Chapter 6
The shop’s door looks rather ordinary. Well-worn dark-coloured wood hangs from a simple frame.
The large window is obscured with newspaper, barring the view to its interior.
Above it hangs a vaguely medieval-looking sign with peeling paint spelling out the word Books.
A distorted bell chimes when I enter what appears to be an antique book shop.
As an archaeologist, even an amateurish one such as myself, old books are an essential part of understanding my craft.
On the surface, this shop looks just like one of the many I have frequented throughout my life.
Books fill every available library case, in addition to tomes upon tomes stacked in rows along the floor.
A narrow path leads to a comically large partner’s desk, which must have been already out of fashion during Queen Anne’s reign.
Behind this desk sits a man.
A crimson smoking cap is precariously stacked on long, white, curly hair reaching past his narrow shoulders.
Small spectacles sit atop a prominent nose.
Grey eyes focus on me, immediately crinkling with mirth.
When the old man stands, a much too-large silken banyan in garish colours rustles around him.
The robe looks older than my grandfather and just as brittle.
I’m surprised it hasn’t disintegrated with every movement.
His small chest is wrapped in a flowered waistcoat adorned with golden thread reminiscent of the same era. Underneath that, an unexpectedly simple white shirt and black trousers finish the ensemble.
With my exceeding height, the man has to tilt his entire face up to look at me. Even after three decades of being taller than most men, the way he’s watching me makes me feel a bit like a giant.
“Good day, dear stranger. How can I assist you on this fine day?” he says, holding his hand toward me.
I reach out to accept his greeting.
“Gloves on a hot summer day. Unusual,” he says, still gripping my hand.
“I’m Orlando Balfour. I was told I would find Nicodemus here,” I say, wondering how much longer until he releases my hand.
“I am he and very intrigued.” He winks at me coquettishly. “Tell me, what exactly is the trouble, Orlando Balfour?”
“It’s difficult to explain…” I hesitate for a moment.
Nicodemus promptly puts his other hand on my shoulder. Even as small as he is, he’s essentially surrounding me in this position. It wasn’t customary, to say the least.
“Then show me,” he says, taking both his hands back again.
I hesitate only for a moment; after all, I didn’t want to frighten this old man. But Aphra sent me, and if she trusted him, so would I.
I pull my glove off slowly, revealing one finger at a time, then hold my hand up between us. Even in the dim light of the shop, it’s quite apparent that this is no ordinary hand.
“How very peculiar,” Nicodemus says, much less alarmed than I expected.
Before I can question the old man’s reaction, he steps on a stool in front of a nearby case and pulls out a book from the very top. MYSTERY is written in bold, golden letters along its leathery spine. The wooden frame swings open to reveal a narrow black maw behind it.
“Follow me, Orlando Balfour,” he says, disappearing into its darkness.
Before I can get claustrophobic inside the corridor, I promptly step into a brightly lit laboratory on the other side.
The room is narrow with book-lined walls. A large table nearly the length of the entire space fills the centre. All manner of bottles and vaguely scientific-looking contraptions crowd the surface. For what kind of science, I can’t even begin to guess.
A fire dances hungrily inside a large hearth. An old-fashioned black pot hangs above it. I can hear its angry bubbling from across the room.
I almost laugh at the sight. This can’t be real. Maybe it was some kind of set?
Nicodemus scurries over to the table and waves me toward him. There, he rummages through stacks of paper, pulls out a comically large magnifying glass, and waits expectantly.
When I don’t move, he pulls a rickety-looking chair in front of him and pats the seat.
“Come now, Orlando Balfour. Don’t be scared of little old me,” he chirps.
I comply, not knowing what other hope I have left besides this strange man inside this strange room.
“Don’t be shy, my man, and let me see your predicament,” he says, removing his spectacles.
When I hold out my hand, he grips it firmly, then proceeds to inspect every surface carefully with the magnifying glass.
To my dismay, it seems that my issue has advanced significantly since last night.
The roots that wound around my fingers have disappeared.
The pale yellow padding is gone. Now all that is left is deep red muscle, which is peppered by thin white ribbons.
When I wiggle my fingers, flesh contracts and tendons pull. At least my hand obeys me still.
Nicodemus lets go of it and places the spectacles back on his nose. “How did this happen?”
“Frankly, I do not know.” I shrug.
“Did you perhaps meddle with something you shouldn’t?” he asks.
“I’m not exactly in the habit of meddling.”
“What do you do, then?” He places the magnifying glass on the table and watches me carefully.
“Nothing,” I shrug again. His staring is making me feel a bit like a child.
“Nothing? Nothing, tra la la?” he says, and I can’t help but laugh. The entire situation was simply absurd. “No occupation?” he continues his inquiry.
“None. I’m but a loafer. An indolent idler.”
“A shiftless dreamer, perhaps? Did you dream too hard?” he asks without judgment or insult.
I stare at him, wondering why the old man has not taken the provocation I offered him.
“Any other symptoms besides this peculiarity?” Nicodemus asks, waving his hand in my general direction.
“I feel nothing.”
“Elaborate.” He leans closer.
“Emotionally. I tested it. Inside of me is nothing but absence. My sensations, too, have vanished.” I run my hands over my knees, but when I glimpse their unnatural hue, I cross them behind my back.
“Would you permit me to do some tests?” he asks gently.
“Whatever you deem necessary.”
“Very well then. Remove your coat. Let’s see the extent of the damage.” He scoots his stool closer.
As asked, I drape my coat over my knees and roll my sleeves up to the elbow. My eyes drop to my arms. I close them again, refusing to acknowledge what I glimpsed. But it is already too late to forget.
The deep crimson of my muscles fades into winding roots right above my wrists. There, they disappear underneath my sleeve.
“Does it affect your entire body?” Nicodemus asks.
I open my eyes and look at him. He doesn’t appear shocked. What manner of man is he?
“It didn’t yesterday evening. Now, I don’t know for certain. It seems to have spread since then.”
“Would you care to check?”
I don’t want to check. If I don’t know it, it’s easy to ignore, right? With knowledge comes certainty. Naively, I hoped that as long as it only affected my hands, a remedy could be found. But what was the use now?
Resigned, I unbutton my waistcoat with one hand, then place it on top of my coat. I slide my braces off and slip out of my shirt.
When I look down, I mutter a somewhat colourful expression under my breath in relief.
Most of my torso looks perfectly ordinary.
My stomach expands with each breath, as expected, hidden underneath pale skin.
Unfortunately, further observation reveals a red web adorning my chest. I look like I’m wrapped up in woollen string that winds all the way around my shoulders, then creeps up my neck.
On the other end, the lines transform into the vivid hues of raw muscles and tendons.
“Interesting,” Nicodemus says. “Such a strapping lad, yet afflicted in such an unusual way.”
I can’t help but chuckle at his words. I haven’t been called a lad in decades.
“I’m forty-six,” I say.
“Barely out of adolescence!” Nicodemus laughs. “You must have people falling at your feet with such handsome features and such strong limbs.”
I stare at the old man, trying to discern if he’s joking. My confusion must be quite apparent because Nicodemus waves his hand in front of his face.
“If I were just a century younger,” he mumbles under his breath.
What a peculiar man he is to say such things. But I suppose that’s nothing compared to everything else I’ve seen so far.
Without another word, the old man stands up and starts gathering an assortment of strange-looking tools.
I’ve never been called handsome before. I’m much too plain to be noticed.
Not that I’ve had too many occasions to incur such a compliment.
I’m not in the habit of keeping the company of women.
Disregarding Aphra and her friends, of course.
Not that I wanted their admiration, but the objects of my desire could simply not—
“How very peculiar.” Nicodemus’ voice brings me back to his laboratory.
I look down. A needle is lodged inside my arm. The old man lets out a little huff and pushes it deeper. I watch it slide beneath my skin, its sharp point disappearing into the muscle.
“No pain, I take it?” he asks.
“If that were the case, I would have at the very least flinched.”
Nicodemus is not offended by my repartee. On the contrary, it seems, since he winks at me with shining eyes.
The old man proceeds to ask me questions while continuing to poke and prod with various instruments. He checks, observes, and then checks again.
Time comes and goes. The fire doesn’t seem to shrink. The liquid continues its gurgling song, but by the end, Nicodemus knows little more than I.
“My dear boy, I’m afraid I have no answers for you,” he finally says, laying a hand on my bare shoulder.
I know what he means by the gesture, but I’m beyond comfort now.
“I have never seen a case such as yours. Never read of one in any of these books.” He waves his hand in a big arch.
“You’ve read them all?”
“All of them and more.”
“Are you a wizard? Maybe one of your potions could cure me?” I know I should feel silly asking this question, but with everything I’ve seen, it wouldn’t be the most outlandish assumption.
“I’m no wizard,” he laughs. “I’m an alchemist,” he adds, as if these titles were so different from one another. “Well,” he hesitates. “There might be one thing we could try. It’s far-fetched and likely for naught, but if you’re willing…”
“I’m willing,” I say, without hesitation. I don’t even want to think about what would happen if I didn’t find a cure.
Nicodemus leaves the stool, then quickly returns with a book. It’s so large and heavy, I have difficulty holding it up in one hand. Beneath my fingers, buttery leather speaks of its age.
“Can you read it?” he asks, opening it to the centre.
The page before me is handwritten. Thin text is scrawled tightly across the vellum. It looks even more ancient than I expected.
“It’s a mix of Latin, Greek, and Old English,” he explains. “Some of it is encoded, but even without deciphering those parts, it might offer some knowledge.”
“I am versed in all three, but not very familiar with ciphers.”
“Loafers aren’t versed in ancient languages,” he says with a smirk on his face.
As irrelevant as my love for history has been throughout my life, I’m grateful that this knowledge can finally be of some use. I run a finger over the vellum, but my senses don’t perceive its once familiar velvety texture.
“I can read it.”
“Marvellous! Let me note the address,” he says while rummaging for a pen and paper. “This is no regular shop. You must place your ingredients list in the post slot first; only then will the goods be delivered. Though unconventional, it is rather convenient.”
He hands me the note and pats my hand in an attempt at comfort.
“As much as I appreciate the company of your well-formed musculature, you can clothe yourself now.” He winks brazenly. If I didn’t know any better, I would assume Nicodemus was being flirtatious.
Once I’m dressed, we return to the bookshop. At the door, the old man takes both my gloved hands in his and squeezes them tightly.
“My dear young man, I wish with all my might that you find a remedy within those pages,” he says earnestly.
“I’m grateful for your assistance.”
“It was nothing, and please give Aphra my regard.” The door closes behind me with a chime, and Nicodemus disappears into the shop.
Did he say Aphra? I’m sure I had never mentioned who sent me here.