Chapter 16 #2
The other night Jenna had been through the wringer emotionally.
She'd asked about the family, about the history, what it was like growing up in Belle Hollow. She asked about Monica, and Annelise told her everything she knew. She knew the good, the bad, and the concerning. Jenna needed time to breathe and assimilate everything she’d learned.
Annelise didn't feel right interfering since she hadn't heard from her new cousin all day, other than a quick text hello. There was so much to process.
Looking around, Annelise took stock. She had a restroom here and a sink.
She had an overnight bag, and a very comfortable couch.
The locks were secure and the wards she'd placed on the warehouse, the office, and all the items would keep her safe. It wouldn’t be the first night she’d slept here, just the first time she’d done it on purpose. And who would know?
Behind her, the huge leather couch beckoned with its comfort.
She’d intended to sell it, but each time she tried to get it through the warehouse door it simply hadn't budged.
So it was hers now. She could just sleep here.
A lone, deep breath let her know she was suddenly too exhausted to find another place anyway.
Pulling the curtains closed, she left the light on.
She was grateful she had a cute, matching jammies set.
She simply hadn't known where she would end up, but at least here she could do more work and pay zero dollars for a hotel.
She ate one last snack, brushed her teeth, and pulled on her thick socks.
Then she went to move the book. As she touched it, she felt a connection.
Figures, she thought. It had called to her when she cast, and she'd put it off for exactly that reason.
As she curled up on the couch, she pulled the soft blanket off the back.
Wrapping herself in the not-antique double knit throw of the girl putting a book on a library shelf, Annelise curled up against the huge padded curved arm of the leather couch and used the cloth it was wrapped in to open the book.
The pages of old vellum crackled. It had the air of a family Bible, though that wasn't what it was.
No one was watching, so she flipped the pages with magic.
Checking randomly, she saw the slanted handwriting and the variations in ink.
She'd known by look that it was written with a quill pen, but she felt through her own senses that it was written on a rocking ship, through a rough ride in the back of a wagon, and more. A diary? The entries were signed Launa.
With a wave of her fingers, not touching and getting oils on it, she flipped through more pages.
Dates spanned a handful of decades in the mid-seventeen-hundreds, and she found herself sucked into the story of a young woman who had immigrated to a place that England promised to its people without realizing it already belonged to others.
Of course, Annelise now understood, England simply hadn't cared that it belonged to other people.
She tried to read more, but slowly faded.
It wasn't that late, and she often stayed awake much later, but she was exhausted.
She'd spent long days hauling her beloved things away and putting them in the trash one by one.
It hurt to see so much of her home destroyed, though her Gram seemed almost unaffected.
Luckily, Annelise kept few antiques there.
They stayed in her office, in a sacred space that clients came in and out of all day but that she guarded fiercely.
With the book still resting on the cloth, she dozed, dreaming of rocking back and forth in a wooden carriage, the hot sun blazing down. Her hand-woven clothing extended all the way past her wrists and ankles.
She woke into the dark of night, not sure just how much time had passed.
The book lay open on her lap, a dangerous prospect.
It was an antique. While there was every possibility something like this could be forged, this one wasn’t.
She’d almost stepped inside it. She knew she’d have to find what provenance she could and do any chemical, carbon dating, or other testing required for proof. But this was the real deal.
Handling it carefully, she stretched her legs, the pins and needles indicating she'd been in that position for longer than she liked.
As she set her feet gingerly on the floor, she lifted the book, still holding it by the cloth wrapping.
She set it on the desk so she could crawl back onto the couch and finish out the night curled up under her library-girl blanket.
But as she set it down, it begged her to flip open the front cover.
There were just a few notes about the writer on the front page. This was a diary of leaving her homeland. Annelise couldn't quite place the wording the woman used, but it looked like somewhere in the Basque region of Spain. She flipped another page.
As she saw it, she told herself she wasn't reading it correctly. The writing was in an older Spanish, and she was struggling to interpret it. The old cursive tended to have a longer slant and more curl, making it harder to read.
But there it was, no mistaking the name on the diary. Launa Velasco.