My father nodded.
“German,” I said.
“Yes.” He looked lit up, as if he’d been waiting for this, for me to prove my expertise, and it delighted him. I didn’t want that to mean something to me, but it did.
I turned the pages. Here was a Tree of Life, a Zodiac man, a Tower of Wisdom. There were astrological diagrams, recipes for remedies, and instructions for bloodletting. The illustrations were of exceptional quality, the colors so fresh on the page it was as if they’d just been mixed, as if the scribe’s brush were sitting to the side, still wet with paint.
He had more to show me: an extremely rare and very early Bible with fascinating riddles, manicules, and annotations in themargins, a Celtic codex not dissimilar to the mind-blowingBook of Kells, Ireland’s national treasure. A gorgeous little book of hours. Treasures, all of them. He watched me intently as I examined them.
“Do you have a favorite?” I asked. A collector’s favorite piece can reveal a lot about them. I was eager to know everything I could about him but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of asking directly.
He smiled, as if he knew my game. “I love them all,” he said. “You could make a lifetime’s work of studying this collection. If I hadn’t chosen medicine, that would be my dream. Next best thing is that you do it.”
“Why recruit me to St. Andrews, not Cambridge?”
“The manuscripts live up there. As I said, it’s where they’re most secure. Did you enjoy meeting Tracy? Isn’t she exquisite?” He caught my expression and backtracked. “I mean, you can see why the camera loved her, can’t you?”
I nodded slightly, but he’d sounded a bit creepy to me, and I wondered about their relationship.
“Let me ask you a question: Why so self-deprecating in your interviews about Folio 9? You should be proud of your talent. If you were—” He stopped, catching himself.
I stared. His words got right under my skin. My interviews were, of course, available for anyone to find, but it unnerved and annoyed me to think of him reading them and judging me. “If I were what?” I asked. “One of your children?”
He shook his head, but we both knew that’s what he was about to say, and it cut like a knife.
“I think you gave up your right to offer me advice when you decided to abandon me before I was born,” I said. “You don’t get to parent me. It’s not part of our deal.”
His lips twisted, and I was glad to see that I could get to him. “Understood,” he said.
I closed the books. “Thanks for showing me these.” We put them back in their boxes and he pressed the button that made the blinds open. We both blinked in the light. I still wasn’t used to seeing my eyes in his face. “I need to ask you something,” I said.
“Anything.”
“If I decide I don’t want to work with you at any point, will you stop helping Mum?”
He winced. “How little you think of me.”
“Will you?”
“I promise I’ll do everything I can to help your mother, for as long as she’ll let me.”
He makes promises as easily as he breaks them.
I didn’t trust him, but his word was all I had to go on. I thought of Mum on the phone earlier, how happy and hopeful she’d sounded for the first time in what felt like forever.
He said, “Anya, before you leave, can I hug you?”
“No,” I said.
“Fair enough. A handshake?” He held his hand out. Now there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Don’t leave me hanging.”
He can be charming when he wants to be.
I hesitated before reaching across some of the most valuable manuscripts in the world and shaking my father’s hand. His grip was too firm. It hurt a little. He was smiling, but I was remembering how hard he’d held me in the car earlier, hard enough to bruise his own flesh and blood.
He’ll crush anything and anyone that gets in his way.
Clio
