She trembled as she worried if he were about to say goodbye. But then something caught his eye, and his line of vision suddenly shifted. He looked at her neckline, and seemed transfixed. He reached out, and she felt his fingers brush her throat. She felt metal. Her necklace. She had forgotten she was wearing it. He lifted it and stared. “What is this?” he asked softly. She reached up and put her hand over his. It was her cross, her small, silver cross. “Just an old cross,” she answered. But before she’d finished saying the words, she realized: it was old. It had been in her family for generations. She hadn’t remembered who gave it to her, or when, but she knew it was ancient. And that it had belonged to her father’s side. Yes. It was something. Maybe even a clue. He stared intently, examining it. “This is no normal cross,” he said. “Its edges are curved. I haven’t seen one like this for a thousand years. It is the cross of Saint Peter,” he stared, mesmerized. “How did you get this?”
