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“Moving pictures are the future,” Daisy declared, “and I want to be in one.”
I slotted the book I’d been trying to read back into its place on the library shelf. It was no use continuing; Daisy was impossible to block out when excitement gripped her. She was like a child who’d been sitting at a desk all day and was finally allowed outside to play with the other children.
I knew she wouldn’t leave until satisfied, and she wouldn’t be satisfied until I paid her more attention than the pile of books I cradled in my arm. Even so, I was supposed to be working.
“Daisy, can we talk about your acting career later? I need to reshelve these.”
“You can reshelve while I talk. All you have to do is listen.”
“I want to read a few pages of each to get the gist of them. It’s the best way to learn about magic.”
She plucked the topmost book off the pile and read the title out loud. “Superstition in the Tribal Cultures of Western Africa: A Brief History.” She hefted the thick book in her hand, weighing it. “Brief? The author isn’t fooling anyone.”
I gave up attempting to read each book and decided to simply reshelve them. The sooner I listened to her, the sooner she would leave. “Since you spend as much time here as I do, you might as well help. West African superstitions occupy the second and third shelves. They’re arranged alphabetically by author.”
She studied the spines of the shelved books, some with the title and author printed on them, others blank. With a sigh, she pulled out the blank ones to find the author names. “How do you know it goes on this shelf?”
“Professor Nash’s cataloging sequence is based on subject, just like the Dewey Decimal System.”
“The what?”
“Never mind. All you need to know is, he created a system that shelves the books on a particular subject together. This entire area is where the books on superstition are kept. They’re sub-sorted by Africa which is then organized by region. All of those books are then arranged by author.”
“So many books just on superstition in Western Africa! Fascinating.”
“If you want to be an actress, you’ll have to sound more convincing than that.”
“Actually, I won’t need to sound at all convincing since the audience can’t hear the actors. Moving picture acting is all in the facial expressions. Like this.” She mimed being fascinated by widening her eyes and ripping one of the books from the shelf and cradling it to her chest.
She needed more practice, but I didn’t tell her that. Yesterday she wanted to be an artist, and today she was keen on acting. There was no point offending her; she would probably change her mind again next week.
Daisy slid the book back into its place on the shelf. “You don’t have a list of cataloging numbers to refer to. How did you know the book goes here?”
“I’ve memorized Professor Nash’s system.”
“Already? But it’s only been just over a week since you started. It would have taken me months.”
“When you enjoy what you do, it’s not a hardship.”
She sighed. “That’s why I gave up painting. My art teacher told me to mine my soul for my innermost thoughts, fears and desires, but it was just so hard, Sylvia. Honestly, you have no idea how difficult it is to stare at a blank canvas and just think.” I was about to say something sarcastic about her idea of hardship, but she added, “The only things I could think of were the poor men who died in the war and those who came back damaged beyond repair. And then I felt guilty because I didn’t want to think about those things anymore.” She took another book from the pile I carried and studied the title, but her bowed head didn’t quite hide her tear-filled eyes.
It was easy to think of Daisy as somewhat selfish and spoiled, but I knew her well enough now to know she was a kind-hearted and generous soul who chose not to dwell on the past or let troubles overwhelm her. I envied her. After mourning the loss of my brother in the war and my mother to influenza, I’d found it difficult to crawl my way out of the pit of despair these last eighteen months. But I’d recently managed to do it. I still thought about my family every day, but the ache that accompanied those thoughts no longer pressed on my chest until I couldn’t breathe. I was ready to move on, and Daisy’s cheerful kindness had played a part in me being ready. She’d come into my life when I needed her the most, and I would be forever grateful.
I put my free arm around her. “Thank you for helping me.”
She gave me a brief hug then waved the slim volume in front of my face. “Where do you shelve books on pre-Christian
Scottish superstitions?”
I pointed along the aisle. “Down there, top shelf.”
She stood on her toes to read the spines of the other books. “Did you find anything more about silver magic in these books?”
“I did, and there is even a mention of a family name here and there, but none that I recognize. The author of the most recent text that mentions silver magic was convinced the lineage ended decades ago. He’s wrong. Of course the book was written before Lord and Lady Rycroft met Marianne Folgate in 1891.”
The name had been brought to my attention by Mr. Gabriel Glass, the only child of the famous Lady Rycroft, a powerful watchmaker magician. He was artless, like his father, but their family had met many magicians over the years, one of whom was Marianne Folgate. She’d disappeared in 1891 and not been seen or heard of since.
Her whereabouts remained a mystery, as did the history of my own lineage. I never knew my father. My mother refused to discuss him or her family, and we moved from city to city, never settling down, for reasons she refused to divulge. My brother and I gave up asking why, and we stopped asking about our father, too. But neither of us stopped wondering.
After reading my brother’s suspicion that we were descended from silver magicians in his diary, I’d tried to learn more from Gabe’s mother, thinking she must know a great many magicians. Although she’d gone overseas, Gabe was able to help, and it was he who told me his parents had once met the silver magician named Marianne Folgate. The name meant nothing to me. Without more information, I was unable to continue my search.
Besides, I was no longer sure my brother’s suspicions were correct. I felt nothing when I touched silver. I wasn’t drawn to objects made with silver, and according to Gabe, a magician ought to feel a compulsion when near their craft.
With my new job in the Glass Library keeping me busy, I’d shelved my curiosity about my family and thrown myself into work and learning as much as I could about the library’s collection of magical texts. It was fulfilling, and my new employer was a delight. Professor Nash was knowledgeable and interesting. His tales of traveling around the world collecting texts with his friend were full of adventure and daring, as if straight out of a book themselves.
Professor Nash peered around the end of the bookshelves. He carried a tray with a tea set and a plate of biscuits. His glasses had
slipped down his nose, but with his hands full, he couldn’t push them back up. He squinted over the top of them at us. “There you are! Tea?”
We followed him to the larger of the two reading nooks on the first floor. Soft light streamed through the arched window, bathing the leather sofa and armchairs in a warm glow. A book sat on the desk by the window, a leather strip marking the place where a library patron had reached in his reading. He’d asked if he could leave it there until tomorrow, when he planned to return in the morning. With so few patrons visiting the library, the professor gave his permission. We did not loan the books out. Most were too rare to be allowed to leave the premises.
Professor Nash set the tray on the table between sofa and chairs and sat down with a heavy sigh. He pushed his spectacles up his nose with one hand and rubbed his lower back with the other. “Tea, Ladies?”
“Lord, yes.” Daisy reached for the plate of biscuits. “I’m starving.” She offered the plate to me, as if she were the hostess at an afternoon tea. It was a testament to how comfortable she felt here, and how often she’d dropped in since I’d begun working at the Glass Library. She came so frequently that the professor might feel obliged to pay her a wage soon.
He handed me a cup and saucer. “And what were you two chatting about when I interrupted you?” If my former employer had asked me that question, it would have been said with a sneer and been followed with an accusation that I should be working, not talking to a friend. But Professor Nash was genuinely interested in the answer. He didn’t care that Daisy came every day, or that she talked almost non-stop. Indeed, I think he liked the company. As long as my work got done, he didn’t mind who visited.
In fact, I wondered if he cared about me working at all. There wasn’t a lot to do in the library. Very few patrons came, and although he said he wanted me to catalog some old books that were still stored in the attic, he hadn’t shown them to me yet. I was beginning to think he’d agreed to take me on for the company rather than to ease his workload.
Not that Gabe had given him a choice in the matter. After inadvertently getting me dismissed from my last position, he’d found me a place in the Glass Library out of a sense of guilt. Since his parents contributed a great deal of funding, the professor was hardly in a position to refuse. It had bothered me at first. I
didn’t like feeling that I owed Gabe. But now I was glad his guilt had assaulted him. I liked working in the Glass Library, very much.
“Marianne Folgate,” I said in answer to the professor’s question.
“Gabriel Glass,” Daisy said at the same time.
The professor was more interested in my response than hers. “Folgate?”
I nodded. “Do you remember you told me about a silver magician by the name of Marianne, but you couldn’t recall her last name? Gabe…looked into it for me.” He’d told me he’d consulted his family store of knowledge to gather the information, after deciding he could trust me. It wasn’t my place to mention that store to anyone else. It was likely the professor already knew, but I wouldn’t risk disappointing Gabe by speaking out of turn. “He discovered a silver magician known as Marianne Folgate, last seen here in London by his parents in 1891.”
His glasses slipped down his nose again, but he did not push them back up. “Folgate. The name rings a bell.” He sat heavily in an armchair, his brow furrowed.
Daisy picked up her teacup and held it by the handle, pinky finger extended. When she was sipping cocktails in her flat, she often sat with her shoes off and her feet tucked up underneath her. But when she had tea, she behaved like a genteel lady. She must have been brought up to respect the upper class ritual of a proper afternoon tea. “You would have met the woman named Marianne, too, but had simply forgotten her last name.”
“No. I never knew Marianne’s last name.” The professor’s brow grew more and more creased, until he finally deposited the cup back on the saucer with a clatter. He sprang to his feet. “I remember now! Come with me, Sylvia. You too, Miss Carmichael.”
“Do call me Daisy. When you call me Miss Carmichael I feel as though I’m in trouble with the teacher.”
Ordinarily he would smile at that, but he’d already walked off, distracted. He led the way through the stacks to the far wall and the final row of bookshelves. He tugged on the spine of a book covered in red leather until we heard a click. With a firm push on the shelves, the hidden door opened, revealing a small, empty vestibule and another door on the other side.
Daisy gasped. “How thrilling! Sylvia, did you know this existed?”
“I did.”
The professor pushed open the second door and Daisy gasped again. “Nice digs, Prof.”
Light from the high windows brightened the flat, reaching the far corners of the mezzanine bedroom and the sitting room below. Daisy ran her fingertips across the back of the leather sofa as we passed it, and took in every inch of the place. It reminded me of a gentleman’s study, all dark wood, books and interesting curios, most likely picked up during his travels to far-flung places in search of texts about magic.
Daisy bent to inspect a white marble statue of a naked classical goddess. When I shooed her forward after the professor, she gave me an exaggerated wink, jabbed her thumb in Professor Nash’s direction and mouthed “Lovely.” I wasn’t sure if she was referring to his taste in art or women, but her appreciation certainly came through loud and clear. Perhaps she’d make a good moving picture actress after all.
We climbed the spiral staircase to the mezzanine bedroom. The professor grabbed a long pole with a brass hook on the end that I hadn’t noticed leaning up against the wall. He used the device to tug on a small loop of rope dangling from the ceiling. A trap door opened and a ladder unfolded.
He returned the pole to its place and grabbed a gas lantern from a shelf. He lit it and indicated we should follow him up the ladder.
Daisy and I exchanged glances then both broke into childish grins and climbed after him. The possibilities of what lay in the attic quickened my pulse. It was a silly dream of mine to find an important document in a dusty old attic, long forgotten in a trunk or hidden among ordinary papers. An undiscovered play by Shakespeare was probably too much to hope for, but I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be disappointed with whatever we found.
We could easily stand up in the attic, although the three of us weren’t tall. Gabe would have to stoop, and his giant friend, Alex Bailey, would be uncomfortable. Beyond the sphere of our light lurked darkness of indeterminate depth. In my teenage years, I’d devoured novels in which gruesome creatures dwelled in such bleak spaces, emerging when the innocent heroine dared to set foot in its lair. Those old stories and my active imagination had me determined to remain within the lantern’s comforting glow.
“Now, where can it be?” The professor held the lantern high. Its light picked out traveling trunks covered in dust, stacks of books and unbound papers, also covered in dust, and artefacts of varying kinds, some so odd that I couldn’t work out what they were. They were also dusty.
Daisy sneezed. “I can see your charwoman doesn’t come up here.”
“I clean my rooms myself,” the professor said absently as he bent to inspect a stack of books on the floor.
A beautiful casket with a lid inlaid with different woods looked interesting, but I was hesitant to open it in case something leapt out at me. I was working up my courage when Daisy screamed.
She jumped backward and slammed the top drawer of a desk shut with her foot. I rushed to her side to comfort her.
The professor rushed forward too, his lantern extended as if he’d use it as a weapon against whatever vile creature skulked in the drawer. He drew in a deep breath and slowly, carefully, opened it.
He lowered the lantern and plucked out a dead rat by its tail. “No need to worry about this one, Daisy. It’s the live ones that are a problem.”
Daisy and I eyed the floor around us.
The professor returned the corpse to the drawer and closed it. “Sometimes I hear them scratching above my head as I try to sleep.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and smiled at us. “If you ladies wouldn’t mind looking through those books there, while I check these.” He set the lantern down on a trunk between the two piles. “I know it’s up here somewhere.”
“What is?” I prompted, as he seemed to have forgotten he hadn’t given us any details.
“An old book with Oscar’s handwritten note inside the front cover.” He studied the spines in his pile without picking one up. “It’s not a book, actually. Not really. It’s more of a collection of papers bound between wooden boards, fastened with silver clasps to keep it closed. It’s not one of these,” he added, moving on to another pile.
Silver. The connection to Marianne Folgate was beginning to become clear.
I checked the books on our pile but immediately discarded all of them. They were old, but were bound in leather, not boards, and they didn’t have silver clasps. “What’s written on the title page?”
“I don’t know. The entire thing is written in a code that neither Oscar nor I could decipher.”
I sat back on my haunches and looked around. The book could be anywhere, either in one of the piles or stored in a drawer or trunk, or on a shelf. Being bound with wooden boards and mounted with silver clasps made it unusual, however. Most of the covers were made of leather or thick paper, some were cloth-bound and a few had covers made of soft vellum. There was an entire trunk full of loose papers, and another with what I assumed was parchment sheets, tied together with leather strips. It would take an age to catalog them all.
I couldn’t wait to begin.
I opened another trunk and breathed in the distinctive smell of old paper. Some people called the smell musty, but I liked it. To me, it was comforting, reminding me of days tucked up in bed, reading quickly to take in as much as I could before daylight completely disappeared. Or of a diversion made after school to the
he private library of an elderly couple who liked that I delighted in their collection. I’d always retreated to books when I’d felt sad or lonely. Unfortunately, those times had been too numerous.
They might now be at an end, but I still felt more at ease surrounded by books than I did in a room full of people.
The books in this trunk seemed older, their condition worse. Some were missing covers altogether, or the stitching at their spines frayed or was broken. Where covers still existed, they were either stained or had been nibbled by something with sharp teeth. Some books had torn pages, or the ink was faded, rendering the text illegible in parts.
I pulled them out, one by one, only to pause when a glint caught my eye. Surely it couldn’t be the silver clasps. If the books had been up here for a while, neglected, the clasps must have tarnished.
Although if the clasps contained a silver magic spell, glinting was entirely possible.
I rummaged through the rest of the books and pulled out the one with wooden boards used as front and back covers, held closed with two silver clasps. They shone as brightly as if they’d just been polished. Each clasp was decorated with a circle surrounding a fleur de lis. The silver felt smooth, yet the engraved
pattern was clear and well defined. Either it wasn’t as old as I thought, or magic had kept it in excellent condition through the centuries.
I undid the clasps and opened the book. Inside was a torn piece of yellowed paper with a few words written in a neat, modern hand. “I found it.”
Daisy crouched beside me, and Professor Nash knelt on my other side. He held the lantern close. “Yes, that’s it. That’s Oscar’s writing.”
He hadn’t written in complete sentences, but rather just a few words. The single word “Folgate?” complete with question mark, occupied a line of its own. But it wasn’t that which caught my eye and had Daisy drawing in a sharp breath. It was the tantalizing words Oscar had written above it.
The Medici Manuscript.
