SEPTEMBER 1902
Celia Bowen sits at a desk surrounded by piles of books. She ran out of space for her library some time ago, but instead of making the room larger she has opted to let the books become the room. Piles of them function as tables, others hang suspended from the ceiling, along with large golden cages holding several live white doves.
Another round cage, sitting on a table rather than hanging from above, contains an elaborate clock. It marks both time and astrological movements as it ticks steadily through the afternoon.
A large black raven sleeps uncaged alongside the complete works of Shakespeare.
Mismatched candles in silver candelabras, burning in sets of three, surround the desk in the center of the room. Upon the desk itself there is a slowly cooling cup of tea, a scarf that has been partially unraveled into a ball of crimson yarn, a framed photograph of a deceased clockmaker, a solitary playing card long separated from its deck, and an open book filled with signs and symbols and signatures procured from other pieces of paper.
Celia sits with a notebook and pen, attempting to decipher the system the book is written in.
She tries to think the way she imagines Marco might have as he wrote it, picturing him inscribing each page, rendering the delicate ink branches of the tree that winds throughout the book.
She reads each signature over and over, checking how securely each lock of hair is pasted, scrutinizing each symbol.
She has spent so much time repeating this process that she could recreate the book from memory, but she still does not fully comprehend how the system works.
The raven stirs and caws at something in the shadows.
“You’re bothering Huginn,” Celia says, without looking up.
The candlelight catches only the edges of her father’s form as he hovers nearby. Highlighting the creases of his jacket, the collar of his shirt. Glinting in the hollows of his dark eyes.
“You should really get another one,” he says, peering at the agitated raven. “A Muninn to complete the set.”
“I prefer thought to memory, Papa,” Celia says.
“Hrmph” is the only response.
Celia ignores him as he leans over her shoulder, watching her flip through the inscribed pages.
“This is a god-awful mess,” he says.
“A language you cannot speak yourself is not necessarily a god-awful mess,” Celia says, transcribing a line of symbols into her notebook.
“This is messy work, bindings and charms,” Hector says, floating to the other side of the desk to get a better look. “Very much Alexander’s style, overly complicated and covert.”
“Yet with enough study anyone could do it. Quite the contrast to all your lectures about how I was special.”
“You are special. You are beyond this”—he waves a transparent hand over the pile of books—“this use of tools and constructs. There is so much more you could accomplish with your talents. So much more to explore.”
“ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’ ” Celia quotes at him.
“Please, no Shakespeare.”
“I am haunted by the ghost of my father, I think that should allow me to quote Hamlet as much as I please. You used to be quite fond of Shakespeare, Prospero.”
“You are too intelligent for this behavior. I expected more of you.”
“I apologize for not living up to your absurd expectations, Papa. Don’t you have anyone else to bother?”
“There are very few people I can converse with in this state. Alexander is dreadfully boring, as always. Chandresh was interesting enough but that boy has altered his memory so many times that it’s not much better than talking to myself. Though it might be nice for a change of scenery.”
“You talk to Chandresh?” Celia asks.
“Occasionally,” Hector says, inspecting the clock as it turns within its cage.
“You told Chandresh that Alexander was going to be at the circus that night. You sent him there.”