And yet, he read on. Pages and pages of Alwin and Lyra’s month together, traveling to other villages in the vicinity, Lyra charming everyone with her mysterious beauty, and Alwin’s clerical trade blessed with amazing good fortune. They never strayed too far from Fenwick, for Alwin had promised Lyra they would return for the next round moon.
Every page was a testament to their growing love, written in Alwin’s steady hand and, according to his writings, illustrated by the mystical touch of Lyra’s inherent magic.
Barnaby sat back. Magic upon the pages. It was absurd. And yet…
He had been able to read what had been too ancient to understand at first. And the pages… It wasn’t so much that they responded to his touch. He responded to them. And the weight at his back had not subsided. If anything, he had grown comfortable with it, as though it belonged there.
He needed to know more. He was fully invested in the outcome of these lovers from so very long ago. Perhaps, somewhere among Alwyn’s narration and Lyra’s bright pictures—like stained glass windows streaming with light-lit color—Barnaby would gain understanding of his strange experience.
And so, he turned, at last, to the final page in the manuscript.
“Lyra and I were now one. She no longer desired to return to the land of the fae. We were one body, one breath. But she wished to greet her people. To embrace her family. To tell them of our joy. To bid them farewell.
Thus, as the belly of the moon began once more to bear fruit, we headed back to …”
Barnaby forgot the letter opener, reaching with hasty fingers to turn the page.
Nothing.
He took the vellum between finger and thumb. Were there two pages stuck together?
No, that sheet had been the last.
Barnaby sat back, the cushion he had used as a laughable barricade falling to the floor.
Where was the rest of the story?
Where in Fenwick had the fairy circle gathered?
Alwin would not have left the remainder unsaid. He had been particular about capturing their story on these pages. And now, to stop mid-sentence…
Could the pages have been damaged, or perished with age? If so, why had the rest of them not followed suit?
Barnaby peered more closely at the leather binding. Tiny slivers of vellum were caught in the carefully sewn edge. As if several pages had been torn out. And recently, by the freshness of the edges.
Had the previous owner wanted some important secret to remain unshared? But why would he? It was only a myth after all. Alwin the scribe was surely a madman, speaking of fairies and magic. And yet… Barnaby had not been mistaken. The words had changed. His own body had reacted to the touch of the pages.
He should find out whether anyone else experienced the same effects. But who could he ask without sounding like a madman himself? And if he said nothing, merely requesting that someone else hold the book to see what happened, would they be able to hide their surprise if something did? If they showed no reaction, would it mean they, too, were afraid to look the fool, or that they had simply felt and seen nothing? What was he to do?
He really should ask Lord Brathwaite about it. He could begin by expressing his sadness at the damage to such a valuable manuscript. Even if the contents were the ravings of a lunatic, the book was very old indeed. To rip pages from it bordered on its own kind of madness.
But his lordship was not about. And Barnaby could not wait. His task within the library quite forgotten, he gathered up the manuscript, wrapped it up carefully in its oilskin cloth, and tucked it under his arm.
Moments later, the front door closed behind him with a click of the latch.
Barnaby was on a mission.
Chapter Three
Having made inquiries along the way, Barnaby hastened past the Queen’s Barque Inn, which seemed always to be abuzz with activity, and continued until he ran out of road.
A footpath curved between trees and past a cemetery, leading the way to the small Norman church that stood stone-solid, its narrow, arched windows shuttered and uninviting on this weekday afternoon.
Barnaby’s destination was next door, a vicarage that had fared no better against time than the other cottages in the village.
A maid answered his polite knock and led him through to a surprisingly cozy parlor before fetching her employer.
The vicar, as it turned out, was a young man full of energy and an equal measure of curiosity.
