At the end of the corridor, we seemed to be entering a more private wing of the castle where the rooms were smaller and felt more lived in. She stopped outside a heavy metal door. It was modern; it looked like the entrance to a vault.
“Would you mind leaving your phone and bag out here?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said. I put my phone on a small table and my bag on the floor beneath it.
“Ready?” she asked.
I nodded. My heart was thudding. I followed her into a small, circular space, more like a chamber than a room. I figured there must be a tower at the back of the castle, and we were on its ground floor. To oneside, a spiral staircase led up. There was a single window, glazed with glass stained in shades of amber that reminded me of apothecary jars.
A plain wooden desk was positioned beneath the window. On its surface, a lamp and two wooden book stands. Each one held a manuscript, which was closed, just the edges of the pages visible, the promise of what they might contain tantalizing.
“Tell us what you see,” Tracy said.
I approached them with my heart in my mouth and was drawn to the one on the left, the plainer of the two. An important manuscript will often declare itself with an ornate cover, perhaps embossed leatherwork, or fine embroidery on sumptuous velvet—some are studded with jewels—but not this one. It didn’t mean there was nothing remarkable inside, though.
Before touching it, I examined it visually first, as I’d been trained to do. I spoke aloud as I did. “Manuscript is approximately twenty-five by fifteen centimeters. Plain binding, probably in either goat or calfskin. Unadorned. In excellent condition. Can I open it?”
“Of course,” Tracy said. She took a step closer. I felt her proximity viscerally. Diana stayed back. I got a strong sense that they’d performed this bit of theater before and they knew their parts well, and it made me wonder who might have done this before me.
“What’s the provenance?” I asked. It’s the first question you want an answer to in the art and antiquities world. Where and when an object or work of art was made or discovered, and who has owned it over the years, can help you to tell the difference between a fake and something authentic, though I was pretty sure I knew what I was dealing with here. You get a feeling in your gut when something is real.
Tracy waved a finger, chiding me. “Tell us what you think first.”
I turned some pages. The parchment crinkled between my fingers. “It’s pharmacological and has exceptionally fine and detailed illustrations. Based on the handwriting, I’d date it to the sixteenth century. The style of the illustrations supports this because—”
Tracy leaned across me and shut the book with a snap. I flinched.
“Very good,” she said.
I was taken aback. It was like the weather had suddenly changed. Were there pages she didn’t want me to see or remember? Or was she just being proprietorial? I glanced at Diana. She smiled damply, as if Tracy’s behavior was to be expected and must be tolerated. Perhaps that little display of knowledge was all she’d needed from me.
I knew from experience that collectors will go to extremes to pursue certain objects and are extremely protective of their treasures, sometimes to the point of obsession. I’d heard stories of other academics glimpsing exceptional manuscripts that they never saw again because of a collector’s whim.
Tracy Lock was an extraordinary person. If she could vanish when there was global interest in her, then she could make these manuscripts disappear from my life in a heartbeat. Don’t let her rattle you, I told myself. This is a test.
I said, “Thank you for showing me. It’s exquisite.” And it was probably worth a couple of million. She looked at me until I felt uncomfortable.
“What about the other one?” she asked.
More nervous than ever, I stuttered a little on my visual description of the second manuscript. It was bound in red leather, with metal clasps, and my hands trembled as I opened it.
“It’s an alchemical text,” I said as I leafed through the first few pages. I saw images of apparatuses and emblems, of magical and mystical processes. “Not a copy of any books from the known canon. It seems to be unique.” I wanted to ask where it was from, but she’d said no questions about provenance, and I wasn’t about to upset her again.
This time, Tracy closed the book carefully. She had a small smile on her lips, and I hoped it meant that I’d pleased her. Diana seemed to pick up on some invisible cue, and as quickly as it had begun, our meeting was over. When we stepped out of the castle the silence was broken only by an owl hooting and the moon had risen above the trees.
Diana and I didn’t talk in the car. Drivers have ears, I thought, conscious of the NDA. Through the car window I could see the moon, hovering behind clouds shaped like torn strips of paper.
At the hotel, Diana got out of the car when I did, and we stood under the rich red awning outside the entrance. Inside, a party of well-heeled men was joking around in the lobby.
The doorman opened the door, but she gestured for him to shut it again, so we were alone.
“How big is the collection?” I asked.
“Nearly two hundred volumes. The books you saw are representative of the quality of the rest.”
“Why are they suddenly available for study? And why me?”
“We think you have the talent to do the collection justice. We like your modesty and the breadth of your learning. We like the way you think. I hope you’re convinced by what you’ve seen today.”
