London, British Museum, Spring 1896
Laura returned the previous manuscript with some reluctance.
The attendant checked its shelfmark against the request slip, wrapped the vellum once more in its protective cloth, and laid it onto a padded cradle already carrying two other volumes. A brief nod acknowledged receipt before he wheeled the cart away through the swing door.
Her desk stood empty.
She straightened the notebook before her and slid the magnifying lens to the right until it sat square with the edge of the blotter.
The request slip remained where she had left it.
She looked towards the clock above the entrance.
Nine minutes.
Not especially long.
She folded her hands together.
The Reading Room carried on around her. A chair shifted somewhere behind her with a soft scrape against the polished floor. An attendant crossed the room with another cradle balanced between both hands, its green baize cushions supporting a volume bound in cracked brown calf.
The manuscript disappeared onto a desk three tables away.
Professor Alderton thanked him without looking up.
His manuscript arrived quickly.
Laura glanced once more at the clock.
Ten minutes.
A manuscript could not simply be fetched from a shelf. It had to be located, checked against its request, inspected, signed out, transported, and delivered. Depending upon where it had last been consulted, the process might reasonably take ...
... rather less than ten minutes.
She opened her notebook.
At the top of a fresh page she wrote:
Coptic funerary fragments.
She looked at the words for several seconds before closing the notebook again.
Across the room another attendant emerged through the swing door carrying two cradles. Neither came towards her. One stopped beside an elderly gentleman studying Syriac. The other continued to the far wall.
Interesting. Mine appears to be the only manuscript in the Museum running late.
The cold had got into the Reading Room long before she arrived that morning. It lived in the oak tables and travelled easily through gloves into fingertips. Above, the great dome admitted a pale wash of spring light that brightened the desks without offering any warmth.
She rested one wrist against the polished wood.
Still cold.
Dust, leather, old paper, and the faint, dry sweetness of vellum barely registered anymore. Only after several days away did the smell return all at once, reminding her there was nowhere else she would rather work.
A request slip passed from one scholar to an attendant.
Another changed hands near the catalogue desk.
Someone coughed discreetly.
An elderly clergyman removed his spectacles, polished them with slow determination, then resumed reading exactly where he had left off.
Laura looked towards the swing door. Nothing.
She counted to thirty before allowing herself another glance at the clock.
Eleven minutes.
Perhaps the manuscript had been mis-shelved.
It happened. Rarely.
Not often enough to justify assuming it had happened now.
Still ... MS. Or. 472 had last been consulted nearly three months earlier.
Unless another scholar had requested it that morning.
She searched the room almost without thinking.
No. She would have noticed.
The manuscript was a modest Coptic fragment. Interesting to precisely three people in London, one of whom was herself.
The swing door opened.
An attendant stepped through carrying a single cradle.
He crossed between the long rows of desks.
Past her.
Past Professor Alderton.
Past the catalogue cabinets.
He disappeared into another gallery.
I wonder what's for dinner.
Laura waited another thirty seconds.
No attendant emerged.
She pressed one boot lightly against the floor.
The chair turned through a slow quarter circle.
She stopped.
Waited.
Then completed the rotation.
The swing door opened again.
Pritchard wandered back into the Reading Room carrying a teacup. He slowed as he saw her. "Enjoying yourself?"
"Don't you have work to do?"
"More than you, it would seem."
Laura looked at him and turned the chair through a slow, deliberate circle.
She stopped facing him again.
Pritchard nodded once and returned to his desk.
An attendant emerged carrying a cradle wrapped in cream linen and secured with narrow cotton tapes.
He checked the label attached to its handle.
Then he came directly towards her.
At last.
He paused beside her desk.
"Miss Chambers."
She signed the register, and he set the cradle before her with practised care.
"My thanks."
He inclined his head and moved on.
Laura untied the tapes and folded back the linen. Darkened leather lay beneath, its corners rounded by centuries of careful handling. She opened the volume until it rested against the cradle.
Coptic script covered the page in neat brown lines, the ink faded but still clear.
She drew her notebook closer and wrote the shelfmark at the top of a fresh page.
The catalogue described it as a funerary prayer from Upper Egypt. The description occupied half a page and relied heavily on conclusions reached nearly forty years earlier.
She turned the first folio.
The opening lines were familiar. Petition. Invocation. Intercession.
A contraction midway through the page caught her eye. She reached for the magnifying lens and lowered it over the vellum.
Interesting.
She crossed out a word in her notes and replaced it with another.
Better.
The final line began further to the right than she expected. She traced it slowly, translating as she went.
The clock above the entrance chimed the quarter.
Laura started. Her pencil struck the edge of her notebook and snapped, leaving a black streak across the page.
"Damn it."
Behind her, a door closed.
"Miss Chambers."
She rose. Rarely did Mr. Stonnington, the Keeper of Manuscripts, come down to the Reading Room. He belonged to the upper offices, to decisions made elsewhere and handed down.
"Sir."
"Any progress with your troublesome prayer?"
"It remains troublesome."
"The interesting ones usually are."
Stonnington reached into his coat and produced an envelope sealed with the museum crest.
"Sir?"
"Your letter of introduction."
"Introduction to whom?"
She accepted it automatically and set it beside her notebook. The wax was warm through her glove.
Stonnington clasped his hands behind his back. "The Trustees have received correspondence concerning a private manuscript collection somewhere in the Carpathians."
"Where?"
"A place called Veska—."
The last word dissolved into a dry cough, which he turned sharply into his sleeve.
Laura stepped back before she could stop herself. Absolutely not, keep your consumption to yourself.
Stonnington recovered almost immediately, smoothing his cuff as though the interruption had been discourteous rather than physical.
His eyes rested on the distance she had put between them. "My apologies," he said.
"Not at all," Laura lied. "You were saying?"
"A place called Veskarija."
"Who owns the collection?"
"A Countess, apparently."
"Apparently?"
"The details are sparse."
"Veskarija," she said, testing it. "I don't know the name."
Stonnington didn't look up. "Few do."
Laura studied him. "On what grounds was I chosen, Sir?" The question escaped before she could soften it.
Stonnington considered the question. "On the grounds that you are known for persistence and precision, Miss Chambers. And that you have not yet learned to abandon a line of inquiry when it would be more convenient to do so."
"Furthermore," he added, "you are less likely than some to mistake discomfort for discouragement."
"I see."
"You will depart within the week."
Laura's eyes flicked to the open manuscript.
But I'm halfway through the Coptic fragments.
"I am grateful for the trust, sir."
"It is not trust," he corrected. "You were the obvious choice."
"Of course."
He nodded once and turned towards the door. Two steps later, he stopped. He frowned and patted one pocket, then the other. "I appear to have mislaid your letter."
The envelope rested beside her notebook, exactly where she had left it.
She picked it up and gave it a small wave.
"Ah, very good." Stonnington cleared his throat. "I have attended three committee meetings today and have retained almost none of them. Carry on, Miss Chambers."
He closed the door behind him.
"Remember Richards?"
The voice came from two tables away.
Pritchard had lowered his notebook and was watching her over the rims of his spectacles.
Laura closed her eyes for a moment. "Which Richards?"
"The Welsh one."
"That does not narrow the field."
"Sent to St David's to catalogue monastic records." Pritchard returned to his notes. "Went for a walk. Fell off a cliff."
"Thank you, Pritchard. I fail to see how it helps."
"It doesn't. I merely thought you should know."
Laura set the envelope beside her notes and looked toward the window. Low cloud moved over London while a cab passed along Great Russell Street, its wheels knocking unevenly against the stone.
The vellum lay open, untouched.
Laura rose, crossed the room, and slowed at the shelves, scanning until she found what passed for practical travel literature. The atlas she drew toward her was heavy, its pages soft with age and indifferent handling.
Europe spread open before her.
The Carpathians occupied more space than she expected. Veskarija did not present itself.
She marked the page reference and closed the atlas.
The name surfaced once in a dated Baedeker, the entry contradictory and vague, urging visitors to arrange passage well in advance. Another marginal note mentioned forests and wolves.
This is all a little mad.
She exhaled and returned to the vellum. The last line she had translated waited for her:
The dead do not rest; they merely wait.
When she looked up, the lamps around the gallery had been lit, and the glass dome had gone from pale grey to black. The Reading Room was empty and had been for some time.
She watched the darkness above her.
At her lodgings, the gas lamps had dimmed to amber. The housekeeper had left soup, bread, and cheese on a tray.
Laura nudged the door open.
Ellie sat at the table, a magazine folded back in her hands, one finger marking her place. The pages were thin, crowded with print and small illustrations.
"You're late tonight."
"I know."
"We had a picture postcard from Mother and Father today," Ellie said. "They're leaving Brighton at the end of the week and going on to Eastbourne. Mother says Father insists the sea air has improved his constitution."
Laura smiled as she removed her gloves. "It appears to improve it every summer."
"What kept you? Did you lose track of the time again?"
"No, blame the Trustees. They've decided I'm ... what was the word Mr Stonnington used? That's it. Persistent."
Ellie lowered the magazine. "Oh dear."
Laura sat. The chair gave beneath her. The soup sent up a steady line of steam. "They're sending me abroad. To the Carpathians."
"That sounds quite far away." Ellie closed the magazine.
"It is. There's a private estate called Veskarija." She kept her eyes on the bowl. "They have a collection of uncatalogued early Christian manuscripts."
Ellie considered the name. "When?"
"A few days. Generous and insufficient at once."
"I see."
"There's time to prepare," Laura added.
"Well, that's something at least."
Laura tasted the soup. Pepper, too much of it. It caught at the back of her throat. She coughed into her hand.
"Who sends you?"
"A Countess."
Ellie sat back. "Well, that won't attract comment at all."
"I am going for the manuscripts, Ellie."
"Of course. Women with titles have never complicated anything."
The subject of complicated women had once been more complicated than it was now.
"Thank you. Speaking of complicated how is Mr Whittaker?"
"We aren't talking about him."
"Ellie."
"Laura."
Laura looked at her hands, ink faint at the cuticles. "Damn them."
"That bad?"
"They didn't even ask."
"Make sure to pack warm."
"I know how mountains work."
"And write. Properly."
"Always."
Ellie opened the magazine again and flicked through several pages without appearing to read them. "Not just notes."
Later, Laura washed, tidied, and lit a candle. The deep red wax of the museum seal caught the light, its surface uneven where it had been pressed.
She turned the envelope in her hands; the paper parted cleanly beneath her knife.
Inside were the expected memoranda, authorisations, schedules, the formal language of institutional caution arranged in tidy paragraphs. A separate sheet outlined the route eastward and instructed her to present herself at the Borgo Pass Inn, where transport from Castle Veskarija would be provided.
How did they reduce a journey across Europe to an inn and an arrival time?
And beneath them, a second envelope. Not in the Museum's hand.
She withdrew it.
The paper was heavier than the Museum's stock. A second seal, impressed in red wax, bore a crest she did not recognise.
She turned the envelope over. Written in a precise, flowing hand:
Maya Novak
She brought it closer and caught clove before breaking the seal. The wax gave with a brittle crack.
The script within was slanted and elegant, each letter formed with care.
Dr. Chambers,
She read the salutation twice.
How does she know that?
Your recent paper on Slavic marginalia was brought to my attention some months ago. I have followed its arguments with interest.
I should value the opportunity to discuss certain textual peculiarities in my possession. Your discretion, I am assured, is equal to your scholarship.
She read the line again.
Your discretion, I am assured ...
Discretion? What sort of manuscripts are these? And who assured you?
She read the next line, then again, slower.
I look forward to our conversation.
M
Her thumb moved across the signature before she quite realised she had done it.
She folded the letter along its crease. Laura propped the envelope against the base of the lamp and turned back to her notes. Fog pressed against the pane. Carriages passed below, their sounds muted and distant.
She made one last note and undressed, then turned down the bed. When she lay down, the city felt farther away than it should.
Tomorrow she would return to the Museum, to the same desk, the same manuscripts, the same conversations with Pritchard over cracked pencils and impossible catalogues. She found the thought comforting.
It also felt, for reasons she could not have explained, unexpectedly small.
She closed her eyes; sleep came quickly.
The stone was already there.
Cold spread over her skin before the space resolved around her.
She stood barefoot upon rough flagstones she did not recognise.
A vaulted corridor stretched away into shadow, its arches receding one after another until darkness claimed them entirely. Iron sconces curved from the walls, each holding a single steady flame. Their light reached her. Their warmth did not.
Fragments of ancient tapestry hung between the arches. Most had faded into indistinct shapes, their colours surrendered to centuries. One had torn almost completely away, leaving only a narrow strip of embroidery clinging stubbornly to the stone.
Three letters remained.
NOV.
Laura frowned.
The air seemed attentive.
She took a cautious step.
Then another.
The sound of her bare feet did not return.
A faint warmth brushed the hollow of her throat.
Her fingers rose instinctively to the ribbon tied neatly beneath her collar.
Still there.
The corridor stretched on before her.
At its far end, someone stood waiting.
She could not have said whether the figure was distant or merely obscured by shadow. Every time she tried to judge the distance, the arches seemed subtly different, as though the space quietly rearranged itself whenever she looked away.
She walked.
The flames neither flickered nor smoked.
The stillness felt complete, as though she had arrived after something had already begun, and simply by existing there had become an interruption.
By the time she realised she could no longer see the place where she had begun, the corridor had already ended.
Rain.
Cold droplets struck the stones around her. They touched her face. Her hands.
She stood in a courtyard enclosed by walls that rose impossibly high against a sky veiled by racing cloud. Water gathered in worn hollows beneath her feet, reflecting fractured strips of moonlight. Narrow windows climbed into darkness, cut into stone that seemed less built than carved directly from the mountain itself.
The courtyard.
She knew it before she had ever seen it.
Laura turned.
At first she saw only height and shadow.
Then something moved above.
A figure stood upon the parapet.
The moon revealed almost nothing. The pale line of a jaw. One hand resting lightly against black fabric. Hair dark enough to disappear into the night behind it.
The figure began to descend.
One moment she stood upon the wall.
The next she seemed nearer.
The dark folds of her clothing gathered and released around her as though gravity obeyed different laws for her alone.
Laura's weight shifted back before the thought arrived.
Water rippled around her bare feet.
Somewhere beyond the walls, a church bell rang.
The sound lingered long after the strike itself had faded.
The figure reached the courtyard without a footfall.
Now she stood close enough for details to emerge from shadow.
Long dark hair.
A red mouth.
The clean white line of a collar beneath black.
Somehow the distance between them had vanished.
Laura's heartbeat arrived all at once.
Heat spread through her chest.
Her chin lifted despite herself.
The moon had crossed impossibly far through the sky.
Only then did she realise that time had passed.
Her hand rose of its own accord and stopped midway between them.
A voice entered the silence beside her ear, low and measured.
"Soon."
Her pulse became the loudest thing in the courtyard.
Her fingers found the ribbon at her throat.
Slowly, almost without willing it, she loosened the knot.
"Who are you?" Laura said.
The words came sharper than she intended. Almost angry.
The answer arrived quietly.
"You already know."
Laura did not step back.
The courtyard dissolved.
Not all at once.
The walls surrendered first, their edges softening into darkness. The rain followed, though the sound lingered a moment longer, tapping against nothing she could name. The moon became a pale blur behind closed eyes.
Only the warmth remained.
It rested low in her chest, steady as a banked ember.
Her fingers still held the ribbon.
Then came another sensation.
Linen, and the faint weight of blankets. The familiar scent of beeswax and cold morning air.
The warmth receded.
The silence gave way to the distant rattle of carriage wheels somewhere below.
Laura opened her eyes.
Her room emerged slowly from the grey light: the washstand, the curtained window, the chair beside her writing desk.
She lay perfectly still.
One hand rested at her throat.
Her fingers were curled around the loosened ribbon, just as they had been in the dream.
Just a dream.
The sheet lay smooth against her legs, her nightgown loosened at the collar. She drew the ribbon closed at once, tightening the knot more firmly than before.
The candle. She had extinguished it. The wick had burned almost to its end, wax pooled beneath.
Laura sat up.
Heat lingered low within her, as though some small part of her body had not yet accepted that the dream was over.
Wonderful.
Exactly how I wished to begin the morning.
Even so, the flush refused to fade.
She touched the hollow of her throat.
Cool skin met her fingertips, smooth and unbroken.
After a long moment, she lowered her hand.
She had not expected to feel quite so ... twenty-two again.
The thought was sufficiently mortifying that she stood at once. She went to the window and drew back the curtain, letting the morning in.
As she turned towards the door, a faint sweetness reached her. Floral, though she could not have said which flower. She frowned, and it vanished.
Laura glanced once at the letter before she left.