by Stuart Gibbs
Upon hearing this bizarre pronouncement, Greg had a faint recollection from his seventh-grade chemistry class. Certain vegetable pigments would turn colors when combined with an acid . . . like vinegar. Aramis had smelled vinegar on the diary pages. If the writing was in vinegar ink, cabbage would make it appear.
Greg realized there was no kitchen in the house. What would they have put in it, a dishwasher? A fridge? They didn’t even have sinks yet. Instead, there was only a shelf with the family’s few plates and utensils and the larder, a large wooden box that doubled as a bench and held the few foods that could last for a while without spoiling.
Aramis dug through it, tossing aside a trove of root vegetables—carrots, parsnips, and leeks—before yanking out a lone red cabbage. Greg chopped the cabbage into fine pieces on the scarred dining table while Aramis filled a flask from the local well. They poured the water into the pot over the fireplace, and when it reached a boil, they dropped the cabbage bits into it.
“This will take a while,” Aramis explained. “We have to wait until all the color has been leached from the vegetable.”
Greg nodded. He began pacing the hot, stuffy room impatiently.
After fifteen minutes, Aramis found a feather from a previous chicken dinner on the floor and stuck the feather end into the boiling purplish liquid. “Now watch,” he murmured.
Greg’s eyes widened as Aramis gently brushed a thin sheen of cabbage water over the first blank page of the diary. Almost instantly, the faint lines of the century-old writing began to appear in purple. Aramis then held the paper closer to the fire. The heat sped up the reaction, and the lines darkened.
“Holy cow,” said Greg.
Aramis tore out the first page and handed it to him. Then he set to work, painting cabbage water on the next page. Greg read as quickly as he could.
Greetings, dear reader.
You have now discovered the true purpose of this diary: To detail the startling information I have discovered about my family. Before I begin, I feel it is necessary to state for the record that I, Jacob Rich, am of sound mind. The tale that follows may seem outrageous, the ravings of a lunatic.
But I assure you that every word of it is true.
My family emigrated from France to Connecticut in 1642. Our family name was Richelieu. We chose to shorten it to Rich upon arrival in Connecticut, in order to assimilate among the British. We are direct descendants of Dominic Richelieu, who served in the court of King Louis XIII and was brother to Cardinal Armand Richelieu.
Greg set the paper down, shocked. He felt nauseated. Dominic Richelieu was his direct ancestor. Greg didn’t want to believe it was possible, but somehow, he knew it was true. Grandpa Gus had the same dark eyes that Dominic did.
Aramis tore out the next page and shoved it into Greg’s hands.
Dominic was by all accounts a wicked man who used his position as chief of the king’s guard to amass wealth. Anyone who dared to challenge him was sent to the gallows. He even plotted against Louis XIII, planning a coup with the king’s deposed half brother, though mercifully he was thwarted. Ultimately Dominic framed his coconspirator for the crime. Louis XIII and Armand Richelieu, then the bishop of Paris, believed his ruse. Thus Dominic gained even more political power.
Dominic also gained powers that were far more sinister. He dabbled in the Dark Arts, experimenting with sorcery and witchcraft. His intent as I understand it was to live forever and enjoy his ill-gotten lucre for all eternity.
Of paramount importance for you to know is this: Dominic succeeded in his quest.
Sometime during the Year of Our Lord 1630, he came to possess an ancient relic known as the Devil’s Stone. In the mists of antiquity, the crystal had been broken into two pieces. When joined as a whole, the Devil’s Stone was rumored to perform many miracles: strike people dead in an instant, turn lead into gold, even open portals in time. I cannot give credence to any of these rumors, though I swear on my own grave: The stone did give Dominic Richelieu the gift of eternal life.
However, Dominic’s greed was his own undoing. He couldn’t resist one last chance to line his coffers, and framed a small nobleman for consorting with the enemies of France. Dominic intended to send this man to the gallows and take the man’s property for himself. But he chose his mark poorly. The noble was the friend of a man named Porthos, who is still known today as one of Alexandre Dumas’ famed Three Musketeers.
Dumas claimed that he based the exploits of his Musketeers on real men. I can assure you this is the truth, although this particular tale was unknown to the writer.
Porthos, along with his fellow Musketeers Athos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan, exposed Dominic’s plot to the king, who ordered him arrested. Dominic nearly escaped. He tried to use the Devil’s Stone to kill the Musketeers and might have succeeded had D’Artagnan not sacrificed his own life to save the others.
The page slipped from Greg’s trembling hands. D’Artagnan sacrificed his life? Did that mean . . . ? He couldn’t think about that. He didn’t know what it meant.
Aramis handed the final three pieces of torn diary paper to Greg. “That’s all there is,” he murmured. “The rest of these pages are not inscribed.”
Greg devoured the words as fast as he could.
Before Dominic could attack again, Athos sliced off the hand in which Dominic held the crystal, rendering him powerless. The Musketeers quickly subdued him. Dominic was then stripped of his fortune and sent to prison in the Bastille, where his gift of eternal life became his curse.
Over the decades, the guards at the Bastille became aware there was a prisoner who never aged and never died, and this terrified them so much that they locked him away in the deepest, darkest pit, avoiding any contact with him.
As for the Devil’s Stone, Dominic’s own brother, Cardinal Richelieu, oversaw its ruin. The stone was cleaved in two once more. The Cardinal chose to disperse both halves to opposite ends of the earth. I do not know the fate of one half, though many rumors about it exist: It was carried on a ship to the Indian Ocean and tossed overboard in the deepest trench of the sea; it was hauled to the rim of Mount Vesuvius and plunged into the molten lava in the belly of the volcano; it was spirited away along the Silk Road to the farthest reaches of China. Whatever the case, it has never been seen again.
Yet I do know the fate of the other half.
This was entrusted to Dominic’s son, a man named Stefan who had been born out of wedlock and who had long since turned his back on his father’s nefarious ways. Stefan was dispatched to the New World with a stake of money and a single mandate: He was to take his half of the Devil’s Stone and ensure that it never returned to France.
Stefan was my ancestor. Our family profited greatly in the New World, amassing a considerable fortune. In the years hence, there are some family members who have felt that perhaps the stone itself has had a hand in our success. These members have triumphed over others who believed the stone should be destroyed once and for all. Thus it remains in our family to this day under our protection.
I wish I could say that the story ends there, but there is one more twist in this ugly tale. In 1789, the French Revolution began with the storming of the Bastille. Many prisoners were freed. A hideous madman from the deepest pit was rumored to be among them. I cannot say for sure if this was Dominic, but there is no record of his death at the Bastille.
As the centuries have slipped by, there are many who have come to believe that the story of Dominic Richelieu is merely a ridiculous bit of family folklore. I can understand their point of view. But I know it to be true. The truth has been passed directly down from Stefan Rich, as has the mission: Protect our half of the Devil’s Stone at all costs.
Perhaps Dominic Richelieu still walks the earth, a tormented soul whose plans to live forever in wealth and luxury were dashed by the Musketeers. Perhaps he plots to somehow wreak revenge on their descendants. Whatever the case, it is imperative that he never recover both halves of the Devil’s Stone again.
&nb
sp; With this, I reach the end of the sad saga of the Richelieu family, save for one last important note. Hopefully, you will never have to confront Dominic, but if you do, there is something else you must know. . . .
At that point, the entry ended. His heart racing, Greg frantically flipped the pages over and then whirled toward Aramis. The cleric shrugged and shook his head. Greg frowned. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how to track down the missing message. There was too much else to deal with. But now at least one crucial piece of the puzzle had been solved . . . and in a way, everything else made sense in its wake.
Michel Dinicoeur wasn’t Dominic Richelieu’s twin. He was Dominic Richelieu. Now that he’d traveled back through time, there were two of him.
Of course. In the centuries that had elapsed since Dominic was freed from the Bastille, he had created a new identity for himself, and used his knowledge of medieval France to obtain a respected position at the Louvre in modern-day Paris. Biding his time, he’d tracked down the two pieces of the Devil’s Stone. Greg didn’t know how he’d acquired the first, but as for the second . . . Well, his family had practically handed it right over.
Somehow, the great all-important mission of his family had been forgotten over time. They’d gone from protecting the stone to wearing it as jewelry . . . and finally to dismissing any warnings about bringing it back to France, chalking that superstition up to the delusional silliness of an old man. Now the two halves of the Devil’s Stone had been reunited, allowing Dominic to open a portal in time to the past. He’d since teamed up with his younger self.
And they were plotting revenge on the Musketeers.
Last time, Dominic had managed to kill only D’Artagnan. Him. After tonight, there was no doubt Dominic and Michel were trying to kill all of them . . . before they became the Musketeers. Greg’s thoughts returned to Porthos and Athos. Where were they? Were they even still alive?
He glanced at Aramis and discovered that he, too, had been reading the diary pages as they’d slipped to the floor. Now, the cleric stared at him, aghast.
“So, D’Artagnan,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me where you’re really from?”
Chapter Twenty
THERE DIDN’T SEEM TO BE A POINT TO LYING ANYMORE and besides, Greg was tired of it.
“I’m from the future,” Greg admitted. “But you figured that out, didn’t you?”
Aramis nodded. He swallowed, inching back toward the fire, as if Greg had a contagious disease. “What’s written in the diary . . . It’s the only way to explain how Dinicoeur survived in the bell tower tonight. He’s immortal. And the only way he could be here now is if he used the Devil’s Stone to travel through time. If he could do it, you could do it. It explains much about you. You’ve never seemed . . . well, quite right to me, begging your pardon.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve never seemed quite right to me either,” Greg mumbled tiredly. “Even in my own time.”
“One part that’s puzzling to me . . . ,” Aramis began. He ran a hand through his mop of hair. “We become Musketeers? Why do we use muskets? They’re a very clumsy form of weaponry.”
Greg laughed in spite himself. “I don’t know why you’re called Musketeers. I’d never thought about it. You’re much more famous as swordsmen.”
“How far in the future are you from?”
“About four hundred years.”
Aramis looked up, stunned. “And people still know of us then?”
“Like my great-great-grandfather wrote, there were books written about you in the nineteenth century. By a man named Alexandre Dumas.”
A smile flitted across Aramis’s face. “And we’re the heroes?”
“Yes.”
“So . . . do you know what happens to us?”
“Uh . . . No. Even though Dumas said the stories were based on real people, I’m pretty sure he made up a lot. I mean . . . in the books, the Musketeers already knew one another and were much older when D’Artagnan showed up. Dominic isn’t even mentioned and . . .” Greg caught himself. He’d forgotten until now, but Milady de Winter was also a character in the Dumas novels. (Honestly, Greg hadn’t paid much attention to the female characters; he was more interested in the fight scenes than any romance.) More importantly, she had been the wife of either Athos or Aramis. To his annoyance, Greg couldn’t remember which—but he did recall that she’d betrayed her husband. There was no point to burdening Aramis with any of that, however. Besides, it might not even be true.
“And what?” Aramis asked.
“And besides, now that Richelieu has jumped through time, the story probably isn’t the same anyhow,” Greg finished. He believed what he was saying—as much for his sake as for Aramis’s. “I think he’s changing history.”
“Is he? Because you followed him . . . and you’re D’Artagnan. How could you be in the story if this hadn’t happened before?”
Greg realized Aramis had a point. He slumped at the bench beside the kitchen table and rubbed his temples. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ve always been D’Artagnan. Or maybe I replaced the other one somehow. Whatever the case, I’m pretty sure what’s happening now has never happened before. . . .” Otherwise, I’ll end up dead very soon, he was tempted to finish. But he refused to allow himself to believe that.
“Why not?”
“Because Richelieu is trying to change history,” Greg explained. “He came back to kill you—and the other Musketeers—before you could ruin his life. Don’t you see? If you’re dead, if we’re all dead . . . then he doesn’t go to the Bastille. Then he stays rich and powerful forever.”
Aramis nodded. “That’s the revenge he plotted over all those years. He found both halves of the Devil’s Stone?”
“Yes. You see . . .” The whole crazy story of the past few months tumbled out of Greg’s mouth in a garbled rush. How his family had lost everything and then received a mysterious invitation to France from Michel Dinicoeur. How he seemed strange from the beginning, wearing old-fashioned clothes and introducing himself as I, Michel Dinicoeur. How he already had the first half of the crystal, but had duped his family into giving up the second. How they’d followed him through the painting into the past . . .
“The stone creates a time portal by making an image come to life?” Aramis asked.
Greg shrugged. “I guess. I’ve seen it happen only once.”
“So it only works in one direction then? You can only go to the past? Because you’d need an image of the future to return to the future.” He sighed sadly, averting his eyes. “And there can’t be any paintings of the future in the past.”
Greg sat upright, suddenly flooded with excitement. “Not necessarily.” His cell phone was still back in Aramis’s little attic room. (Presuming Valois and his men hadn’t destroyed it.) It wasn’t as useless as he’d assumed; he’d stored photos on it. If the Devil’s Stone could make a portrait of the past come to life, perhaps it could also make a photo of the future do the same.
Which meant Greg and his parents could return to the future . . . if they had the Devil’s Stone. But they didn’t. It had been left in the future. Which meant they’d have to find both halves here in the past if they ever wanted to go home again. And Greg had no idea where to even begin looking for them.
Greg wondered if you could bring the stone through the portal with you. Perhaps that had been Richelieu’s original intent: He would only visit the past long enough to kill the Musketeers, then return to the future. If that were the case, then Greg’s family had messed up those plans. No wonder Richelieu had been so angry with them after they’d followed him through the painting. Now he was trapped in the past, too. . . .
Greg suddenly realized what Richelieu might be plotting.
“What’s wrong?” Aramis asked.
Greg snapped to attention, aware he’d been lost in thought. “Nothing. I was just thinking about Richelieu.”
“So was I.” Aramis plucked a piece of paper from the floor and scribbled out some words in a d
iagram. “You’re right about Richelieu. He’d been revealing himself to you all along, even in the future.”
Greg gasped, amazed. “It’s an anagram.”
“Precisely,” Aramis concurred. “It figures; he’s proud and vain. But to the more vital matter: If he came back here to find us and kill us, then in a sense, we’ve made his work easier for him. We’ve practically walked right into his hands.”
“I know.” Greg’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’m the one who brought you all together.”
“It’s nothing to be upset about. He would have tracked us down quickly enough anyhow. And now, thanks to you, we’re all a team. We don’t have to fight him alone—”
“The others!” Greg was suddenly on his feet. “If Richelieu came after you, then he might have—”
“Gone after them. I know. We can only pray that they’ve escaped. Thankfully, Athos is a far more formidable warrior than either of us—or anyone under Richelieu.”
Greg was already halfway to the stairwell. “But even if they’ve escaped, where do we find them again? No one’s home is safe anymore. And we never came up with a place to meet up in case of emergencies. And . . .” He couldn’t even finish the thought. Without Athos and Porthos, rescuing his parents from La Mort was impossible. Which meant they might as well be dead.
“We will find them.” Aramis tried his best to sound confident, even though his voice didn’t sound entirely sure. “And we’ll rescue your parents. But even after we do that, we’ll still have to deal with Richelieu. Remember, he has the entire king’s guard behind him, while we’re only four boys. He’s already destroyed our names and reputations. I can’t return to Notre Dame. The others can’t go to their homes. Soon we won’t be safe in the city. And what then? Even if we flee into the countryside, he’ll find us sooner or later. What sort of life is that, being on the run forever?”
Greg shook his head, panic seeping through every pore in his body. “So what do we do?”