Marina tried to make herself invisible. She moved toward the hallway. Raya lingered, drawn like a moth to the parchment. She did not know why, but something pulled her closer.
Allerton began to speak. “This manuscript, Mr. Langston, predates the earliest known treaty drafts by nearly five decades. We have private investors in Boston who are eager to move, but we thought of you first. It belongs here, with your collection. With your legacy.”
Everett nodded slowly. The numbers were spoken next. Eight figures. Murmurs of historical significance. A promise that whoever controlled this document could reshape academic understanding. A monumental moment.
Raya listened. Then her eyes drifted to the manuscript. She froze. The lettering was neat, almost hypnotic. But one detail clawed at her attention. A diacritic above a letter that should not exist in that century. A mark she recognized from her great-grandfather’s notes. A detail not yet standardized in the era this document supposedly came from.
Her heart pounded. Her palms dampened. She remembered Sergeant Rosewood’s words, written in faded ink on yellowed pages: “Liars write loudly. The truth is quiet. But it leaves a signature if you learn how to see it.”
Raya bit her lip. She was eleven. No one here would hear her. But something in her refused silence.
She approached the table. Marina reached for her arm, whispering, “Raya, no. We are here to work. Please.”
Everett looked up at her. His brow creased. “Can I help you, young lady?”
Raya inhaled. “Sir, that document is not from the fifteenth century.” Her voice did not tremble. “The mark above the letter S, right there, was not used in American English until much later. That symbol did not appear until printing reforms. The parchment also has fibers from a species of tree that was not processed that way at that time.”
Silence fell. Allerton blinked. Then he chuckled. It was not a pleasant sound. “Mr. Langston, with respect, you cannot let a child derail a negotiation of this magnitude. This is absurd. Perhaps she watches too many television shows.”
Everett did not smile. “Raya. How do you know this?”
She swallowed. “My great-grandfather. He studied manuscripts. He taught me how to read what is there, not what we want to see. Sometimes, forged documents use details from the wrong century. Sometimes the ink pretends to be old but the letters betray the truth.”