“Fair point.” Ava poured a bit of sugar into her own cup and stirred. “So, what’s your theory?”
“It’s a coded message,” he said quietly. “Presumably from the Resistance.”
“There are fifty-eight displaced letters.” Ava glanced around the small café to ensure no one was within earshot. “I’ve tried to rearrange them every way I could think possible.”
James shook his head and lowered his voice to a whisper despite no one being nearby. “The Resistance uses a new poem every week. But I think you’re looking at this wrong, as it’s based on numbers.” He pulled the newspaper toward him once more. “The typo is in place of another letter. Take the letter that should be there and use the number from its location in the alphabet. Once you have the numbers listed and the poem code they used, you’ll have a way to deduce the message. See? The letters have their own system of decoding.”
Ava didn’t precisely see, but he did and that was what mattered. After all, she’d always understood literature and words far more than numbers and math. But none of his efforts would be effective without the correct poem.
“I can help, if you like,” James offered. “Especially if I’m with you in the mornings.” He gave her a grin that should have rankled her. But there was something hopelessly charming about the way his eyetooth was slightly crooked and the stalwart determination of his persistence.
She gave a dramatic sigh. “If you insist.”
“I do,” he replied without hesitation.
“Although I have no idea where to obtain the necessary poem from.” She lifted a brow. “Any suggestions, Sherlock?”
He smirked. “I’d presume the very source you collected this newspaper from will have what you need.”
Otto did not know which to use, but in the span it took Ava to help serve a meal—much to Ethan’s appreciation—he was able to find someone who knew the precise poem used for coding the week the paper was drafted.
“Mignonne allons voir si la rose” by Pierre de Ronsard.
The following morning, Ava waved James into her building and brought him up to her small apartment where they could talk without the risk of being overheard. It wasn’t until he was walking through her front door that she realized the intimacy of having him join her where she lived.
Peggy was far better at accessorizing her home than Ava. The small space appeared nearly the same now as it had when Ava first moved in, with the exception of a neat row of books on the shelf and a green sweater slung over the back of a dining room chair.
“I’m not much of a decorator.” Ava self-consciously grabbed the sweater and pulled it on for lack of a place to stow it before motioning for him to join her at the table.
A notepad and pen were there waiting, perfectly parallel to one another with each number of the alphabet for the fifty-eight letters printed neatly along the top. Below that was the sixteenth-century poem.
“If you prefer to decorate with books rather than scattered jackets and shoes, I assure you, I shan’t judge.” He gave her an easy smile and slid into one of the chairs at the dining room table.
Ava sat next to James who leaned back to allow room for her to watch as he unraveled the code. He smelled like soap and warm sunshine despite the chilly November day.
Head lowered, he got to work. He used the first five letters, assigning numbers to where they lay in the standard alphabet. From there, he found the corresponding word in the poem that matched that number. Those five words were written out and somehow James deduced a fresh alphabet based off that order.
Ava watched, equal parts perplexed by the complexity and awed by how quickly he worked through it. He wrote a new line beneath the block of squares he’d created for the new alphabet, his writing messy and bold.