“That’d be great,” I yelled.
Come on, come on. Where are you?
I quieted my breathing, trying to listen as I did with objects for the murmur of Magic. For one long, heart-stopping moment, there was nothing. Only silence, until a whisper.
A rush of water, the rustle of worn, bare footsteps on stone. The low chanting of priests, the breath of a flame, the steady choke of incense. And flashes of color: gold paint, a black hood, streaks of blood.
I followed the notes, thumping nearly as loud as my pulse in my ears, to a stack of books in the corner. Nestled in the center of the stack, buried inside the false cover of a discrete mathematics textbook, was a very old, thin book, bound in vellum. This was it. As I held it, I got the same feeling I had had with Dani, of being pulled under deep, deep water.
Basile’s footsteps drew closer. I shoved the book under my shirt.
“I just got a text from Robetresse. She wants a meeting. Some kind of break in the investigation. I’ve got to go!” I yelled.
My limbs felt like jelly. The book safely under my shirt, I slipped out of the room and made for the door.
“Cella?” Basile asked.
I took off at a run out the door. Then I was racing across campus, dirt and clay kicking up behind my feet, the air outside so hot it was suffocating. One hand on my belly, like I was holding an awkwardly shaped baby, I sent Max a text with the other.
Got it !!!!! Meet @ my room ASAP.
Back at my room, I collapsed onto the bed, breathing hard. “He’s going to know I took it.”
Max’s lips pulled to the side. “Maybe. But the excuse might have bought us some time.”
“What if he reports the theft?”
“To who? The school? He sure as hell won’t want those vultures on the council getting their hands on it.”
“Well, he’s not just going to lie down with someone stealing his book.”
“Yeah.”
His eyes locked with mine, and it was one of those moments I was glad to have a dimidium. For someone to feel the same fear, the same emotions I was struggling to put words to. “So we hurry,” he said.
“So we hurry.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The book was old, that much was clear. How old, though, was beyond either of our guesses. The cover was brown and soft, bound in vellum. It must have been repaired throughout the ages; the spine had been rebound in a worn leather, and there were pages appended to it that couldn’t have been part of the original manuscript.
With two hands gently supporting the spine, I flipped the cover open.
The front cover had only two words:Liber Autumnus. The author was simply denoted as S.
I skimmed through the pages, written on a mixture of papyrus and parchment, marveling at the ink that hadn’t faded, inhaling the scent of time spilling over and staining the pages. “Maybe it’s just a memento, a collector’s text,” Max said.
“If it was part of a collection, don’t you think it would be in some kind of protective binding? Or in a museum? He had it hidden. He was using it.”
The first section of the book, twenty pages of papyrus, were written entirely in symbols.
“Have a look at these,” I said to Max.
“What are those? Alchemical?”
“Maybe.” I ran a finger over them, “Maybe Magical, too.”
The second portion, still papyrus, was written in a very fine, thin print of Ancient Greek. I looked dubiously at Max. “I can’t possibly translate this …”
