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He stepped backward, and in the blink of an eye, the lynx sat where he had stood. It turned from us and darted into the forest.

Chapter Thirty-Three

We arrived in Falun two hours after sunrise the next day. Alma, at the reins, took us through its streets to the shop she had spoken about. Helena stayed to watch our things while Alma and I went inside.

The store was about twice as stuffed with things as my uncle’s—and that was saying quite a lot. The shelves looked as though they might fall off the walls at any moment, and the only visible floor was a path from the door to the counter. In the corner stood an oven and flames danced behind the grate. After two days outside—counting the hayloft and the mountain—the heat was like being buried under a thick blanket.

The owner of the shop, a slight man with a stoop, was behind the counter, and his face split into a grin when he saw Alma.

“Miss Selander, here to filch some more of my treasures?”

“Not filch,” she said, returning his smile. “I always pay you a fair price, don’t I?”

“Yes, but no doubt you charge more.”

“Your beauties fetch more down south.”

We reached the counter, and he looked me up and down. “You didn’t tell me you had a sister.”

“That’s because I don’t. This is my cousin, Selma.”

The man, introducing himself as Mr. Larsson, did a little bow. “What can I help you ladies with?”

“That book you told me about,” she said. “With the strange symbols. Do you still have it?”

He held up a finger. “Give me a moment.” He disappeared through a door behind the counter which, judging by the glimpse I got, held a room even more cluttered than this one.

Alma picked up a jar full of beads and studied the contents through the glass, shaking it so the beads shifted. She had that contemplative look she always wore when considering an acquisition.

Mr. Larsson returned with the book. It was a tome as thick as the breadth of my hand. He pushed aside a candlestick, and the book made a hollow thump as it landed on the wood. The pages weren’t printed, I saw when he opened it, but handwritten in a slanted, old-fashioned script.

“Where did you say you got this?” Alma asked.

“Bought it from a trader from up north. That’s all I know. Do you have a buyer for it?”

“An eccentric from Stockholm who collects old manuscripts. How much?”

“Fifty skilling.”

Alma laughed. “For this old pile of paper. I’ll give you ten.”

“Forty.”

“Eleven.”

“Thirty.”

“Twelve. You’ve had it lying around for years.”

Larsson tutted. “Twenty.”

“Fifteen and you throw in this,” she said and tapped a finger on the lid of the jar with the beads.

Larsson’s dramatic sigh was fit for the stage. “All right, for you, Miss Selander. But you’re skinning me.”

Alma held her hand out to the shelves. “It appears I’m not. Your business looks as healthy as a pig in late summer.”

She paid, and I carried the book under my arm while Alma took the jar. After a visit to the baker, we set off with Helena at the reins which allowed Alma and I to sit in the back and look through the book. First, though, she opened the jar and stuck her hand inside, roaming through the clinking contents.