Her keen eyes zeroed in on the taller man, blond and blue-eyed, who stood beside a ruined pillar of some ancient structure that had once been part of a pagan temple, or so Brother Thomas had said. She saw his angry expression as he swatted at biting flies that buzzed too close to his face, his mouth moving with words she couldn’t hear while wearing her earplugs. So she took them out.

“Damn vile country,” he spat, his English carrying the cultured lilt of a Brit like the monk who had taught her this language. Addressing the short dark man beside him, he added, “I’d kill that bitch for making me come here if I hadn’t already.”

Chalice winced at the words, but not because of their meaning. It was the sound of them that bit through her skull and vibrated painfully between her ears. She struggled to separate his voice from other noises nearby, like the buzzing flies, the rustling olive trees, the bleating goats in the courtyard. Head aching, she concentrated, focusing only on the sound of his voice.

“Faisal, radio the men. Make sure they’re in position.”

The little man named Faisal wore a striped hijab and when he nodded, the turban of fabric wobbled on his head like one of Cook’s gelatin molds.

A warning bell chimed inside her head, but she was too mesmerized by the Englishman, who now walked down the sloping, rocky path toward the chapel. The man held himself with confidence, not crouched in wariness like the men who’d been dressed as soldiers. This one wasn’t trying to hide. Father Thomas must be expecting him.

Chalice replaced her earplugs and inhaled deeply through pinched nostrils, hoping to catch a muted whiff of the foreigner, but he was too far away. If she removed the swimmer’s noseclips she wore, she’d be assaulted by the myriad smells outside, same as her ears had been overwhelmed by the sounds. She would wait until he came closer, making it easier to identify the scents on his clothes and body.

He whipped out a handkerchief from the pocket of his stiff khaki shirt, using it to mop his forehead and the back of his neck. He stepped through groping fingers of long shadows that crossed the dusty courtyard. Once he skirted the scaffolds leaning against the decaying chapel walls, he scowled up at a tent of heavy canvas that replaced large portions of the missing roof.

Holding the handkerchief over his nose, he maneuvered the steep steps down to the chapel entrance. A small goat trotted in front of him and he kicked at it, brushing at his crisply ironed slacks as if they’d become soiled.

Chalice scrambled down off the crate and scuttled barefoot along the uneven floor of a hallway leading to the chapel from inside the monastery. A thick wooden door stood slightly ajar in the arched doorway, and she crouched low beside it, peering through a two-inch gap to watch.

On the opposite side of the room, the Englishman stuck his head inside and called, “Anyone here?”

Brother Thomas, a short middle-aged man in a tan robe that fluttered around his ankles, hobbled toward the voice. He stooped as he walked, as if to avoid hitting his head on a low ceiling, though he cleared it by a good six feet or more. “May I help you?”

The man stepped inside and folded his arms across his chest. “I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

The monk frowned, then his leathery face broke into a smile. “Ah! Mr. Heinrich! You have arrived sooner than I expected. So pleased to finally meet you.” He introduced himself and bowed slightly, looking anxious while saying in heavily accented English, “You have come for our Chalice?”

Chalice swallowed the lump of ice that formed in her throat.

The man called Heinrich cocked a brow and leaned back on his heels. “I’ve come for the
girl --”

“Yes, yes,” Brother Thomas said, bobbing his head and stepping closer. “The girl, Chalice. That is her name.”

No. This wasn’t possible. Her home was here, in the monastery. She was going to grow up to be a knight in the Order of the Hatchet, just like her mother had been. She wasn’t going away with anyone.

“And the other item?” Heinrich asked.

Brother Thomas looked confused. “Other item?”

Heinrich appeared impatient and inhaled deeply, but relaxed his jaw as if to hide how tense he was. Chalice could see it in his eyes. His lips curved in a half smile as he said, “The iron object that looks like part of a cogwheel. It's the item my wife left with you before she died.”

“Of course, of course. Forgive me. I am old and my memory is not so good any more.” Brother Thomas chuckled, but quickly sobered as he cleared his throat. “Your wife said we should give it to the girl when she comes of age.”

When Heinrich stared down at his feet, the monk’s bright eyes softened, his expression sympathetic. “Forgive me, sir, for my late condolences on your loss.”

Chalice noticed that the man’s expression of anguish looked forced. He nodded and said softly, “Thank you.”

“How awful to learn of your wife’s tragic death from an old Lebanese newspaper. If we had known how to contact you when it happened...”

Head still down, he held up his hand in a halting gesture. “I understand.”

“I assure you we did all we could to save her, but she had lost so much blood from the gunshot wound in her back... Well, I suppose she was lucky her little plane crashed so close to the monastery. If it had not, we might not have been in time to save the child.”

Heinrich‘s audible swallow sounded authentic. “I’m in your debt, Brother Thomas. Your kindness won’t go unrewarded.”

Child? They couldn’t possibly be talking about her. Chalice knew her mother had bled to death after giving birth, but not from a gunshot wound. She assumed her mother had hemorrhaged and...

“Would you like to see your daughter now?”

“Chalice, is it?” Heinrich asked. “Yes, very much.”

Thomas turned away.

“Excuse me, Brother Thomas, but is Chalice aware of what her mother left for her?”

The monk stopped and faced him. Looking grim, he said, “No. Her mother asked us to keep it secret until she is old enough to take responsibility for herself. We have done so. Chalice knows nothing about it.”

Heinrich smiled, appearing relieved. “I’m happy to abide by my late wife’s wishes. Just bring me the object and I’ll keep it for Chalice until she’s an adult.”

The monk looked disconcerted, his eyes squinting with uncertainty, but he nodded and motioned toward another monk standing in the shadows. He spoke to him in Arabic, then said to the man, “Brother Francis will get it for you while I fetch your daughter.”

When Chalice saw Heinrich’s smug look she tasted bile at the back of her throat.

Brother Thomas was heading her way. She stood, rage at his betrayal making her body shake. Her first impulse was to run away, flee to the village and hide. But then what? She’d read about the outside world in the newspaper and understood how dangerous it could be for a thirteen-year-old girl alone. No one in the village knew her. She had no friends but the Maronite monks who had raised her.

While ideas for escape continued to elude her, Brother Thomas pushed open the chapel door. A thin smile twitched on his lips. “Chalice, my dear. I was just coming to get you.” His eyebrows tangled together in a concerned frown. “Is something wrong?”

He spoke to her in Arabic, and she replied in his language. “How could you?” she asked, her voice breaking.

Understanding shone in his eyes. “You heard us talking.”

“Yes, and I’m not going away with that man.”

“That man is your father.”

The pulse in her neck beat so hard she could almost taste it in her throat, and the instinct to run was getting stronger. Slipping a hand under her muslin shift, she fingered the knife sheathed in goatskin strapped to her thigh and was reassured by its presence.

He saw her do it. “None of that now, not today. I need you to behave. Your father has traveled thousands of miles from America --“

“America?” She set her anger aside for a second. She had always dreamed of visiting the United States. “But he’s English.”

Brother Thomas looked exasperated. “I am only thinking of what is best for you. We are monks, Chalice. We love you, but we have done all we can. You are growing into a young woman and deserve more than this.” He gestured at the crumbling walls, the hay-strewn hallway with the tilted floor, the cracked windows. “Mr. Heinrich is a rich man who can give you everything you need and want...”

Chalice glared at him, unable to stop the stinging tears that slipped free. She swiped them furiously from her cheeks and whispered harshly, “Now I understand. You sold me to him.”
“It is not like that,” Brother Thomas said, though guilt etched the seams of his weathered face. She knew that look because it was the same one she’d seen after catching him in a drunken stupor. “He is your father.”

“My mother would never marry a man like that,” she said, jabbing her finger toward the chapel. “He's pompous and cold.”

The monk wiped a hand down his face and sighed. “You do not know that.”

“And if he's my father, why did he bring bodyguards with him?”

Brother Thomas scowled. “Bodyguards?”

“Didn’t you see them? Six men are outside hiding behind rocks and bushes. What makes the Englishman so special that he needs their protection?”

He shook his head and shrugged. “Your father has great wealth and can afford to do whatever he likes. That's enough foolishness, Chalice. I need you to come with me now.”

Though she was still furious and had no intention of leaving with this man, curiosity brewed hot inside her. America. And he had known her mother. She must get closer to him, smell him...

continued . . .