“Mother, is something wrong?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“Mother, talk to me-please. Look, a reporter’s been asking me about your friend Rachel Stein. I know she was with Senator Ryder on Saturday at Lincoln Center. Ryder was also supposed to meet with a Dutchman by the name of Hendrik de Geer. Have you ever heard of him?”

Catharina sprinkled flour on the wooden rolling pin and slammed it down on the dough. She had yet to glance up, to see her daughter in her lavender hair and raccoon coat. She was the rock of Juliana’s existence, her stability, the one thing she could count on in her frenzied life not to change, and something was desperately wrong. More than a visit from a friend she hadn’t seen in a long time, more than a daughter asking too many questions. Juliana had never seen her mother so withdrawn and uncommunicative.

“Mother?”

“You should be in Vermont, Juliana. You need rest.”

“I wish you’d talk to me. Look, don’t I have a right to know what’s going on?”

Still not looking up, Catharina banged the rolling pin on the counter.

“Mother, what is it?”

“Rachel,” she said at last. “She’s dead.”

“Oh, my God-I’m so sorry. What happened?”

Still Catharina didn’t look up, still she continued to work. “She fell outside Lincoln Center and hit her head and died. It was in the papers this morning.” The words came out machine-gun style, but more heavily accented than was usual for her. “The police say it was an accident. That Rachel slipped on the snow and ice.”

Juliana worked at controlling her breathing, a relaxation technique she often used before a performance. “How awful,” she said. But something inside her told her not to believe it. Did Stark know? Had the bastard been playing games with her?

With the top of a bent wrist, Catharina brushed wisps of white-blond hair off her pale, sweaty forehead. A bit of flour stuck in her eyebrow. The tight anger seemed to disappear all at once, and Juliana watched the pain and grief descend, filling the soft eyes with tears and drawing out the lines in the attractive face. Her lower lip began to tremble, and then her hands. She quickly began to smooth the flattened, ruined dough with her fingers.

“Go to Vermont,” she said. Finally, she looked at Juliana but didn’t even see the hair or the coat. “Please.”

“Mother, what aren’t you telling me? I wish you’d be honest-”

“I am being honest!” Her head shot up, and more curls fell into her face, but the tears hadn’t spilled out from her eyes. They shone in the dim light. “I’ve lost a good friend, Juliana. I don’t want to burden you with my sadness.”

“That’s bullshit, Mother,” Juliana said quietly.

Catharina picked up the rolling pin.

“You just want to get rid of me. You don’t want me in town. Why not? Is it because of what happened to Rachel?”

“Don’t be silly.” Catharina tried to smile, but there was too much fatigue and sadness-and terror-in her face. “Rachel’s death was a tragic accident.” Her voice cracked. “She was a childhood friend, Juliana, my friend. I know I’m not being myself, but-her death has nothing to do with you.”

“Why did she come to New York?”

Catharina sighed. “To see me.”

“And Senator Ryder?”

“I know nothing about that. Rachel knew many powerful people, including senators. Now she’s dead. Whatever business she had with Senator Ryder is none of our affair. Take your vacation, Juliana. You look tired.”

“You hadn’t seen Rachel Stein in a long time, and she shows up in New York just like that?”

“It’s easy to lose track of people as you get older.”

“Mother-”

Catharina abandoned her ruined dough. “That’s the end of it, Juliana. It’s finished. Did you see I made chicken pies today?” She brushed back a fallen curl. “Something new. Take one with you to Vermont.”

“Mother, dammit.”

But under the best of circumstances Catharina Fall was closemouthed-discreet, she called it. At the moment, however, Juliana wasn’t sure she had much room to criticize. She had never told her mother about Uncle Johannes’s visit backstage seven years ago, about his gift-if one wanted to call it that-of the Minstrel’s Rough. Her mother knew the Minstrel existed, knew the four-hundred-year-old tradition. All the Peperkamps did. But Uncle Johannes had advised her not to mention the Minstrel to her mother, and she never had.

My God, where will this end?

“What about Father? Does he know any of this?”

A dumb question, she thought. Catharina Peperkamp Fall told her husband as little as she did her daughter-unless he’d been feigning innocence all these years.

“Know any of what?” Catharina countered. “There’s nothing to know.”

“Well,” Juliana said in a falsely cheerful voice, “I suppose the Dutch don’t have their reputation for stubbornness without foundation.

“Go to Vermont,” her mother said. “And wash your hair first.”

Of course she wouldn’t ask why it was lavender to begin with. Juliana said goodnight. On her way out, she didn’t take a chicken pie.

Ten

M atthew took the shuttle back to Washington and headed straight to the Gazette. It wasn’t the first time he’d shown up in a newsroom after hours, but his colleagues on the Gazette didn’t know that. He ignored their curious looks and went over to Aaron Ziegler’s desk.

“Burning the midnight oil, Ziegler?”

The young reporter looked up at Stark and nodded, his expression betraying a mix of eagerness and nervousness. “I’ve got your information. I didn’t tell Feldie, but she knows I’m doing some research for you.”

“She around?”

“No.”

“Good. Give me what you’ve got.”

“I haven’t written anything up yet.”

“That’s okay. Just spit it out.”

Ziegler, his rep tie loosened, consulted a steno book on his neat desk. Stark remained standing. He didn’t know what to do to make the kid less nervous, so he didn’t do anything.

“The world’s largest uncut diamond naturally varies from time to time because it doesn’t stay uncut for very long-unless you’re talking about the Minstrel’s Rough.” He glanced up, his eyes questioning Matthew.

Stark said, “I don’t know if I am or not. Give me what you’ve got.”

“Well, it sounds pretty farfetched.”

“Don’t worry about that. If it’s not what I’m looking for, I’ll just keep digging.”

“All right. Supposedly ‘the world’s largest and most mysterious uncut diamond’ is the Minstrel’s Rough.”

“Supposedly?”

“That’s just it: no one’s ever been able to verify the thing even exists. It’s been rumored to exist for the last four or five hundred years, and there have been a number of unconfirmed sightings of it. Nothing can be substantiated, but I gather it’s not supposed to be. Part of the legend-the mystery-is that the Minstrel can never be proven to exist. That way no matter how big the current biggest uncut diamond is, people will always wonder if there’s one bigger.”

“The Minstrel.”

“Right.”

“Sounds like a lot of bullshit, Ziegler.”

“I know. But the mystery surrounding the Minstrel adds to its symbolism. Supposedly it’s in the hands of caretakers who’ll never cut it, in remembrance of those who have suffered persecution and hatred. In other words, it’s a reminder that no story is more important than human life. Which brings me to the Minstrel’s ‘alleged’ potential as a cut and polished stone. Not only is it huge, but it’s an ice white.”

“What’s that?”

“The highest grade of diamond, as close to pure and colorless as possible. If the Minstrel does exist and ever is found and cut, it could be worth millions. Over the centuries there’ve been countless sightings and loads of attempts to track it down, but still no Minstrel. But the material I’ve read treats it strictly as legend.”