Chapter One
Anya
The press release made me anxious. Feels crazy to admit that now, after everything, but it’s true. I was happiest avoiding
attention. Years of solitary study in libraries and archives had fired up my brain but also created the perfect environment
for my introvert tendencies to blossom and thrive.
Then there was that thing I felt shame over.
When I told Sid, he said I was suffering from impostor syndrome and that I should be proud of what I’d achieved. End of story.
I loved how concise and sweet he was. I loved his composure. I loved everything about him.
Mum had more to say. On a video call from the hospital where she’d been admitted after a tough bout of chemo, she looked gaunt
but didn’t hold back. “If your father hadn’t rejected you, you wouldn’t feel this way. It’s his fault you can’t enjoy your
success. Don’t give him the win. This is an incredible achievement.” Eyes shining, she wept tears that were plump with pride
and revenge fantasies against the man who’d abandoned us both after she got pregnant with me.
Mum’s carer, Viv, gently took the phone from her and told me Mum had made sure there wasn’t a soul in the hospital who didn’t know what I’d done. We’re both so proud of you, she said.
Professor Trevelyan was enthusiastic and pragmatic. On brand. “The press release is terrific. You deserve it, and you should
be delighted. I know plenty of academics who would kill for this kind of attention.”
It meant a lot to have her approval because she was my supervisor, and even after three years working with her, she made me
nervous. There was a hawklike quality about her, laser vision and sharp talons elegantly packaged in silk and cashmere. I
had a work crush on her. Everyone with a pulse did.
I knew how lucky I was to be surrounded by so much support. Even though I still had doubts, I tried to appear pleased by the
articles and interviews that followed. Mostly, it wasn’t too hard because they focused on Folio 9 and didn’t get personal,
with one exception: “As her translation of Folio 9 makes headlines, Anya Brown is living the girl nerd dream. Are Doc Martens
the new blue stockings?” So much was wrong with that. It was Dr. Anya Brown, for starters. Some things even an introvert like
me wants to stand up for.
“Of course, it’s written by a male journalist,” Mum said.
A while later, she sent me one of the riddles she loved to make up:
I’m concealed ’til I pop
I’m mellow but I crush
I seethe but I dazzle
I’m chill but I blush
What am I?
Who am I!?
It took me a few minutes to decode, as usual.
I had the memory for images, but Mum had a love of wordplay and a very quick mind; her riddles were personalized and clever.
The “What am I?” was a glass of pink fizz, our name for pink prosecco, the celebration drink of choice in our home.
Mum kept a bottle hidden in the back of the fridge and brought it out with ceremony if the occasion warranted it.
We never had the money for real champagne, but prosecco hit the spot.
The “Who am I?” took me a few more minutes—because who immediately recognizes himself or herself through the eyes of another person, even a loved one?
—but I realized that it was me, and I felt the love.
Be yourself, she was telling me, and be proud.
Professor Trevelyan had little patience with having to repeat herself, but I couldn’t let things lie. I went back to her and
said, “This feels wrong because I couldn’t have done it if I didn’t have an eidetic memory.” Having a memory like mine felt
like cheating, because I remembered everything I’d ever seen, in intricate detail. I felt as if I’d been given a gift that
gave me an unfair advantage, instead of earning my stripes.
She arched an eyebrow and retorted, “By chance or luck or whatsoever cause . . .”
It took me a moment to realize that she was quoting Chaucer and that I shouldn’t downplay my success. She added, “You didn’t
achieve this just because of your exceptional memory, Anya. It’s been extremely helpful, no one’s going to deny that, but
it was your hard work and talent as a scholar that got you over the line. If you hadn’t studied so hard you wouldn’t have
been able to make the connections that you needed to translate Folio 9. Possessing a memory as good as yours in no way diminishes
your achievement. Don’t dwell on it, Anya. Focus on what’s next. You’re about to be in demand.”
She was right. Job offers rolled in, dazzling me. Mostly they came from departments I’d longed to work in, at some of the
best universities and institutions in the world. There were two outliers, and both were unexpected.
The first arrived via Trevelyan herself.
She invited me to a meeting in her rooms. When I got there, a man was already seated in half shadow by the leaded window, which had a view of the college’s garden and the stained-glass window of its ancient chapel.
It was a damp, cold day. The buds on the magnolia tree were swollen.
A crow pecked at the lawn and unearthed a struggling worm.
Trevelyan introduced the man to me, offering shortbread and jasmine tea that she poured into her best set of cups. Steam trailed
from the spout of the teapot, dampening her cuffs. I noticed she was wearing a silk blouse that I’d only seen before at formal
dinners.
The man was tall and pale, with a long, narrow nose and rimless glasses. His suit was beautifully tailored, his long legs
elegantly crossed. He wore brogues that were hand tooled. I’d learned to notice this kind of detail since coming to Oxford:
things that signaled wealth and power.
He asked me if I’d ever considered working for the Ministry of Defense, and it took me a moment to understand that he was
from MI5 and he was inviting me to become a spy. While I thought about my answer, the bells in the chapel chimed solemnly,
and I realized that Trevelyan must genuinely have faith in my abilities, or she wouldn’t have let this meeting happen.
I told the man no, thank you, because I couldn’t imagine living a life where I wasn’t allowed to tell people what I did. My
mother and Sid were everything to me. How could I have the normal existence I longed for if I had to look over my shoulder
24-7 or sleep with one eye open?
Which, of course, turned out to be ironic.
The other unexpected offer came from Scotland.
To: Anya Brown
From: Diana Cornish
Subject: Interview The Institute of Manuscript Studies, St. Andrews
Date: March 20, 2024
Dear Dr. Brown,
I hope you don’t mind me contacting you unsolicited. I wouldn’t do so if I didn’t think I had something to say that might
be of interest to you.
I’ve read your work on Folio 9 and to say that I’m impressed would be an understatement. Congratulations on an outstanding
achievement. Our institute in St. Andrews has a very special opening for a new staff member, and we feel strongly that you’d
be an excellent fit. We’re not your run-of-the-mill university department; we pride ourselves on being better than that.
I appreciate that you’ve probably had a lot of interest (and probably some sterling offers) already, but if you could spare
some time to have a chat with me, I’d much appreciate it, and I know you won’t regret it.
I hope to hear from you.
With warmest wishes,
Professor Diana Cornish
The Institute of Manuscript Studies
St. Andrews
The email from St. Andrews arrived just at the right time to intrigue me.
I’d had a great interview with Yale University, where they’d hinted heavily that I would be receiving an offer from them,
which was the dream. Yale’s Beinecke Library was home to an incredible collection of ancient texts, including the Voynich
manuscript, the most famous untranslatable text in the world, and probably the most mysterious. But there was a catch. I knew,
deep in my heart of hearts, that even if they made me an offer, I couldn’t accept it, because how could I put an ocean between
me and Mum? Her health was on a downward trajectory that none of us could ignore, no matter how much she wanted us to. Of
course, she was desperate for me to go to wherever was most prestigious and gave me the best opportunities. Follow your dreams, Anya. Don’t compromise your life for other people. Don’t let this bloody cancer affect your decision.
And never make decisions because of a man! I listened to her, but I couldn’t ignore reality. I knew that if I went to Yale, every time I got onto a plane, I’d worry
I’d never see her again.
And there was the small matter of being in love with Sid.
I’d considered staying at Oxford, but I’d been there seven years already, and Professor Trevelyan and I agreed that a change
was a good idea. Cambridge had made an approach but was out of the question; I would never set foot in that city. There were
other excellent universities in the UK, but with Yale casting a long shadow I was struggling to feel passionate enough about
any of them. The St. Andrews email, though, was intriguing.
I forwarded it to Professor Trevelyan for a sanity check. I hadn’t heard of the Institute of Manuscript Studies before, which
seemed like it should be a red flag.
She replied immediately: “I don’t think you have anything to lose by meeting Professor Cornish, and you might have a lot to
gain. The Institute of Manuscript Studies is small but elite. This could be very good for you and suit your personal circumstances.
Even if you’re not interested in what the professor is offering, she’s a great contact to have.”
I put a lot of store in what Trevelyan said. She’d been incredibly supportive through my PhD and even more so lately, when
I was becoming reluctant to burden Mum with my problems. She’d stepped up. I wrote back to Professor Cornish and told her
I’d be happy to meet her in London.
Trevelyan told me a little more about the Institute. It was small and had only been founded five years earlier. Not many people