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?”