Prologue The phone rang again, the fourth time. I skidded on the slippery tile as I rounded the corner, then nearly tripped over my mastiff, Barkly, who was cooling his two-hundred-pound carcass on the kitchen floor. Reaching over Barkly for the phone, I accidentally tipped over the chipped mug that held a collection of kitchen implements. Amid a clattering of spatulas and wooden spoons, I jerked up the receiver. "Hello?" "Miss O'Connor?" Grimacing, I lunged over Barkly and bent to pick up a wooden spoon before he decided to chew it. Only telephone solicitors call me "Miss O'Connor." I'd just destroyed my kitchen and nearly broken my neck for the chance to subscribe to Southern Fly-Fishing or prepay my funeral at cut-rate prices. "Yes?" I frowned into the phone. "Listen, I'm really very busy--" "I won't take much of your time, Miss O'Connor." The man sounded slightly apologetic. "But I've just finished reading your work, and I must say it surpasses anything I ever expected." My breath caught in my throat as I finally identified the voice. "Professor Howard? You read The Silver Sword? " "But of course, my dear." I could hear a smile in his voice. "And I was most impressed by your scholarship and attention to detail. Your work seemed very precise, quite well documented." I clutched the telephone cord and leaned back against the counter, momentarily forgetting about Barkly, about the book I'd been reading, about everything. Professor Henry Howard liked my work! What had begun last semester as a silly little research paper on piebaldism--the condition that had produced a distinctive streak of white hair above my left ear--had grown into a major undertaking. "Thank you, sir," I stammered. "I had no idea other such women had descended from Cahira O'Connor," he went on. "How on earth did you find them?" "I just typed the words 'O'Connor' and 'piebaldism' into an Internet search engine," I muttered, stating the obvious. "And there they were, all four--Cahira, Anika, Aidan, and Flanna. Suddenly Cahira's deathbed prayer made sense. She had begged heaven that her descendants might break out of their courses and restore right in a murderous world of men." "Incredible," he murmured. "I was very impressed. If you had been my student, I would have given you the highest possible mark. The manuscript read more like a novel than a research project." "Well." Completely at a loss for words, I shifted my weight and leaned against the counter. "Thanks very much, Professor. Praise from you is high praise. I appreciate it." Silence rolled over the phone line, and I could almost see the professor lifting his brow, tapping his pen on the desk, carefully choosing his words. "You mentioned in your cover letter that you plan to continue your research," he finally continued. "Might we meet for lunch one day this month to discuss what else you've discovered? I'm curious to understand how the past might affect your future." "I don't know that it will," I countered. Ever since we met, I had been bothered by the professor's vision of me as some sort of twenty-first century Joan of Arc. "I know you think I'm one of Cahira's descendants, but I have nothing in common with either Anika of Prague or Aidan O'Connor." The professor politely ignored my protests. "You also mentioned my assistant, Taylor Morgan.&r Excerpted from The Golden Cross by Angela Elwell Hunt All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
