Langdon’s jaw dropped as the truth hit him.

Edmond wasn’t a drug addict.

He was secretly fighting a deadly cancer.

CHAPTER 53

AMBRA VIDAL STOOD in the soft light of the attic apartment and ran her eyes across the rows of books lining the walls of Edmond’s library.

His collection is larger than I remembered.

Edmond had transformed a wide section of curved hallway into a stunning library by building shelves between the vertical supports of Gaudí’s vaults. His library was unexpectedly large and well stocked, especially considering Edmond had allegedly planned to be here for only two years.

It looks like he moved in for good.

Eyeing the crowded shelves, Ambra realized that locating Edmond’s favorite line of poetry would be far more time-consuming than anticipated. As she continued walking along the shelves, scanning the spines of the books, she saw nothing but scientific tomes on cosmology, consciousness, and artificial intelligence:

THE BIG PICTURE

FORCES OF NATURE

ORIGINS OF CONSCIOUSNESS

THE BIOLOGY OF BELIEF

INTELLIGENT ALGORITHMS

OUR FINAL INVENTION

She reached the end of one section and stepped around an architectural rib into the next section of shelves. Here she found a wide array of scientific topics—thermodynamics, primordial chemistry, psychology.

No poetry.

Noting that Winston had been quiet for some time now, Ambra pulled out Kirsch’s cell phone. “Winston? Are we still connected?”

“I am here,” his accented voice chimed.

“Did Edmond actually read all of these books in his library?”

“I believe so, yes,” Winston replied. “He was a voracious consumer of text and called this library his ‘trophy room of knowledge.’”

“And is there, by any chance, a poetry section in here?”

“The only titles of which I’m specifically aware are the nonfiction volumes that I was asked to read in e-book format so Edmond and I could discuss their contents—an exercise, I suspect, that was more for my education than for his. Unfortunately, I do not have this entire collection cataloged, so the only way you will be able to find what you are looking for will be by an actual physical search.”

“I understand.”

“While you search, there is one thing, I think, that may interest you—breaking news from Madrid regarding your fiancé, Prince Julián.”

“What’s happening?” Ambra demanded, halting abruptly. Her emotions still churned over Julián’s possible involvement in Kirsch’s assassination. There’s no proof, she reminded herself. Nothing confirms that Julián helped put Ávila’s name on the guest list.

“It was just reported,” Winston said, “that a raucous demonstration is forming outside the Royal Palace. Evidence continues to suggest that Edmond’s assassination was secretly arranged by Bishop Valdespino, probably with the help of someone inside the palace, perhaps even the prince. Fans of Kirsch are now picketing. Have a look.”

Edmond’s smartphone began streaming footage of angry protesters at the palace gates. One carried a sign in English that read: PONTIUS PILATE KILLED YOUR PROPHET—YOU KILLED OURS!

Others were carrying spray-painted bedsheets emblazoned with a single-word battle cry—¡APOSTASÍA!—accompanied by a logo that was now being stenciled with increasing frequency on the sidewalks of Madrid.

Apostasy had become a popular rallying cry for Spain’s liberal youth. Renounce the Church!

“Has Julián made a statement yet?” Ambra asked.

“That’s one of the problems,” Winston replied. “Not a word from Julián, nor the bishop, nor anyone at all in the palace. The continued silence has made everyone suspicious. Conspiracy theories are rampant, and the national press has now begun questioning where you are, and why you have not commented publicly on this crisis either?”

“Me?!” Ambra was horrified at the thought.

“You witnessed the murder. You are the future queen consort and the love of Prince Julián’s life. The public wants to hear you say that you are certain Julián is not involved.”

Ambra’s gut told her that Julián could not possibly have known about Edmond’s murder; when she thought back to their courtship, she recalled a tender and sincere man—admittedly naive and impulsively romantic—but certainly no murderer.

“Similar questions are surfacing now about Professor Langdon,” Winston said. “Media outlets have begun asking why the professor has disappeared without comment, especially after featuring so prominently in Edmond’s presentation. Several conspiracy blogs are suggesting that his disappearance may actually be related to his involvement in Kirsch’s murder.”

“But that’s crazy!”

“The topic is gaining traction. The theory stems from Langdon’s past search for the Holy Grail and the bloodline of Christ. Apparently, the Salic descendants of Christ have historical ties to the Carlist movement, and the assassin’s tattoo—”

“Stop,” Ambra interrupted. “This is absurd.”

“And yet others are speculating that Langdon has disappeared because he himself has become a target tonight. Everyone has become an armchair detective. Much of the world is collaborating at this moment to figure out what mysteries Edmond uncovered … and who wanted to silence him.”

Ambra’s attention was drawn by the sound of Langdon’s footsteps approaching briskly up the winding corridor. She turned just as he appeared around the corner.