indeed. One false step and he’d wind up tumbling through the cold Paris night and leaving a dark stain on the street.
Dinicoeur and his men had blocked the stairwell, so Greg and Aramis had been forced to flee across the roof. In truth, Greg couldn’t tell if Dinicoeur or Richelieu was the one in pursuit; he hadn’t gotten a look at the hand. Not that it mattered. He was in trouble either way. Aramis had grabbed his most cherished belongings—a crucifix and a vial of holy water—then kicked out the window grating and clambered out onto the ledge. Greg grabbed the diary and the matches and followed.
Fortunately, Notre Dame had been built to allow people to move among every part of it. The cathedral was intended to last for eternity, with the understanding that it would require maintenance. And so Greg and Aramis were able to navigate a tricky exterior network of ledges and open catwalks—and even steps up the steep slant of the roof—though Greg’s knees started to feel like jelly. The ledges were thin, the steps were slippery, and every few feet Greg found himself face-to-face with a gargoyle.
From the street, the gargoyles appeared as small as toys, but up here Greg found they were the same size as he was. There were a few angels among them, but most were monstrous: griffins, chimeras, dragons, goat-people, winged monkeys, and bug-eyed homunculi. Half were making hideous faces, sticking out tongues or baring fangs. Greg couldn’t imagine what possible reason anyone would have for putting such things on top of a church.
Greg decided to scramble after Aramis on all fours to maintain his balance. It didn’t help much. His hands were trembling and his palms were sweaty. As they neared the bell towers, a chunk of the slate roof broke off beneath Greg’s feet and skittered down the roof. He watched it sail into the night and disappear. There was a disturbingly long period of silence before he heard it shatter on the ground.
“They’re up on the roof!” several voices cried far below.
Greg froze in his tracks.
Aramis glanced over his shoulder. “This way!” he hissed, pointing to the left-hand bell tower. Greg had no choice but to follow. He could see the guards racing to the front door of the cathedral. There was only one way to escape: up.
Upon entering the tower through a tiny window, Greg found himself chasing Aramis up a treacherous, winding staircase. The wood was slick with something slimy . . . and with a shudder, Greg realized what. Hundreds of doves and bats lived in the belfry. They left their droppings wherever they could.
Greg squinted toward the dark ceiling. There in the shadows hung Emmanuel: the gigantic Notre Dame bell. Greg remembered it from French history back at Wellington Prep. In 1615, it was probably the largest bell ever cast, weighing more than fourteen tons. The clapper alone was over a thousand pounds and the size of a wrecking ball. The rope used to ring Emmanuel stretched all the way to the base of the tower.
Greg’s feet skidded on the poop-slicked steps, his hands clutching at the flimsy excuse for a railing. Below, he heard the soldiers enter the bell tower, confer, and then laugh. Seconds later, the stairs began to creak under their booted footsteps.
“Why don’t you boys make life easy on yourselves and just give up?” a gleeful voice shouted from the base of the tower.
Valois! Greg shot a panicked glance at Aramis. Neither boy could see a thing in the darkness below.
“If you try to fight, you’ll die!” Valois called
. “Try anything else and you’ll fall to your deaths. You have no choice but to surrender. The king commands it!”
Greg frowned. The king commanded it? How would Louis even know what was going on?
The boys reached the top landing and edged around to the far side of the bell. The walkway ended abruptly, a single spindly rail preventing them from dropping ten stories to the stone floor. Greg could hear the soldiers coming up the stairs quickly below. They were trapped—
“D’Artagnan!” Aramis hissed. “You’re good at climbing walls, yes? So I assume you can shimmy a rope?”
In a flash, Greg understood what Aramis was driving at. His jellified knees grew even weaker. “You don’t mean—”
“There’s no other way out,” Aramis hissed.
Greg’s grip tightened around the railing. The soldiers were drawing closer. The fragile wooden scaffolding buckled and jerked under their weight. Aramis’s idea was risky, but it still seemed far preferable to being caught by Valois or Dinicoeur. “I’ll try,” Greg agreed.
“Good, then wait for my signal,” Aramis instructed. He fell silent after that. The footsteps drew closer. The jeering cries grew louder. The scaffold began to tremble so much that Greg thought it might disintegrate. When Valois’s men made it to the highest landing, Greg caught a blade flash in a sliver of moonlight that spilled into the belfry.
“Now!” Aramis whispered, shoving the heavy rope into Greg’s hands.
It was nearly four inches thick. Greg clung to its rough surface as tightly as he could. He swung off the landing and over the abyss. . . .
Greg squeezed his eyes shut. His weight on the bell rope made Emmanuel swing.
BONG . . .
The deafening clang of the bell was a painful thunderclap in his ears. Emmanuel slammed into the soldiers on the far side of the landing. Some tumbled back down the stairs; others clung to the railing. Greg wrapped his legs around the rope and slid down, down, down as fast as he could. He felt the rope jolt as Aramis leaped on above him and followed.
It was a pretty brilliant plan, Greg realized. (Well, in spite of the fact that he might suffer permanent hearing damage and severe rope burns . . . But whatever; he could deal.) The rope was their escape route to the bottom, and Aramis had guessed correctly that the soldiers would be unable to communicate with the bell’s racket.
Greg glanced upward. Uh-oh. Not every soldier was out of commission. Valois was hacking at the rope with his sword. Several strands frayed with each slice.
“Aramis!” he shouted at the feet descending above him. “Hurry!”
In the echo chamber of the tower, he could barely hear himself. Greg shimmied faster now. His palms and thighs chafed and his arms and legs were cramping, but he ignored the pain. Down he went, hand over hand—and suddenly the rope jolted. Valois must have been close to severing it. Which meant . . . Greg’s blood ran cold.
The soldiers have orders to kill me. Period.
No. Wait. That wasn’t right. There was no way Dinicoeur or Richelieu could have known Greg had snuck back to Aramis’s room. Which meant they were looking for Aramis. But how did they know who he was? No one had mentioned his name in the king’s quarters; Richelieu had ordered his guards to arrest the boys immediately upon seeing them. Which meant Richelieu had recognized the other boys. Somehow he already knew who they were.
Either that, or Milady de Winter had given him the information earlier that night.
Greg tried to shake the thought away. If he couldn’t escape, then everybody else would surely end up dead: his parents, for starters . . . although Porthos and Athos might end up dead even sooner. After all, Porthos was easier to find than Aramis. His family was well-known. Had Dinicoeur and Richelieu already tracked him down at his country estate? Porthos and Athos could have been under attack right at that moment. If Dinicoeur was here, posing as Richelieu, then the actual Richelieu could be there, commanding a separate unit of soldiers at the same time. . . .
Greg was so caught up in his thoughts, he didn’t notice he’d almost made it to the bottom of the bell tower until he saw the floor just below him. He dropped the last few feet, almost kissed the cold stone in relief . . .
But froze at the sound of steel being unsheathed.
Dinicoeur was waiting for him.
Greg knew it was Dinicoeur, not Richelieu. The fake hand was gloved, but Greg could see how the madman favored the real one. He held his sword in his left as he sprang from the doorway. Greg scrambled away as the blade clanged against the stone but found himself backed against the wall. There was nowhere else to go. Dinicoeur blocked the only exit.
So this is it, Greg thought with a strange detachment.
In the movies, the bad guy always said something dastardly before killing someone. Not Dinicoeur. He simply looked annoyed, as though Greg were keeping him from a dinner date. He lunged forward, slashing with his sword—
Aramis dropped right on top of him. The two tumbled in a heap on the floor.
Greg noticed the bell rope suddenly go slack.
He dashed into the center of the room, grabbing Aramis and yanking him toward the door. Greg spun to see Dinicoeur stand up, his freakish dark eyes blazing in the shadows. He lifted his sword—
And the thick, massive bell rope, cut free by Valois above, flattened him.
Greg drew in a deep breath. Aramis didn’t wait around. He dragged Greg out of Notre Dame and into the Parisian night. Behind them, even with the bell still clanging, they could hear Dinicoeur’s scream of rage. Despite their aching legs, neither stopped running. They fled across the closest bridge onto the mainland, not quite knowing where they were going.
Aramis finally skidded to a halt. He had gone pale with fear. “That man,” he panted. “He’s not Richelieu’s twin.”
“Of course he is,” Greg panted back. “They look exactly alike.”
“Even so, he can’t be. He’s not . . . He’s not human.”
Greg tried to swallow. “What do you mean?”
“That bell rope is ten stories tall. It might weigh hundreds of pounds. It should have crushed him, falling from that height. But he was still very much alive.”
Greg didn’t want to believe Aramis. But he had to admit that the cleric had a point. “So what should we do?” he asked.
“Do you still have that diary?”
Greg checked his pocket. His great-great-grandfather’s book was still there. “Yes.”
Aramis wiped his brow. “Then let’s find a cabbage and get some answers.”
Chapter Nineteen
ALTHOUGH IT WAS THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, ALL OF Paris seemed to be awake. Notre Dame’s bell usually only rang during the day. The unexpected commotion caused the streets to flood with people. Gossip and rumors spread like wildfire: The city was under siege and the bell was a call to arms; the queen-to-be had finally arrived and the bell was a call to celebrate; the king had died and the bell was a call to mourn.
Aramis and Greg snaked their way through the crowds. They were virtually the only people in the city who weren’t staring at the bell towers. Aramis led them across a creek that stank of something other than human waste. Even in the moonlight, Greg could see that the water was discolored from dyes; it was shiny and slick. He also noticed several fish bobbing belly-up.
“Where are you taking us?” Greg asked.
“My uncle’s place,” said Aramis. “He makes cloth, like my father.”
They arrived at a sturdy three-story home that backed onto the poisoned creek. A stout, graying man and woman stood whispering outside—surrounded by half a dozen children ranging in age from toddler to teenager. The entire family, as well as everyone else on the street, had red hands. Greg understood in an instant: They were permanently stained from clothing dye. What a life these people led. . . .
The man lit up upon seeing Aramis.
“Now we’ll get some answers!” he exclaimed to the crowd. “This is my nephew! He’s a cleric at Notre Dame. He must know what happened.”
A gasp rippled through the crowd.
“By who?” his aunt asked.
“Thieves seeking to steal from the church. We rang the bell and frightened them off.”
The crowd gasped again. Anyone who dared rob the cathedral was certainly doomed to a horrible afterlife. Aramis quickly answered a flurry of questions. No, the thieves hadn’t got away with anything. Yes, he was quite sure they weren’t Protestants or witches, though they might be enemies of the king. Yes, it had been frightening. In fact, he didn’t feel like returning there tonight. Perhaps he could rest in his uncle’s home?
“Of course, my boy, you are always welcome here,” his uncle replied, and ushered the two inside—away from the prying eyes of the neighbors. The children scurried in after them and shut the door.
The first floor of the house was devoted to the actual making of cloth, with a small storefront. The second seemed primarily used for dining, with a large table and a pot hanging over a wide stone fireplace—whose coals were still hot. The bedrooms were on the third floor. Aramis’s uncle and aunt generously offered the boys their bed, but Aramis respectfully declined.
“We’re both too shaken from tonight’s events to sleep, I think,” he said. “If it’s all right with you, I think we’d prefer to just sit by the fire.”
“Thank you so much for taking us in,” Greg added.
The old man and woman peered at Greg curiously, but said nothing and bowed, smiling. “It’s nothing,” they replied in unison, as if embarrassed to be thanked. They plodded up to the third floor, waving their brood of children after them.
Once the family had vanished upstairs, Greg hissed at Aramis, “Now what’s all this about a cabbage?”
“Red cabbage has a mystical property,” Aramis explained. He made a beeline for the larder. “When you make water from it, it magically reveals certain invisible inks.”