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Bérenger asked wryly.
    “Of course. Monsieur Alistair was a fine man, much loved by the people of the villages. And by my father, and myself.”
    Sinclair nodded with a small smile. Roland would say so, of course. The French giant was a son of the Languedoc. His own father was from a local family with deep roots in its legendary soil and had been Alistair’s majordomo at the château. Roland was raised on the château grounds and understood the Sinclair family and their eccentric obsessions. When his father passed away suddenly, Roland stepped into his shoes as the caretaker of Château des Pommes Bleues. He was one of the very few people on earth whom Bérenger Sinclair trusted.
    “If you do not mind me saying so, we were working across the hall and heard you — myself and Jean-Claude. We heard you speak the words of the prophecy.” He looked at Sinclair quizzically. “Is something wrong?”
    Sinclair crossed the room to where an enormous mahogany desk dominated the far wall. “No, Roland. Nothing is wrong. In fact, I think things may finally be very, very right.”
    He picked up a hardcover book that rested on the desk, showing the cover to his servant. It was a modern, nonfiction book cover, with a title that announced:
HerStory.
A subtitle read:
A Defense of History’s Most Hated Heroines.
    Roland looked at the book, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
    “No, no. Turn it over. Look at this. Look at
her.
”
    Roland turned the book over to reveal a back-cover photo of the author with the caption
Author Maureen Paschal.
    The author was an attractive, red-haired woman in her thirties. She was posed for the photograph with her hands resting on the chair in front of her. Sinclair ran his hand over the cover, stopping to point out the author’s hands. Small, but visible on the right ring finger, was the ancient copper ring from Jerusalem, with its planetary pattern.
    Roland looked up from the book with a start. “Sacre bleu.”
    “Indeed,” Sinclair replied. “Or perhaps, more accurately, Sacre rouge.”
    Both men were interrupted by a presence in the doorway. Jean-Claude de la Motte, an elite and trusted member of the Pommes Bleues inner sanctum, looked at his comrades questioningly. “What has happened?”
    Sinclair gestured for Jean-Claude to enter. “Nothing yet. But see what you think of this.”
    Roland handed the book to Jean-Claude and pointed out the ring on the author’s hand in the back-cover photograph.
    Jean-Claude removed reading glasses from his pocket and scrutinized the photo for a moment before asking in a near whisper, “
L’attendue
? The Expected One?”
    Sinclair chuckled. “Yes, my friends. After all these years I think we may have finally found our Shepherdess.”

…I have known Peter since my earliest memories, as his father and mine were friends, and as he was very close to my brother. The temple at Capernaeum was near to the home of Simon-Peter’s father and it was a place we visited often as children. I remember playing a game there, along the shore. I was far younger than the boys and I often played alone, but the sound of their laughter as they wrestled with each other is something I can still remember.
Peter was always the more serious of the boys, his brother Andrew having a lighter heart. And yet there was humor in both of them when they were young. Peter and Andrew lost that lightness entirely after Easa was gone, and they had little patience for those of us who clung to it for survival.
Peter was much like my own brother in that he took his family responsibilities very seriously, and as he grew into manhood, he transferred that sense of responsibility to the teachings of The Way. He had a strength and singleness of purpose that was unmatched by any but the teachers themselves — this is why he was trusted so highly. Yet as much as Easa taught him, Peter struggled against his own nature more ferociously than most people would ever know. I believe that he gave up more