Page 94 of Bitter Burn
“That’s what we thought too, but also he was very specific about it being the version at that library, right? So we converted the images you sent into text and compared the text to the other versions we’d collected, just to see if there was anything different about Minch’s edition than the rest.”
“And there was?”
“There was. Because in Minch’s edition, there’s no mention of Ys at all or of a secret group of princes. Only the study of alchemy among nobility.”
I toy with the inside of my ring, considering this. “Why index a book that doesn’t mention Ys?”
“I don’t know, but Nimue connected me to the owner of Thornchapel, who let me look at the original scans of the book he has there, A Treatise of Politicks Large and Small. The scans in their online archive have a sentence about Ys after discussing the Hanseatic League, but their original scans don’t. I’ve got someone hunting through metadata to see if they can figure out when the deviation for this one occurred and possibly who introduced it while I hunt down the rest of the originals on the list.”
Jago rolls us to a stop in front of the auto shop. I tap my thumb once against my ring and then unbuckle my seat belt.
“Thank you for telling me,” I say as Jago opens my door. “And keep me updated on whatever else you find. I’m visiting Regina Springer today, and I’ll let you know what I find here, if anything.”
“An ephemeral money trail leading to a garage in Albany? You’re saying you don’t have much hope that’s going to be worth your time?”
“Have fun with the old books, Lox,” I say with good cheer and then hang up. Jago comes to stand next to me, looking up at the broken plastic sign mounted to the front of the garage. The windows at the front look like they’ve never been cleaned.
I scan the area—there’s a church across the street, strikingly Gothic but also undeniably abandoned, some shabby houses clad in rotting clapboard with air-conditioning units tilting precariously from upper windows, and plenty of empty brick buildings with temporary fencing along the outside.
“I’m looking for someone, and I don’t want to scare her off if she’s easily rattled,” I tell Jago, going over to the cloudy, yellow window of the shop’s lobby and trying to peer inside. No lights. The old TV set mounted to the wall is dark. “Do you mind finding a discreet place to wait for me?”
Jago makes sure to give the derelict street a pointed look before nodding with the expression of someone who thinks their boss is a dumbass.
“You worry too much. And I’ll call when I need you!” I add, waving him off and then trying the shop door. It opens, sleigh bells attached to the back jangling as it does, and I step onto the chipping linoleum.
A wiry man with warm beige skin and gray hair emerges from a far doorway, wiping grease off his hands with a bandana possibly older than I am. “Can I help you?” he asks, the words friendly even if he couldn’t look more surprised that someone is standing inside the shop.
“I was hoping to speak with Regina Springer,” I say. “About an old friend.”
A frown pulls at the deep grooves running from his nose to his mouth and etches horizontal lines across his forehead. “Regina died last week. The funeral was just two days ago. I’m sorry, I thought everyone knew.” He doesn’t sound accusatory, only awkward and maybe a little mournful.
I don’t have to fake my unhappiness about this news. “That’s tragic. I’m so sorry.” I ask the next part in the delicate tones of a respectful acquaintance. “Was it the cancer?”
A shoulder lifts under the well-worn shop uniform. “Partly, they say. She was doing more chemotherapy, but then she got the flu. It was slow at first, then fast. She wasn’t awake for the worst of it, which was a blessing.”
I nod, face solemn. “It sounds like it was.”
I’m already thinking through next steps—if I should try to filter through the shop records, if her house has been packed yet—when the mechanic says, “If you’re still needing to ask about your friend, Regina’s sister is probably at home. Just across the street, in the old rectory.” He gestures with the bandana through the window, and I look out, seeing the red brick house on the far side of the abandoned church.
“I think I might pay her a visit, actually. Let her know how sorry I am to hear about Regina. Thank you so much.”
He nods. “It’s sad stuff. Everyone around here liked Regina, but she and her sister kept to themselves. Almost no one at the funeral. Not a good way to end.”
No, it’s not. But there are very few good ways to end a life, and even a good end isn’t always an easy one.
I thank him again and leave, the sleigh bells rattling as the door slams shut behind me.
I cross the street and crunch across a gravel path through the graveyard to the rectory, head ducked against the piercing wind. Weariness seeks the corners and edges of me as I stoop down to swipe a fresh-looking bouquet from a grave, a prop to shore up my pretense as a visitor offering condolences. Fuck, I’m tired. And I don’t want to be cold or carrying stolen remembrances, I don’t want to be chasing leads. I don’t want to be seeking answers only barely related to the questions I’m asking.
I want to be in bed, wrapped around Tristan while Isolde curls against me from behind. I want to be at Morois playing chess with the set Isolde gave me as a wedding gift, genuinely concerned about losing to her while Tristan lies in front of the fire and reads. I want the rest of my life to be worshipping the very two hearts I once planned to blight and then destroy, and I want it enough right now that I almost consider turning back, calling Jago to pick me up. This was always going to be a dead end, even before I found out that Regina Springer was literally dead.
But I am my mother’s child, my grandad’s grandson, and the same part of me that refused to give up during one of our long outdoor games of hide-and-seek, even after the rain started or the dark came, can’t actually fathom dropping the stolen flowers and going home.
If it’s a dead end, I’m going to see its tomb with my own eyes.
I get to the rectory door and knock twice. The same creep of decay that hung over the auto shop is present here too: dry weeds feathering around a statue of the Virgin Mary, crumbling mortar between the bricks, a dead tree limb on the roof. But I do see curtains hung neatly inside and, through the curtains, a wedge of tidy kitchen. And at one point, the flowerpot by the door must have held flowers. Two sisters living alone, pulled under by the slow tide of cancer and age.
No one comes to the door. I knock again and watch the windows for movement, for shifts in light or reflection, and see nothing. I glance around to make sure only the trees and tombstones can bear witness and then check under the flowerpot for a key. There isn’t one.
