The Last Labyrinth

Prologue

The diary arrived in the morning, delivered to the head curator at the Morgan Library & Museum by special courier from England.

The curator liked to work alone on Saturdays when much of the staff was gone for the weekend.

He signed for the package and retreated to his office, wondering who—or what—the Liron Institute was and why they were sending a package to him.

The letter accompanying it gave him pause for several reasons.

The gold symbol at the top was an ancient Egyptian emblem.

The letter bore no name or signature and read like something out of a spy novel.

It literally said, “The fate of the world rests in protecting this book.” The instructions were to safeguard the diary and ultimately deliver it and the accompanying translation to a woman named Magellan Brighton.

She was to come retrieve the book personally, and time was of the essence.

The curator didn’t know anyone by that name. He also couldn’t imagine why an institute in England had sent such a request to him across the pond as if he were a delivery service.

He opened the package to find a small pocket-size diary, centuries old, made of parchment and encased in leather with a beautiful Celtic triskelion, a symbol of three interlocking spiraled rings, engraved on the cover. The artistry was exquisite. He slipped on his gloves to handle it more gingerly.

The translation was just as enticing. A collection of loose pages, meticulously handwritten and sheathed in a folio.

The paper was not made of wood pulp but rag paper, which would have been used before the 1800s.

The curator put the translation carefully aside to study later, not requiring it, and returned to the book.

He was one of the world’s foremost experts in medieval manuscripts written in Old English and preferred to read the original text himself.

When he opened the diary to the first page, a powerful yet graceful script leapt off the parchment.

You know my brother’s name,

but you do not know mine,

though we were born twins, a boy and a girl.

A grand secret lies at the heart of life

that must be remembered

if we are to save this world once more.

Every atom on this planet sings the same song.

The curator paused for a moment to study the line Every atom on this planet sings the same song. He knew Old English with all its nuances and musicality better than modern English. How could someone who had lived centuries ago know what an atom was? And just what did the word sings entail?

The direct translation was “every life-spark makes the same music,” and “life-spark” was a kenning—the Old English way of combining two words to make another word. He thought he knew every kenning ever written, but he’d never seen this one before.

As he read on he began to grasp just who the author of this diary was, and his heart sped with excitement.

Could it really be her?

No record of this memoir existed. A record of her barely existed.

She and her brother had lived in the sixth century, and her twin had gone on to be fictionalized a hundred times over. His most famous portrayal had been written by Sir Thomas Malory in the 1400s.

How had an institute in England he had never heard of gotten their hands on this diary? Where had it been this entire time?

The problem was there was no name signed to the letter or phone number for the institute to call, only one for Magellan Brighton.

He dialed her number, and it went straight to voicemail.

On the recording, she had a young voice.

He hesitated, unsure what to say. Given the cloak and dagger of the letter and the monumental importance of what he held in his hands, he decided not to leave any details.

“Hello, I’ve just received a . . . book, a very special diary, that seems to be yours.

Please call me at your earliest convenience.

” He did not mention he was with the Morgan Museum.

Instead, he left his private cell phone number and hung up, feeling dissatisfied.

Had he said too much? Had he not said enough?

A knock at his door startled him, and he went to open it. A fellow colleague was hovering in the hallway with an excited look on his face.

“What is it?” the curator asked him, not sure if the day could get any stranger.

“You have to come outside!”

The curator followed, locking his office door and leaving the diary on his worktable. He’d be right back. He walked out onto Madison Avenue, and his mouth dropped open when he looked up at the sky along with everyone else.

“My God,” he whispered.

A brilliant aurora borealis that belonged more in Finland stretched above Manhattan.

The curator was a logical man, a historian in love with words, but his mind was already quickly forming a kenning—linking the aurora borealis in the sky to the diary on his desk, because they both felt magical—because the world’s most renowned wizard had a twin sister who had written a memoir, and she knew what an atom was and talked about saving the world.

The curator left the gaping crowd outside to return to his office to find out just what Merlin’s sister had to say.