Chapter 3
Exeter, County of Devon, England
Sharyn sensed the press of time, but she refused to rush her efforts. Due to the holiday, the library would be closing early, in less than an hour.
I must finish this . . .
A voice spoke at her shoulder. “You’re wasting your time.”
Startled, she accidentally snapped a photo, but the heel of her hand nudged the camera and blurred the image.
With a pained exhalation, she turned to the student who had slipped into the reading room behind her.
She recognized the young man, Duncan Maxwell, a fellow postgrad student.
He was enrolled in her same program, but he was part of another study group, one composed of four friends who had graduated from Oxford.
All were men, all from rich families, all full of themselves.
She had heard Duncan was sixteenth in line to the British throne.
At present, he looked as if he had just arrived from a foxhunt, dressed in a tweed coat over a canary yellow vest with tan breeches and polished black boots.
The only mark of casualness about him was the shaggy, rakish cut to his black hair and the persistent stubble that always darkened his face, which only accentuated the confidence that shone from his ice-blue eyes.
He stared at her with one brow raised—maybe in curiosity, maybe in disdain.
She had to turn away.
How long had he been standing there?
She returned her attention to the book. It rested on a pillow to protect its spine. Soft weights gently held open the pages. She had spent a half hour prepping the text, and this was after a five-day wait to obtain permission to take a photo of the rare book.
“It’s not a waste of time,” she stated crisply, wishing her cheeks had not flushed so hotly. “And yes, the library staff did inform me that copies of the atlas had already been digitized by the Humanities Lab.”
“Then, Ms. Karr, why photograph them yourself?” Duncan’s hard accent struck each consonant with a haughty condescension. Even addressing her by her surname felt as if he were a schoolmaster disciplining a student.
“Not all of us take the easy path in the pursuit of scholarship.” She scowled back at him. “Why are you even here? The library’s about to close.”
Duncan held up a gray package, tied with archival tape. “I came to retrieve an order from the special collections desk. Something sent to me from the British Library. Then I saw you working in here . . .”
“So, you barged in.”
“Only to try to help.” He sighed and the hard edges to his voice softened. “I saw you were taking a photo of a volume that had already been digitized. I had hoped I could save you some needless labor.”
She swallowed and let her guard down—slightly. “I’m working on Dr. Plinth’s assignment, on the essay about the intersection of medieval science and magic.”
“Same here. In fact, it seems we’ve both targeted the same person of interest: the astronomer and alchemist, John Dee.”
She eyed Duncan. “How did you know I picked him for—”
He held up a hand. “People talk. Especially after too many pints at the Ram.”
She gave a sad shake of her head. The Ram was a student hangout, a bar operated by the university. Both Naomi and Tag had tried to lure her out there a few times, but the reek of spilled ale, the raucous laughter, and drunken barks were all too triggering for her.
The only time she had visited the Ram was for a quiz night with her study group.
Unfortunately, they were bested by Duncan’s team, who lorded it over the pub that night.
Later, clearly inebriated, he had tried to make up for it by buying a round of drinks for all the competitors.
Tag had commented upon this largesse after his first sip: Oy, Guinness has never tasted so bitter.
Sharyn squinted at Duncan. “So, you’re also working on a paper concerning John Dee?”
She had already been fascinated by the sixteenth-century scholar and polymath.
Not only did Dee serve as an advisor to Queen Elizabeth I, he was also the court astronomer and a skilled mathematician.
But in addition, the man had a keen interest in alchemy, divination, and astrology.
When it came to merging science and magic, there were few who matched his devotion.
She studied Duncan. “So what’s your angle for the assignment?”
He stepped closer. “I’m looking into the science of encryption and how codes were used both to mask and enhance the mysticism of occult knowledge.
It’s said Dee possessed a copy of the Voynich Manuscript with its bizarre drawings and indecipherable language.
While this fact remains in dispute, it is known that he did possess and was fixated on a copy of the Book of Soyga, a sixteenth-century Latin text on magic, of which large sections remain deeply encrypted.
The British Library holds one of only two extant copies of that mystical book in its collection. ”
Sharyn stared at the package in Duncan’s hands. “They loaned it to you?”
“To me? Never. But I was able to get photographs of a few significant pages and have them sent to me. Cryptography has always been an interest of mine. My undergrad degree at Oxford was in Cybersecurity and Information Assurance. My focus was on AI and digital encryption.”
She frowned in confusion. “With such a degree, why enroll in this program?”
He snorted, which came out with an edge of bitterness. “My father—who’s in banking—questioned the same. He certainly favored the practicality of my Oxford studies.” He shrugged heavily. “But after learning of my postgrad application, he threatened to disown me. And may still.”
Sharyn could relate, remembering the castigation from her mother. “Yet, you came here. Why?”
He glanced at a clock on the wall. “A long story. Too long for now. Like you said, the library is about to close.”
She grimaced, recognizing she had at best another fifteen minutes.
She returned her attention to her camera and the open book.
She made a final adjustment of the pages with her freshly scrubbed fingers.
Unlike many institutions, the Old Library forbade gloves, which interfered with tactile dexterity and caused more damage than they prevented.
Oddly, Duncan did not leave her side and leaned in closer. “I’m puzzled,” he said softly. “How does Saxton’s atlas relate to your essay on John Dee?”
She glanced back, finding him standing far too close.
At six foot two, he towered over her a bit.
She swallowed before answering. “Later in life, Dee became the warden of Christ’s Church in Manchester.
During his tenure, he commissioned Saxton to survey the city’s parish boundaries.
No copies of that work exist, but this hand-painted atlas of Saxton’s includes the Manchester region.
” She pointed to the splay of pages. “It’s why I wanted to photograph them myself, to use this as a stand-in for the lost work commissioned by Dee. ”
“Ah. But still, how does this pertain to your thesis?”
She talked it out as she took her photos.
“While Dee dabbled in the occult—even believing he could communicate with angels—he was devoutly Catholic. All of his esoteric work, some of which could be deemed demonic, always had a Catholic slant to it. My treatise is to look at the merging of art, astronomy, and religiosity in Dee’s work. ”
“To what end?”
“To prove how the lines between the occult, religion, and science are blurrier than ever. Both in the past and now.”
“With the truth lying somewhere in the cracks . . .”
She hid a smile at his words.
Exactly.
Duncan pointed to the tabletop, where a chained loop held a tarnished pendant. Sharyn had taken it off, along with a couple rings, before handling the book.
“I see you have a Saint Christopher’s medal. You’re Roman Catholic yourself?”
“Actually, it was my father’s. He was a police officer. Died in the line of duty—a crash during a high-speed pursuit.”
“I’m sorry,” Duncan whispered.
“That was four years ago,” she muttered, as if time could excuse the pain.
Sharyn covered the medal with her palm and scooped it into the pocket of her jeans.
She was not sure why she had divulged any of this.
Still, she had left off one significant detail, maybe out of shame.
Her father’s body was found to have a blood-alcohol level of 0.
06 percent. While it was within legal limits, it was enough for the carjacker to sue the city and her family.
Even with the union’s support and life insurance, the judgment had left the family desolate.
Afterward, her mother had taken a reactionary hard turn into a faith that had long since lapsed.
Sharyn, too embittered and angry, could not follow the same path.
Even now, she remained conflicted about his death, about him.
Her father’s alcoholism had been a slow progression.
From doting parent to a monster who haunted her life.
Even in those hard depths, when shouts woke her, when an angry bull roughed through the house, there remained moments of tenderness and concern.
When she was a teenager, he would often take her to the gun range.
His instructions were firm but softened by humor and compliments.
He also enrolled her in self-defense and martial arts classes, where she earned a brown belt in jiujitsu.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t had time to gain her black belt before her father passed, and afterward the classes had been too expensive.
While Sharyn had enjoyed the challenge, down deep she suspected the reason behind her father’s encouragement.
It wasn’t just to gird his daughter against the harshness of the world, but possibly also to protect her from himself.
Often when she dropped an opponent to the mat, he would smile and nod, but there remained a troubled look to his eyes.
While she had suffered verbal abuse during his drunken rages, it had never turned physical.
That was the burden of her mother. Black eyes, bruises, broken fingers.
Still, she suspected her father feared his anger might one day fall upon his daughter and maybe—consciously or not—sought to give her the means to protect herself.
With his death, Sharyn would never know the truth. Was her father the alcoholic who haunted their house like some dread beast . . . or the man who cheered her at track meets and who so clearly loved her?
She remembered Duncan’s words from a moment ago and knew they applied here, too: The truth lies somewhere in the cracks.
She took a final few snapshots of the atlas, then straightened. “That should do it.”
Which proved timely, as the door to the reading room swung open.
The librarian who staffed the research desk popped her head inside.
She was an older woman who wore her gray hair in a tight bun and reading glasses hanging from a chain.
“We’ll be closing in five minutes. All material must be returned to their strongrooms.”
“I’m finished,” Sharyn said. “I’ll get everything tidied up and re-box the atlas.”
The woman nodded and ducked back out.
“I can help you,” Duncan offered.
“No need. I can manage.”
“Very good.” He stepped toward the door, then turned back. “Are you going to the Halloween party at the Lemmy?”
“I’m afraid not.” The Lemmy—the nickname for the Lemon Grove nightclub—had a bash planned for the night. “Those tickets are rather steep.”
“I do have a couple extra, if you’d like.”
She shook her head. “My friends and I already made plans to go to the Forum.”
Where there will be no cover charge.
She was on a tight budget, not that she particularly wanted to go either way. The party at the university commons was open to the public and notoriously rowdy. Unfortunately, she had been unable to discourage her flatmates from browbeating her into attending.
“Well . . .” Duncan patted his pockets, then pulled out a set of black tickets stamped in crimson with the logo of the Lemon Grove. He tossed them on the table. “For you and your friends . . . if you change your mind.”
She made no move toward the tickets.
“I hope to see you there,” he added as he headed out.
She lifted a hand and made a noncommittal noise. She had no intention of going. In fact, if possible, she planned on making it an early night.
That’s if Tag and Naomi will let me.
And that was certainly a big if.