Laura stood on stone she did not recognise. For a moment, she assumed she had misremembered.
The stone was rough and uneven. Her feet were cold.
A vaulted corridor stretched ahead, its arches receding into shadow. Sconces curved from the walls, each holding a single flame. The light reached her, but the heat did not.
Between the arches hung fragments of old tapestry. Most had darkened beyond recognition. One had torn almost entirely away from the wall, leaving only a strip of faded embroidery and three letters, NOV, that she could not place.
At the far end, a figure stood in shadow.
The flames along the wall wavered, breaking the corridor into strips of light and shadow. The light found the figure first. Cheekbones emerged, then the red of a mouth, while the throat remained in shadow.
Laura took a step forward, then a second.
The sound of her bare feet did not return to her.
The fabric of her nightgown hung heavier against her skin. The air seemed attentive.
A warmth brushed her collarbones, the hollow of her throat. She lifted her hand to the ribbon at her neck.
A voice reached her, low and measured. "Not yet."
The words stayed with her longer than the corridor did. She touched her throat.
London, 1896
Laura sat at her desk, bent over a brittle Coptic vellum fragment in the Manuscripts Reading Room at the British Museum.
The text was a funerary prayer copied nearly a thousand years earlier. Most of it followed familiar forms: petitions for rest, mercy, remembrance.
The last line did not.
She had spent three days trying to determine whether the scribe had made an error or whether the wording was unique.
A chill lay at her wrists where they rested against the wood; it crept beneath the linen at her collar. She shivered and drew a slow breath. Spring had reached the city, but it had not reached this room.
Pale light fell through the glass dome above her. The marble fireplaces stood clean and unused. Long tables stretched away in orderly rows, punctuated by inkstands and stacks of request slips.
The clock above the entrance chimed the quarter.
Laura started. Her pencil struck the edge of her notebook, 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, as though it retained the pressure and intention of whoever had sealed it.
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. Do you?
"On what grounds was I chosen, Sir?" The question escaped before she could soften it.
Stonnington studied her, neither displeased nor indulgent. "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."
"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, and the other. His brow furrowed. "I appear to have mislaid your letter."
The envelope rested beside her notebook, exactly where she had left it. Extraordinary.
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."
Then he left and 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.
"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 where she had left it.
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 spine cracked, 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. Wolves.
This is all a little mad.
She exhaled and returned to the vellum. The last line she had translated waited for her, neat:
The dead do not rest; they merely wait.
When she looked up, the reading room was empty. It had been empty for some time. She realised this the way one notices a sound that has stopped.
The lamps around the gallery had been lit, and the glass dome had gone from pale grey to black.
She watched the darkness above her as though the discrepancy might resolve if observed. It did not.
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. You sound exactly like our mother."
Laura set down her gloves. "Anyway, 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."
Ellie closed her magazine. "Where?"
"Veskarija. The Carpathians." She kept her eyes on the bowl. "A private 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. The spoon came down, and 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.
Laura lifted her eyes. "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."
Ellie set the magazine down. "Make sure to pack warm."
"I know how mountains work."
"And write. Properly."
"Always."
Ellie 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 deep red wax, bore a crest she did not recognise.
She turned the envelope over. Written in a precise, flowing hand:
Maya Novak
Laura paused. "Hmm."
There was a scent to it. She brought it closer and caught clove before breaking the seal. The wax gave with a brittle crack, something she felt as much as heard.
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...
Assured by whom.
Her gaze dropped to the next line. She read it, then again, slower.
I look forward to our conversation.
M
Her thumb moved across the signature before she quite realised she had done it. Heat, quick and unwelcome, came low beneath her ribs.
Really? Now.
The letter folded along its crease. The envelope remained on the desk. Laura propped it 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 Laura lay down, the city was farther away than it should.
She closed her eyes; sleep came quickly.
The stone was already there.
Cold spread over her skin before the space resolved around her.
Wet cobblestones slick with rain, the hem of her nightgown stirring around her ankles, though the air itself was still. Water gathered in the shallow, worn hollows between the stones, reflecting fractured strips of moonlight. High black walls rose on every side against a sky veiled in racing clouds.
The courtyard.
Windows towered far above her, narrow and dark, set into stone that seemed less built than carved from the mountain itself. Iron lanterns burned along the walls at narrow intervals; their light remained steady and colourless.
Laura turned.
At first she saw nothing except height, stone, and shadow. Something moved above her.
A figure stood upon the parapet.
The moon caught only fragments: the pale line of a jaw, one hand resting against black fabric, hair dark enough to disappear into the night behind it.
Anticipation tightened beneath her ribs.
The figure began to descend.
One moment she stood above; the next she seemed nearer. The dark folds of her clothing gathering and releasing around her.
Laura's weight shifted back before the thought arrived.
Water rippled around her bare feet. A church bell rang somewhere beyond the walls. The sound continued long after the strike ended.
The figure reached the courtyard stones without a sound.
Close enough now that Laura could see long dark hair loose around her shoulders, a red mouth, the clean white line of a collar beneath black.
Somehow the distance between them had closed.
Her heartbeat arrived all at once. Heat spread through her chest. Her chin lifted.
The moon had moved impossibly far across the sky. Only then did Laura realise how much time had passed.
Her hand lifted of its own accord and paused midway.
A voice entered the silence beside her ear, low and even. "Soon."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Her fingers found the ribbon at her neck. She loosened it.
The figure watched.
"Who are you?" Laura said. The words came sharper than she intended, almost angry.
The voice came quietly. "You already know."
Laura did not step back.
The courtyard dimmed at the edges; stone first.
Only the awareness remained.
Then that went too.
She woke with her hand still half-raised.
The room resolved slowly around her, the washstand and the window taking shape in the early grey light. Her breathing was even, her pulse nearly so.
A dream.
The sheet lay smooth against her legs, her nightgown loosened at the throat, the ribbon fallen slack. She drew it 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 heavily beneath.
Laura sat up. Heat lingered low within her, as though her body had not yet realised the dream was over.
Warmth flooded her face.
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, and after a moment she lowered her hand.
She went to the window, she drew back the curtain and let the morning in.
As she turned towards the door, she paused.
Something lingered in the room.
A faint sweetness—floral, though she could not have said which flower. She frowned, but it vanished almost immediately.
Laura glanced once towards the letter resting on her desk before leaving.