"Cheese?" Bliss asked, confused, while Oliver and Schuyler chuckled.
"We'll tell you later," Schuyler promised.
A little while later, Bliss and Schuyler remembered they had an appointment with the Stitched for Civilization crew to go over their photographs, so they left Oliver for the rest of the afternoon. The new advertisement was going to be rolled out on a billboard in Times Square the next week, and Jonas wanted to show them the final image they'd chosen.
During the meeting, Schuyler's cell phone rang. "It's Oliver," she told Bliss. "I should get it." She excused herself from the table. "What's up?" she asked.
"Come back, I think I've found something," he said, the excitement palpable in his voice.
When they returned to the Repository, Oliver showed them what he'd found. It was a slim, leather-bound book. "It was hidden so far back in the stacks I almost missed it. It's a diary, by a woman who was one of the original settlers in Plymouth. See what she says…"
They read the pages, documenting the journey across the sea, the foundation of the colony, her husband's trip to Roanoke, and the final, frantic entry. The writing was almost incomprehensible, as if the writer had been almost too frightened to write the words on the page.
But there it was.
CROATAN.
"A single word, written in a message on a tree." Oliver intoned. "They are here. We are not safe."
"It's happened before," Schuyler said. "That's what Jack told me. It must have happened then as well. That must be what she is talking about. What they were frightened of."
"You're right. Croatan must mean something—they're scared of it. It has to be the key." Oliver said.
"Croatan," Bliss said, the word rang distant alarm bells in her memory. "I think I've heard of it somewhere." Her brow furrowed. “And she talks about Roanoke. You remember Roanoke, right?"
"I'm not real good at history, actually," Schuyler apologized. "But it had something to do with a missing colony, right?"
"The Lost Colony," Oliver agreed. "I don't know why it didn't occur to me before. It was the original colony, settled several years before Plymouth. But they all disappeared. There was nothing left of the colony."
"Right. They all died, remember? Nobody ever found out what happened to them. It's an unsolved mystery of American history," Bliss added. "Like the JFK assassination."
"They must have been Blue Bloods," Oliver said.
“And they were all killed. At least, Catherine Carver seemed to think so." Schuyler nodded.
"Is that all there is?" Schuyler asked.
"There's just one more page," Oliver said, showing them the last page of the diary. "About some kind of election or something. Here she writes, 'Flee or stay? Well, we know what happened. They stayed. The Blue Bloods stayed. We wouldn't be here if they hadn't. Myles Standish—whoever he is, he must have won."
"There's nothing more about Croatan, or Roanoke, or anything?" Bliss asked, taking the diary and flipping the pages.
"No. That's it. The diary just ends. Like the pages have been torn out and someone doesn't want us to know about it, or something. But I did find something. Look here, there's a list of the last people who've borrowed it."
They looked to where he was pointing. There was a yellow flap listing the names of the Blue Bloods who had borrowed the diary.
"Most of them are so old, they're gone by now. But look at the final one."
Schuyler peered at the borrower list. The final signature contained three letters written delicately in fine script: CVA. 12/24/11.
"Whoever borrowed this did so in 1911, and that means, they're—"
"Over a hundred years old by now," Bliss interrupted. "How do we know they're still in this cycle?"
"It's possible. Anyway, it's the only chance we've got," Oliver said.
"CVA?" Bliss asked. "Who's CVA?"
"CVA," Schuyler repeated. The letters were familiar, as was the spidery writing. "Those are my grandmother's initials. CVA. Cordelia Van Alen. And it looks like her handwriting. I'm sure of it."
"You think she borrowed this book? Maybe she knows something about it?" Bliss asked.
Schuyler shrugged. "I don't know, but I could ask her."
“When is she getting back from Nantucket?" Oliver asked.
"Tomorrow. I'm supposed to meet her at the Conservatory lunch. I almost forgot," Schuyler said.
"So, Oliver, this Croatan thing, that's what's behind Aggie's death?" Bliss asked.
"I think so," Oliver said. “Although I still don't know what it is."
"But even if we did find out, it still doesn't do anything for Dylan. Even if Croatan is what killed Aggie, how are we going to prove Dylan didn't do it? How are we going to prove he's been set up?" Bliss asked.
"We don't," Oliver said. "I mean, you guys don't. I don't know how much help I can be."
"What do you mean? You've already done so much," Schuyler protested. She gave him an admiring glance that made him blush.
"Research, yes. I can do research. That's what we're good for, but I can't do anything to help with the plan."
“What plan?" Bliss asked, amused.
Oliver looked so serious and purposeful for a second. He had dropped his glib jokes for once. "We've been acting as if the system works for us. It doesn't. You need to think like Blue Bloods. We're never going to convince anyone to let Dylan out based on what we know. So we do something else," Oliver said.
"What?"
"Bust him out."
CHAPTER 35
The Central Park Conservatory luncheon was one of the most important events on Cordelia's social calendar. It was held in a ballroom at the Plaza, and was already well under way when Schuyler arrived. She checked in at the registration table and found her grandmother seated in the center with well-preserved luminaries on either side.
"My granddaughter, Schuyler," Cordelia said, looking pleased.
Schuyler pecked her grandmother's cheek. She took a seat at the table, removing a program from her chair.
The yearly luncheon raised a significant sum for the upkeep and maintenance of the park. It was one of the Blue Bloods most cherished causes. It had been their idea to bring nature to New York, to bring an oasis to the heart of the city, a simulacrum of the Garden they had been banished from so long ago. Schuyler recognized many of the grande dames and socialites from The Committee meetings flitting about from table to table, greeting guests.
"Cordelia—what's Croatan?" Schuyler demanded, breaking in to the gossipy chitchat.
The table went silent, and several ladies raised their eyebrows at Schuyler and her grandmother.
Cordelia startled at the word. She broke the roll she was holding in two. "This is neither the time nor the place, young lady," she said quietly.
"I know you know. We saw it in one of the Repository books. It had your initials in them. Cordelia, I have to know," Schuyler whispered fiercely.
At the podium, the mayor was thanking the ladies of the conversancy for their generous donations and efforts to keep Central Park a vibrant and beautiful place. There was a ripple of applause, under which Cordelia admonished her granddaughter.
"Not now. I will tell you afterward, but you will not embarrass me at this function."
For the next hour, Schuyler sat glumly, picking at the herb chicken on her plate and listening to a host of speakers describe the new activities and developments planned for the park. There was a slide show on the new art exhibit, and a presentation on the restoration of Bethesda Fountain.