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that it’s the oldest travel agency in New York City, specializing in trips to the wild places of the world under the auspices of Romany experts. Right?”

    “Absolutely correct. Did you happen to hear on the news what happened this past week?”

    “I’m sorry. I’ve been working almost nonstop . . .” Her longing gaze strayed toward the stone tablet.

    With brutal bluntness, he said, “The Gypsy Travel Agency’s building in SoHo was obliterated in a blast that took everything—all the books, all the knowledge, and most important and tragic, all of the experienced agents.”

    Her attention returned to him in a rush. “How horrible for you! Do the demolitions experts know who did it?”

    “There are a lot of theories, but no certainties.” At least, no certainties among the officials combing the site for evidence. Aaron and his friends knew all too well what had happened. “All the experts know is that the blast was tightly contained; nothing inside survived intact, yet the buildings around the Gypsy Travel Agency are untouched. The blast vaporized the agency.”

    “I’m so sorry to hear this.” Her voice grew thick. “You must be devastated.”

    “It’s difficult.” More difficult than he could explain.

    “So you want the prophecy to see if this tragedy was predicted?”

    “Exactly.”

    “And you’re looking for answers about the future?”

    “If possible.”

    “I’ll try and help.” Plucking a tissue from the box, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

    She was a woman easily touched by sorrow, and almost too easy to manipulate. “You say your mother taught you about prophecies, and your father scoffed at them,” he said.

    “My mother was an expert linguist, and she used that skill to translate prophecies. She believed certain prophecies were the work of accomplished seers. While she was alive, my father seemed to honor that belief, but once she had gone, my father taught me the hard truth. It is impossible to perceive which are genuine.”

    “Why?”

    “Because there’s a prophecy for everything. Everything that happens was predicted by someone.”

    “So all we need to do is go to the prophecy for today and we’ll know what’s going to happen tomorrow .”

    “Exactly. But if you would follow me into the stacks . . .” She led him into the rows of metal shelving. She stopped halfway between the door and her workstation, and gestured from one far end to the other. “These are the prophecies for this millennium. Look.” She took down a book, blew off the dust, and flipped it open to page twenty-seven. “In this manuscript, written in the Aramaic script, there is a prophecy that claims that today is the first day of the Apocalypse.” She looked up at him. “Somewhere in the stacks, there is a prophecy that says yesterday was the first day of the Apocalypse, and one that says tomorrow will be the first day of the Apocalypse. Every day of every year has a prophecy that claims the Apocalypse starts on that day. One of them is probably right—can you tell me which one?”

    He had understood the odds against success, but seeing it illustrated so graphically ripped the scales from his eyes. “Yet some prophecies have more value than others.” He argued because he had to. Because he and his friends desperately needed that prophecy.

    “If the prophet has a track record of success, yes. Or if the manuscript was created on rare media or by monks or etched into the walls of . . . of . . .” She waved her hands, looking for inspiration.

    “The Sacred Cave?” he suggested.

    “Exactly!”

    “Or if you can pinpoint the subject of the prophecy as being in the right place at the right time.”

    She thought about that, then nodded. “That would work. Or at least help.”

    “How did your mother decide which prophecies were real?”

    Rosamund smiled a fond smile, picked up a fine brush, and whisked it over the stone tablet. “She said it was important to look at all the