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"Grand-père," Sophie said, hugging him. "I'm really sorry about the key."
"I know, sweetie. You're forgiven. I can't possibly stay mad at you. Grandfathers and
granddaughters always forgive each other."
Sophie knew she shouldn't ask, but she couldn't help it. "What does it open? I never saw a key like
that. It was very pretty."
Her grandfather was silent a long moment, and Sophie could see he was uncertain how to answer.
Grand-père never lies. "It opens a box," he finally said. "Where I keep many secrets."
Sophie pouted. "I hate secrets!"
"I know, but these are important secrets. And someday, you'll learn to appreciate them as much as I
do."
"I saw letters on the key, and a flower."
"Yes, that's my favorite flower. It's called a fleur-de-lis. We have them in the garden. The white
ones. In English we call that kind of flower a lily."
"I know those! They're my favorite too!"
"Then I'll make a deal with you." Her grandfather's eyebrows raised the way they always did when
he was about to give her a challenge. "If you can keep my key a secret, and never talk about it ever
again, to me or anybody, then someday I will give it to you."
Sophie couldn't believe her ears. "You will?"
"I promise. When the time comes, the key will be yours. It has your name on it."
Sophie scowled. "No it doesn't. It said P.S. My name isn't P.S.!"
Her grandfather lowered his voice and looked around as if to make sure no one was listening.
"Okay, Sophie, if you must know, P.S. is a code. It's your secret initials."
Her eyes went wide. "I have secret initials?"
"Of course. Granddaughters always have secret initials that only their grandfathers know."
"P.S.?"
He tickled her. "Princesse Sophie."
She giggled. "I'm not a princess!"
He winked. "You are to me."
From that day on, they never again spoke of the key. And she became his Princess Sophie.
Inside the Salle des Etats, Sophie stood in silence and endured the sharp pang of loss.
"The initials," Langdon whispered, eyeing her strangely. "Have you seen them?"
Sophie sensed her grandfather's voice whispering in the corridors of the museum. Never speak of
this key, Sophie. To me or to anyone. She knew she had failed him in forgiveness, and she
wondered if she could break his trust again. P.S. Find Robert Langdon. Her grandfather wanted
Langdon to help. Sophie nodded. "Yes, I saw the initials P.S. once. When I was very young."
"Where?"
Sophie hesitated. "On something very important to him."
Langdon locked eyes with her. "Sophie, this is crucial. Can you tell me if the initials appeared with
a symbol? A fleur-de-lis?"
Sophie felt herself staggering backward in amazement. "But... how could you possibly know that!"
Langdon exhaled and lowered his voice. "I'm fairly certain your grandfather was a member of a
secret society. A very old covert brotherhood."
Sophie felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She was certain of it too. For ten years she had tried to
forget the incident that had confirmed that horrifying fact for her. She had witnessed something
unthinkable. Unforgivable.
"The fleur-de-lis," Langdon said, "combined with the initials P.S., that is the brotherhood's official
device. Their coat of arms. Their logo."
"How do you know this?" Sophie was praying Langdon was not going to tell her that he himself
was a member.
"I've written about this group," he said, his voice tremulous with excitement. "Researching the
symbols of secret societies is a specialty of mine. They call themselves the Prieuré de Sion—the
Priory of Sion. They're based here in France and attract powerful members from all over Europe. In
fact, they are one of the oldest surviving secret societies on earth."
Sophie had never heard of them.
Langdon was talking in rapid bursts now. "The Priory's membership has included some of history's
most cultured individuals: men like Botticelli, Sir Isaac Newton, Victor Hugo." He paused, his
voice brimming now with academic zeal. "And, Leonardo da Vinci."
Sophie stared. "Da Vinci was in a secret society?"
"Da Vinci presided over the Priory between 1510 and 1519 as the brotherhood's Grand Master,
which might help explain your grandfather's passion for Leonardo's work. The two men share a
historical fraternal bond. And it all fits perfectly with their fascination for goddess iconology,
paganism, feminine deities, and contempt for the Church. The Priory has a well-documented
history of reverence for the sacred feminine."
"You're telling me this group is a pagan goddess worship cult?"
"More like the pagan goddess worship cult. But more important, they are known as the guardians
of an ancient secret. One that made them immeasurably powerful."
Despite the total conviction in Langdon's eyes, Sophie's gut reaction was one of stark disbelief. A
secret pagan cult? Once headed by Leonardo da Vinci? It all sounded utterly absurd. And yet, even
as she dismissed it, she felt her mind reeling back ten years—to the night she had mistakenly
surprised her grandfather and witnessed what she still could not accept. Could that explain—?
"The identities of living Priory members are kept extremely secret," Langdon said, "but the P.S.
and fleur-de-lis that you saw as a child are proof. It could only have been related to the Priory."
Sophie realized now that Langdon knew far more about her grandfather than she had previously
imagined. This American obviously had volumes to share with her, but this was not the place. "I
can't afford to let them catch you, Robert. There's a lot we need to discuss. You need to go!"
Langdon heard only the faint murmur of her voice. He wasn't going anywhere. He was lost in
another place now. A place where ancient secrets rose to the surface. A place where forgotten
histories emerged from the shadows.
Slowly, as if moving underwater, Langdon turned his head and gazed through the reddish haze
toward the Mona Lisa.
The fleur-de-lis... the flower of Lisa... the Mona Lisa.
It was all intertwined, a silent symphony echoing the deepest secrets of the Priory of Sion and
Leonardo da Vinci.
A few miles away, on the riverbank beyond Les Invalides, the bewildered driver of a twin-bed
Trailor truck stood at gunpoint and watched as the captain of the Judicial Police let out a guttural
roar of rage and heaved a bar of soap out into the turgid waters of the Seine.
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