Prologue The diary arrived in the morning, delivered to the head curator at the Morgan Library & Museum by special courier from England. The curator liked to work alone on Saturdays when much of the staff was gone for the weekend. He signed for the package and retreated to his office, wondering who—or what—the Liron Institute was and why they were sending a package to him. The letter accompanying it gave him pause for several reasons. The gold symbol at the top was an ancient Egyptian emblem. The letter bore no name or signature and read like something out of a spy novel. It literally said, “The fate of the world rests in protecting this book.” The instructions were to safeguard the diary and ultimately deliver it and the accompanying translation to a woman named Magellan Brighton. She was to come retrieve the book personally, and time was of the essence. The curator didn’t know anyone by that name. He also couldn’t imagine why an institute in England had sent such a request to him across the pond as if he were a delivery service. He opened the package to find a small pocket-size diary, centuries old, made of parchment and encased in leather with a beautiful Celtic triskelion, a symbol of three interlocking spiraled rings, engraved on the cover. The artistry was exquisite. He slipped on his gloves to handle it more gingerly. The translation was just as enticing. A collection of loose pages, meticulously handwritten and sheathed in a folio. The paper was not 2made of wood pulp but rag paper, which would have been used before the 1800s. The curator put the translation carefully aside to study later, not requiring it, and returned to the book. He was one of the world’s foremost experts in medieval manuscripts written in Old English and preferred to read the original text himself. When he opened the diary to the first page, a powerful yet graceful script leapt off the parchment. You know my brother’s name, but you do not know mine, though we were born twins, a boy and a girl. A grand secret lies at the heart of life that must be remembered if we are to save this world once more. Every atom on this planet sings the same song. The curator paused for a moment to study the line Every atom on this planet sings the same song. He knew Old English with all its nuances and musicality better than modern English. How could someone who had lived centuries ago know what an atom was? And just what did the word sings entail? The direct translation was “every life-spark makes the same music,” and “life-spark” was a kenning—the Old English way of combining two words to make another word. He thought he knew every kenning ever written, but he’d never seen this one before. As he read on he began to grasp just who the author of this diary was, and his heart sped with excitement. Could it really be her? No record of this memoir existed. A record of her barely existed. She and her brother had lived in the sixth century, and her twin had gone on to be fictionalized a hundred times over. His most famous portrayal had been written by Sir Thomas Malory in the 1400s. 3 How had an institute in England he had never heard of gotten their hands on this diary? Where had it been this entire time? The problem was there was no name signed to the letter or phone number for the institute to call, only one for Magellan Brighton. He dialed her number, and it went straight to voicemail. On the recording, she had a young voice. He hesitated, unsure what to say. Given the cloak and dagger of the letter and the monumental importance of what he held in his hands, he decided not to leave any details. “Hello, I’ve just received a . . . book, a very special diary, that seems to be yours. Please call me at your earliest convenience.” He did not mention he was with the Morgan Museum. Instead, he left his private cell phone number and hung up, feeling dissatisfied. Had he said too much? Had he not said enough? A knock at his door startled him, and he went to open it. A fellow colleague was hovering in the hallway with an excited look on his face. “What is it?” the curator asked him, not sure if the day could get any stranger. “You have to come outside!” The curator followed, locking his office door and leaving the diary on his worktable. He’d be right back. He walked out onto Madison Avenue, and his mouth dropped open when he looked up at the sky along with everyone else. “My God,” he whispered. A brilliant aurora borealis that belonged more in Finland stretched above Manhattan. The curator was a logical man, a historian in love with words, but his mind was already quickly forming a kenning—linking the aurora borealis in the sky to the diary on his desk, because they both felt magical—because the world’s most renowned wizard had a twin sister who had written a memoir, and she knew what an atom was and talked about saving the world. The curator left the gaping crowd outside to return to his office to find out just what Merlin’s sister had to say.
Chapter 1 Magellan The aurora borealis appeared the same day as her birthday. Only later would Magellan Brighton realize the timing was significant. On Saturday, October 24, in what should have been any other Saturday, colorful ribbons of light hued and swirled across the sky in a rich palette of indigo, green, and violet above Manhattan like its own galaxy. Her back to the window, the curtain drawn, Magellan ran delicate fingers up and down her electric piano with her headphones on, searching for the song from her dreams last night. Cocooned in her robe, her morning coffee growing cold, she closed her eyes and let her hands have free roam. How did it go? The melody began to crystallize as she carved it out with the keys, over and over, to find the beginnings of the song’s shape. On the cusp of snatching more from the ethers, her cell phone shook and blared a ringtone belonging to one person: her best friend and roommate, Wren. Wren’s call broke her concentration and pushed the song back into the recesses of her mind. She took her headphones off with a sigh and answered.
“Happy birthday to youuuuuuu,” Wren serenaded her as only an opera singer could and ended with a crescendo, hitting the A above high C. Magellan laughed, taking a sip of her coffee, a delicious French roast Wren brewed every morning. “Thank you. That was magnificent.” “Happy birthday,” Wren said and rushed on in excitement. “Have you looked at the sky yet? It’s freaking incredible!” “You do remember who you’re talking to.” Of the top phobias people had in the world—fear of heights, water, flying, storms, spiders, public speaking, and the dentist—Magellan was pretty sure she had them all. “Mags. No. Just no. You have to look. There’s an actual aurora borealis in the sky right now.” “What?” Magellan jumped up and was at the living room window in two steps. Bracing herself, she pulled back the curtain and worked to keep her equilibrium. Their apartment was only on the third floor, but still. What she saw made her momentarily forget her fear of heights. The sky was so beautiful she felt the urge to step out on the patio, something she hadn’t done the whole time she’d lived there. “I have to get back to rehearsal,” Wren said. “Turn on the news. It’s happening everywhere.” Then she hung up. Magellan hesitated and decided to keep the curtain open. The sky was amazing, like a stunning painting she couldn’t look away from. She turned on the TV. Wren was right. The aurora borealis was breaking news and happening all over the world. On one station the weatherman said with a cheery smile, “Well, folks, today we have a surprise party in the sky. Experts believe this is a passing global magnetic storm, and the National Weather Service is projecting it will be over in a week. So until then, sit back and enjoy the show.” Another station had a much less cheery take. A grim-looking reporter said, “Everyone needs to know this atmospheric phenomenon happens in the Arctic region,” he stressed. “That’s why they’re 7called northern lights. Or the South Pole—which are southern lights. It should not be happening here during the day.” He gave a dramatic stare straight into the camera. “Stay tuned. This could spell trouble on the horizon.” Magellan frowned, and her cell phone binged. She had missed a call while she was talking with Wren. An old man had left a voicemail saying he had a book of hers. A diary. She cringed as she listened to the creepy message. He had her diary? She deleted it. Like she would ever return such a call. People these days were getting more creative with their scams. Checking the time, she abandoned her coffee and the piano. She needed to get ready to go see her parents. They were planning a birthday lunch. Although the thought of making her way across town from Queens to the Upper West Side stressed her out, which was ironic since she shared the name Magellan with the famous Portuguese explorer who’d attempted to circle the globe in the 1500s. Unlike the real historic explorer, she never went anywhere. Her elderly parents weren’t big on travel, and even if they were, the thought of getting on a plane was too much for her. Magellan often wondered if she had inherited all her anxieties from her birth parents. She’d been adopted at infancy, and for the first four years of her life she didn’t speak. She was tested for autism and other potential causes for the delay, during which time it was discovered she had an extraordinary ear for music. So extraordinary, she could play any instrument and re-create any song. It wasn’t until she was four and her speech therapist told her “Did you know your voice is an instrument too?” that Magellan began to hum. From humming, her speech therapist encouraged her to sing, and from singing to talk, which she finally did, but only when necessary, because music, not words, was her language. If Harold and Margaret Brighton had shared their daughter’s gift with the world when she was little, Magellan would have been proclaimed a child prodigy the likes of Mozart or Beethoven, but they had not. Instead, she had been homeschooled, sheltered, and kept off social media due to 8her fragile nature. Her parents were extremely protective until they realized their protectiveness was only hindering her. Magellan’s incredible talent was meant to be shared, not hidden away. When Magellan turned seventeen, her longtime music teacher, Garesh, was the one who had talked her into auditioning for Juilliard. “Your gift is for the world. You cannot stay here forever. Your ship will depart one day, whether you are ready or not.” Magellan wasn’t sure what metaphorical ship he was talking about, but Garesh often said such things. He had been her teacher for as long as she could remember. He was the tallest and most gentle man she’d ever met, with midnight hair, dark skin, and piercing brown eyes that held a special light. He spoke softly, with the hint of an accent, as if every word were perfectly measured because he preferred silence. Once when she’d asked where he was from, he only smiled. “I am from everywhere.” A brilliant musician, Garesh had taught her musical theories from around the world. He would come to her house, where they would sequester themselves in her parents’ study. They would pick apart musical forms, the structures of symphonies, and look to what the composer’s intention was within each movement. He would bring instruments she had never known existed and encourage her to play them. Instruments like the crwth, the nyckelharpa, the contrabass balalaika, the cimbalom, and the theremin. When she was older, he showed her medical journals about the latest scientific studies with music that demonstrated the power of once told me that it was my duty to live my life and love with an open heart. To not die regretting that I didn’t. To be everything I was born to be. Well, you are no different. Trust me when I say the best years of your life begin in Vienna at the stroke of 1800.” Godwin stared at him a long moment. “You’re telling me I will find love in Vienna?” He barked out a laugh and his eyes slid to Magellan, who was trying hard to keep a blank expression. Then Godwin glanced back at Rhys. “And not with just any woman I take it, from the grave look on your face like you’ve swallowed a goose. Is that where I meet your mother?” He threw back his head and laughed with glee. “Of course, now it makes perfect sense. It would be most inconvenient for you if I decided to return to Hereford Manor. I certainly can’t miss that New Year’s ball, now can I?” Rhys simply gave him a nod. Magellan was looking from him to Godwin, her mouth pursed in amusement. “What is she like?” Godwin smiled, his bad mood forgotten. “I thought you didn’t want to know,” Rhys reminded him. “What if I pick the wrong lady? You’ll never be born. Or you’ll be born a Siegfried or Albert and we’ll never be here in this carriage.” The threat, although made jokingly, lingered between them with an unsettling silence. Rhys still held his tongue. Should he meddle with the past? Or technically the future of the past? “A hint,” Godwin prodded. Now that he knew he was soon to meet his future wife, he wanted to know. “Only a letter. The first letter of her name is all I need.” Rhys deliberated. There couldn’t be any harm in that. “B.” “B?” Godwin looked enchanted by the possibilities. “Barbara. Beatrice. Battina. Briaca . . . So! I will have to go hunting through a ballroom in Vienna for the lovely and mysterious B.” Godwin stared 316at him with a devilish smile. “Then I will ask the beautiful B to waltz. Does that sound about right?” Rhys stared into his father’s eyes, a heavy poignancy sweeping over him. Suddenly his father’s lifelong endearments for his wife took on a whole new light. When Rhys was growing up, he often heard all the little nicknames Godwin had for Birgit. My Beautiful B, My Beloved B, My only B. It had been for the letter. His father’s sole clue Rhys had given him. Rhys could feel tears prickling behind his eyes. “Indeed.” “Excellent. Say no more. We will not tempt the Fates with any further discussion on the future with my beautiful bride to B,” Godwin said, giving a last and final play on the letter. Rhys met Magellan’s eyes. Hers were soft in understanding, and she took his hand in hers again. He saw his father studying their joined hands, his eyes on the Liron signet ring marking him as the earl in his own time. His father held his gaze, the light of laughter in his eyes dimming, and then he turned to look out the window. Rhys desperately wanted to tell him about the accident, to plead with him to be careful in his laboratory, that his quest to discover elements was pure madness. But his father had already made him swear not to meddle in his future or try to change what had been done, for they were meddling with time enough. Sunlight glinted off the carriage’s glass window, and Rhys looked out at the lush countryside. 1799 marked the eve of the Napoleonic Wars, which would soon rage across Europe until the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. Even as they made their way to Salzburg, Rhys knew the Coup of 18–19 Brumaire, which had happened in November, had placed Napoleon firmly in power. The fighting would begin in earnest in April when France went on the offensive. By then his father would be back in England with his mother at Hereford Manor, and he would be born in 1803. Rhys had studied the war during his time at Eton, and Magellan had told them of future wars, even bigger than Napoleon’s, which was 317hard to fathom. A war given the title “World War,” not once but twice. Wars fought with advanced weaponry, all made possible, his father had pointed out, by the discovery of elements. Magellan’s periodic table of elements she had described was indeed a puzzle humanity would use in the future for good and evil. Which is why Rhys always thought it apropos live spelled backward was evil. The shadows, the force from the lower dimensions that had found them when the labyrinth splintered, felt devoid of life and love, which is why it was so terrifying, because Rhys never wanted to be without either. He thought back to Gwynedd’s diary about the Great Year and the Map of Time, how the world had a long day and a long night and right now the world was in darkness. What would happen when those hungering for war and destruction were faced with the power a goddess’s song could harness? Gwynedd had said every atom would sing and be lifted to a higher vibration where darkness could not exist. The song would not only save the planet but humanity. Which must be why the guardian at Stonehenge had hidden the song in time with women. Now they were on their way to find Mozart’s sister, a woman forgotten by the world while her brother rose to fame. Rhys had been stunned to hear the tale. If not for Magellan, he never would have known about the sister’s life. He could not look on music the same way again because of Magellan, just as he could not look at women the same. Half of the world were women, and they had been forced into obscuring their light, which only helped keep the world in darkness. Toska was the Russian word for great spiritual anguish, a sense of longing without knowing the cause. Was the world in anguish because life was out of balance? When Magellan returned to the future with the song, she would have in her possession the incredible power to bring the world back into balance. To keep the poles from breaking. To keep an entire planet spinning. 318 Rhys took her hand and kissed it. She looked over at him with a soft smile. Godwin had his eyes closed and was dozing. “We’ll need to find you an instrument to bring with us to Nannerl’s,” he said quietly. “Perhaps there will be a shop in Salzburg.” She nodded and looked out the window, her eyes distant. “Yes, we should find something,” she murmured. The views of the Eastern Alps were dazzling as they came into Salzburg, but Rhys’s eyes could not stray from her. Every minute together was becoming more and more precious. No single word in any language he could think of could describe the yearning in his heart to hold on to this moment forever. ...
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2026 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
