Chapter 9
Maybe it was the excitement of the raid of the postcard salesman, maybe it was worrying about Yannis and his father—or the
uncomfortable feeling that she was somehow responsible—but Celia spent a long night exhausted and yet unable to submit to
sleep. Even in a room where no windows foretold the day, she at last felt that dawn was upon them, and she couldn’t pretend
to rest any longer. In the other bed, Daphne was sleeping face up like Sleeping Beauty; even her covers were unruffled.
Because she isn’t guilty of embroiling her friends in illegal business. Celia sat up. Stop it. She wasn’t responsible for the postcard man. She wasn’t responsible for the raid on Yannis’s. He’d been printing clandestinely
long before she’d joined the group. They’d been friends for even longer.
And he’d never even hinted at what he did on the sly.
Even now, though she’d seen evidence of other things being printed on the hidden printer, it was all kept very separate.
The less one knew about the others, the safer they would all be.
And Ivan? Yannis had made sure he got away before the raid began.
Which made Celia think what he was involved with was even more illegal than what she was doing.
Union organizer? Something political, maybe.
And there were others, even Yannis himself.
That printer had been set up for clandestine work long before Celia had begun.
Is that why he thought she’d ratted him out? Because maybe she was the last one in?
She pushed the covers away. She wouldn’t figure life out sitting in the dark. She needed to be out there, doing something.
She took her clothes into the kitchen to dress. The courtyard was still gray, but the clock said it was almost six. The sun
wouldn’t reach the courtyard until almost noon. She quickly changed into one of her most comfortable skirts and shirtwaist.
Her rust pleated skirt with the deep yoke was flattering, if she did say so. And the pleats gave her extra striding room for
climbing ladders to the top shelves. Plus the darker colors wouldn’t show dirt. Cleaning up the carts and throwaway box after
the fracas of last night would be a dirty affair.
She washed her face and pinned up her hair in the reflection in the window, turned one way and the other, and sighed. She
didn’t feel more optimistic at all. She grabbed her shoes and stockings, tiptoed down the hall, and let herself out of the
apartment. She crept down the first flight, then stopped to don stockings and shoes, then hurried the rest of the way down,
stopping in the little kitchen to make coffee.
While the water heated, she contemplated her plans for the day. Should she attempt to make the trip down to the settlement
with her pamphlets and back again before her sisters came downstairs? She’d never made the trip before and had no idea of
the time it would take. Better she exercise some patience—not her best virtue—and wait to see if there were instructions in
the throwaway box.
Before taking her coffee out to the floor, she donned an apron and, with feather duster in her free hand, she went out to clean up the carts.
But first she stopped at the counter, where she’d left the throwaway box the night before. It was filled with books, some
that must have fallen off the carts, and other detritus that would have to be sorted and tossed. She took a sip of coffee,
put her mug down on the counter, and got to it. The first several books were in decent condition. She set them aside. A magazine
covered with dried mud where it had been trampled underfoot was bound for the rubbish pile.
Alternating between taking sips of coffee and checking the damaged books, she’d made her way down to the actual box of castoffs,
and was stopped by the sight of a large rectangular box, about the size of an illustrated art book. A catalogue? . . . Or
a manuscript?
The breath caught in Celia’s throat. It was wrapped in brown butcher’s paper. Tied with heavy hemp string. As if it had been
mailed.
Mailed. While her rational mind told her that Margaret would never have left something this important to chance, every nerve told
her to step away. Not to touch it. Accepting it would incur a mandatory jail sentence. She looked around, as if Comstock’s
agents might be hiding among the rows of books.
She was being ridiculous. Margaret would never have sent Celia her manuscript. She would need at least a thousand copies printed,
and she knew Celia didn’t have that kind of access. And how did it end up in their throwaway box? It didn’t make sense. Unless
it was some kind of setup. Comstock was notorious about using underhanded methods to catch his quarry.
She took a fortifying sip of coffee, then leaned close to take a better look.
Nearly collapsed in relief when there was no address to Celia Applebaum.
There was nothing written at all. She gingerly lifted it to look at the other side.
It was quite heavy with hard edges. No writing on the other side.
A frisson of ambivalence turned to anxiety.
What should she do? Wait for Olivia? No. No, she couldn’t do that. If it was Family Limitations, how could she ever explain to her sisters? What if it was a trap and when she opened it, Comstock’s men would swarm in and
arrest her?
She actually looked toward the front door.
Don’t be stupid. She placed the package on the counter.
The string was knotted, too tight to untie. It would have to be cut. She quickly retrieved a pair of scissors from the cashier’s
drawer.
With trembling fingers, she slipped one edge of the scissors beneath the string. One snip and it fell away, another snip to
the other side and the package was free.
She found the paper seam and carefully opened it to reveal what she had suspected was a protective cover, not the usual two
sheets of cardboard but a metal case. She turned it around to reveal a keyhole, but no key. Things were getting even stranger.
Celia thought of Margaret safely on a steamer to England, and she couldn’t help feeling a little resentful for being left
with this responsibility. And with no key.
She pushed on the lid. It lifted easily. It wasn’t even locked. Inside, the manuscript was covered by a leather jacket. She
carefully moved the coffee mug off the counter, cleaned the surface. Then she gently lifted the manuscript out of the case
and shoved the case away.
It took her several more deep breaths before she lifted off the cover and set it aside.
The first page was blank. Not unusual except that it wasn’t typical manuscript paper. She ran her forefinger lightly over
the sheet. This was some kind of thick paper, a tight weave, vellum maybe.
She laid aside the first page and looked down at the second page.
At first she just stared. Of all the things she’d expected—and, yes, maybe feared—this was not it. She didn’t know what it
was. It wasn’t even a manuscript. It wasn’t typed or handwritten, but some kind of scrapbook. Several tiny fragments were
adhered to the page, the smallest less than an inch long, others no larger than two or three inches. They were old, really
old, and so dark that she could barely make out the . . . lettering? It was no language Celia recognized.
Her heart began to race. This was not Margaret’s new book. Whatever this was, it was something out of the ordinary, unique,
and very rare. But how on earth did it end up in their throwaway box? And why in front of their shop? Her mind went blank.
Blindly, she rushed to the intercom. Pressed the fourth floor, pressed again and again.
“Wah—What?” Olivia’s voice.
“Come down. Now.”
“I was asleep.”
“Now, please.”
The intercom clicked.
Celia waited.
A few minutes later Olivia, followed closely by Daphne, came down the final set of stairs.
“What is it?” Olivia demanded. Her hair was hastily put up, and Celia was mesmerized by a stray piece that stuck out to the side.
“Well?” Olivia scanned the store, turning in a full circle.
Daphne frowned. “This better be important.”
Olivia turned back to Celia, a question on her face.
“It—It’s this.” Celia stepped aside to reveal the sheet of fragments.
Daphne huffed out a sigh, but Olivia didn’t move, just raised her eyes to take in Celia then turned them back toward the papers.
“Good God,” she breathed and stepped closer.
Daphne started to move, but Olivia stuck out both hands to keep the other two away from what Celia had discovered.
“Don’t touch, don’t even breathe. Where did you find this?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the papers.
“It was in the throwaway box, in that case, and wrapped up in brown paper. I thought it was . . . was . . . I didn’t know
what it was. So I opened it. As soon as I saw it, I guessed it was old, parchment or something.”
“Papyrus,” said Olivia. “Or a remarkably fine forgery. Either way . . .” she trailed off.
“Hand me the magnifying glass from the cashier’s counter.”
She barely mouthed the words, trying not to breathe on the page. Celia had seen her do that before when a particularly fragile
volume crossed their threshold. Celia backed away, literally trying not to breathe. She grabbed the glass from the desk and
hurried back.
Olivia hadn’t taken her eyes off the papyrus, but she hadn’t moved to read it. Now she did, holding the fabric of her blouse
against her body and leaning over the sheet to carefully peruse it.
Celia and Daphne peered over her shoulder while she carefully removed the page of vellum that it rested on to reveal another page with another scrap of papyrus.
Finally, she straightened, nudging her sisters back as if their closeness would be a lethal blow to this rare find. “Greek.
Ancient Greek. Written on papyrus. A remarkable find.”
“It’s real?” asked Celia.
“At first glance, it appears to be. Of course it will have to be tested. But if it is authentic, it was most certainly stolen.”
“It must be a fake, or else why leave such a thing in our throwaway box?” Celia asked.