Magic in the Weave by Alys Clare

Author:Alys Clare [Clare, Alys]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781448307265
Publisher: Severn House
Published: 2021-09-28T23:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

I slipped away from the empty house without first going down the road to knock on Theo’s door. There were discoveries concerning the three bodies that I ought to have reported to him straight away, but I decided to wait until I had begun to resolve the mysteries that had just been stirred up. Or that was how I reasoned; it would have been more honest to admit that I was burning with impatience to get home and examine the spade-bearded man’s pack, in the privacy of my study with the door firmly closed.

Samuel came out to take care of Hal as I rode into the yard, with Tock his ever-present shadow. He greeted me with the news that Mistress Palfrey had but recently gone out and Sallie had left with a basket over her arm to hunt for late mushrooms in the woods above the river.

So I had my house to myself.

The pack was in the corner of my bedchamber, where I’d thrown it yesterday shortly before collapsing onto my bed for a much-needed sleep. I fetched it and took it along to my study, where I cleared my wide desk of everything else so that the pack stood in solitary state. Slowly I sat down, simply staring at it. It was almost as if it held me in a spell, and—

Angry with myself, just as I had been after standing in the cold crypt while time passed by outside my knowledge, I reached for the pack and, my hands rough and impatient, unfastened the buckled straps.

It was made of as fine a piece of leather as I’d ever seen, let alone handled. It was a rich, glowing shade of chestnut, buffed to a rich sheen, and so supple that it moved like cloth. Yet it was sturdy and strong, and although clearly well used, showed not a scratch or a stain. I folded back the flap and looked inside. There were two compartments separated by a partition of a darker shade of leather. The front compartment held papers and a book, the rear one held a pewter inkhorn, several quills, one or two objects wrapped in velvet and a small wooden box.

I drew out the papers first. Some had writing on them; the work of several different hands. Place names, one or two dates. I ran my eyes over the pages and, with a powerful sense of disappointment, realized I was wasting my time. The small amount of writing on them meant absolutely nothing to me.

Then I reached inside the pack again and drew out the book. It was small, very well used, bound in leather worn and grubby from handling. Its thin pages were covered in dense blocks of incomprehensible writing. On the flyleaf was that familiar symbol.

Either I was dreaming again, or this was Francis’s notebook.

I’d put it back in his bag, I was sure of it. I would go and check to make absolutely sure, but—

Half out of my chair, I stopped. I heard myself

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