Adam
Adam White
Press Office, Oxford University
Press Release
Oxford Paleographer Decodes Forgotten Language
Oxford University’s Dr. Anya Brown, 26, has solved an ancient mystery while studying for her PhD, finding the key to deciphering a cryptic manuscript, known as Folio 9, which has perplexed some of the world’s finest minds.
Dr. Brown’s supervisor, Professor Alice Trevelyan of Hartland College, said, “Anya’s achievement is nothing short of exceptional. This is a very exciting development, and she is an exceptional young talent.”
Folio 9 was discovered two years ago in the Hartland College Library and made available online. Since then, many distinguished cryptographers, linguists, and paleologists have all attempted to decipher it. None have succeeded. Until now.
For more information, please contact Adam White at the University Press Office.
Chapter One
Anya
The press release made me anxious. Feels crazy to admit that now, after everything, but it’s true. I was happiest avoiding attention. Years of solitary study in libraries and archives had fired up my brain but also created the perfect environment for my introvert tendencies to blossom and thrive.
Then there was that thing I felt shame over.
When I told Sid, he said I was suffering from impostor syndrome and that I should be proud of what I’d achieved. End of story. I loved how concise and sweet he was. I loved his composure. I loved everything about him.
Mum had more to say. On a video call from the hospital where she’d been admitted after a tough bout of chemo, she looked gaunt but didn’t hold back. “If your father hadn’t rejected you, you wouldn’t feel this way. It’s his fault you can’t enjoy your success. Don’t give him the win. This is an incredible achievement.” Eyes shining, she wept tears that were plump with pride and revenge fantasies against the man who’d abandoned us both after she got pregnant with me.
Mum’s carer, Viv, gently took the phone from her and told meMum had made sure there wasn’t a soul in the hospital who didn’t know what I’d done. We’re both so proud of you, she said.
Professor Trevelyan was enthusiastic and pragmatic. On brand. “The press release is terrific. You deserve it, and you should be delighted. I know plenty of academics who would kill for this kind of attention.”
It meant a lot to have her approval because she was my supervisor, and even after three years working with her, she made me nervous. There was a hawklike quality about her, laser vision and sharp talons elegantly packaged in silk and cashmere. I had a work crush on her. Everyone with a pulse did.
I knew how lucky I was to be surrounded by so much support. Even though I still had doubts, I tried to appear pleased by the articles and interviews that followed. Mostly, it wasn’t too hard because they focused on Folio 9 and didn’t get personal, with one exception: “As her translation of Folio 9 makes headlines, Anya Brown is living the girl nerd dream. Are Doc Martens the new blue stockings?” So much was wrong with that. It was Dr. Anya Brown, for starters. Some things even an introvert like me wants to stand up for.
“Of course, it’s written by a male journalist,” Mum said.
A while later, she sent me one of the riddles she loved to make up:
I’m concealed ’til I pop
I’m mellow but I crush
I seethe but I dazzle
I’m chill but I blush
What am I?
Whoam I!?
It took me a few minutes to decode, as usual. I had the memory for images, but Mum had a love of wordplay and a very quick mind; her riddles were personalized and clever. The “What am I?” wasa glass of pink fizz, our name for pink prosecco, the celebration drink of choice in our home. Mum kept a bottle hidden in the back of the fridge and brought it out with ceremony if the occasion warranted it. We never had the money for real champagne, but prosecco hit the spot. The “Who am I?” took me a few more minutes—because who immediately recognizes himself or herself through the eyes of another person, even a loved one?—but I realized that it was me, and I felt the love. Be yourself, she was telling me, and be proud.
Professor Trevelyan had little patience with having to repeat herself, but I couldn’t let things lie. I went back to her and said, “This feels wrong because I couldn’t have done it if I didn’t have an eidetic memory.” Having a memory like mine felt like cheating, because I remembered everything I’d ever seen, in intricate detail. I felt as if I’d been given a gift that gave me an unfair advantage, instead of earning my stripes.
She arched an eyebrow and retorted, “By chance or luck or whatsoever cause...”
