by Amy Cross
I step through the doorway, into air that's even colder than inside, and I'm immediately struck by a musty damp smell that fills my nostrils. It's as if the old, faded wooden chairs and dressers all around are leaking a little into the air, and there's also a faint perfume that I think might be coming from several dead-looking orchids ranged along the top of a low bookcase. In fact, there's a general air of rot hanging in the air, and I'm a little reluctant as I step forward and look around at the various doorways leading off further into the house.
Behind me, the door swings shut, and I turn to see a short, roundish elderly man peering at me from behind a large mustache and a pair of even larger eyebrows.
“You're the -”
Before he can finish, he breaks into a coughing fit. He half turns away as he covers his mouth, and after a few seconds he manages to get his spluttering under control.
“I beg your pardon,” he gasps, turning to me again. “I was about to say that you are, I assume, the young lady who called about the advertisement.”
“I am,” I reply, somewhat taken aback. “My name's Mia.”
“Yes, Ms. Culper,” he replies, clearly still struggling to clear his throat. “As far as I'm concerned, you're more or less bang on time. And my name is Robert Shawyer.”
“I remember,” I reply.
“Of course you do. It was only this morning that we spoke, wasn't it?” He starts shuffling past me, heading toward the staircase. “Now why don't you follow me? I can show you your office, and then you'll be able to get started. It's only a few minutes past ten, so there's plenty of time.”
“I have my C.V.,” I tell him, taking the folded piece of paper from my pocket. “Do you want to see it before we start the interview?”
“This way!” he continues, gesturing for me to follow as he starts making his way up the stairs. “It's getting late and, well, I'm usually gone by now. Let's get your first night off to a good start, shall we?”
“First night?” I wait for him to explain, but he's already huffing and puffing as he makes his way up to the landing. “Um, I thought I was coming for an interview.”
“The interview was on the telephone, young lady,” he replies, sounding a little breathless now. “You told me about your qualifications and I was quite happy. I wouldn't have invited you here tonight if I hadn't already decided that you're just the girl for the job. I'm sure I made that clear.”
“Well, the line was bad,” I murmur, suddenly feeling a little lost as I realize that apparently I'm starting work tonight. “I guess it's not a problem, but I'll have to send a text to my parents and let them know not to expect me home until the morning.”
“Do whatever you need to do,” he says, as he stops halfway up the stairs and takes a moment to get his breath back. “This house lacks many things, Ms. Culper. Electricity being one of them, and wireless internet being another. I can assure you, however, that through sheer happenstance we have quite excellent mobile telephone reception throughout the entire building. Wonders will never cease, will they?”
“Cool,” I reply, as I take out my phone and start typing out a message to my parents.
They're not going to be happy, but -
“I'm going home now,” a voice says suddenly, right next to me.
Startled, I gasp and step back, dropping my phone in the process. I'm shocked to see a guy standing just a couple of feet away, holding a broom and eyeing me with a puzzled expression. The first thing I notice about him is that he seemed to appear out of freakin' nowhere, and the second thing is that he's absolutely the handsomest guy I've ever seen in my life. He looks to be about my age, maybe a year older at most, and he has chiseled good looks framed by dark, slightly curled hair. And his eyes are so blue, they almost look like ice.
“I didn't mean to make you jump,” he continues calmly, and then he hesitates for a moment as if he's about to say something else. Instead, however, he simply turns and looks up toward Mr. Shawyer. “I've finished in the kitchen and the study, so I'll go home now,” he explains, and I can't help noticing that he's holding an old-fashioned broom. “If it's alright with you, I'd prefer to start on the library in the morning, rather than going in there now and then having to break the work overnight.”
“That's fine, Salvatore,” Mr. Shawyer says, still sounding a little out of breath. “You've done very well today. I look forward to seeing you bright and early tomorrow.”
With that, he turns and continues his slow, difficult climb up the stairs.
“Are you the new one?” Salvatore asks, lowering his voice a little as he turns to me.
“I'm sorry?”
“Are you the new one? Here, I mean.”
“Well, I...”
Hesitating for a moment, I realize that I probably am the new one. Even if that's a slightly strange way to put it.
“I'm starting work tonight,” I tell him finally. “Apparently.”
“So you're about to have the...”
His voice trails off as he stares at me. It's almost as if he's studying me, as if he's trying to commit my appearance to memory for later.
“Never mind,” he adds finally, before turning and carrying his broom back over to an open doorway that leads – as far as I can see – into a pitch black room.
“Maybe see you around,” I suggest.
He doesn't answer. The door swings shut, slamming in the frame.
“Don't worry about Salvatore,” Mr. Shawyer says, and I turn to see that he's now catching his breath at the top of the stairs. “He's just the cleaner, and he mostly sticks to the lower levels of the house. And anyway, he finishes his shift when you'll be starting yours, and then he'll come back each morning just as you're leaving. Honestly, you shouldn't have any need to bump into him.”
“So there aren't many people here overnight?” I ask, as I start climbing the surprisingly steep staircase.
“There's nobody here overnight,” he replies. “Apart from you, obviously. There can't be anybody else here.”
“Why's that?” I ask, and I have to admit that I'm getting a little breathless myself before I even reach the halfway mark.
“Ms. Fabricci's will was very specific on that matter,” he explains. “On every possible matter, really.” He checks his watch. “Now come along, there isn't much time if you're to start tonight. And you must start tonight, else...”
He stops, and I can't help but notice that for a moment he glances around at the nearby doors as if he's worried about someone overhearing our conversation.
“Well, you just must start tonight,” he continues, turning back to me with a very forced smile. “Gaps aren't really encouraged here. Besides, we wouldn't want you to have a wasted trip, would we? There's a job to be done, Ms. Culper. A very important job.”
With that, he turns and hurries along the landing, heading out of my view. I open my mouth to ask him about the job, the details of which remain rather vague, but then I hear him opening a door and I realize that my only option is to follow him. As I start climbing the stairs again, however, I hear footsteps down in the hallway, and I turn just in time to see Salvatore slipping his arms into a jacket as he heads to the front door.
He pulls the door open, and then he glances up at me with a dour expression.
“Good luck,” he says calmly, staring for a moment. “And God speed.”
And then he leaves, pulling the door shut as he goes, and I'm left standing about three-quarters of the way up the steep staircase and feeling as if maybe I shouldn't be here myself. Then again, it's not like I can be rude and just run out, so I guess I should at least do one night and see how things go. There's still a chance that this'll turn out to be the perfect job. After all, I've always wanted to work alone, without too many people fussing around me.
Turning, I continue the steep climb up to the landing. If nothing else, coming up these stairs every night is going to be good exercise.
Three
“You made it, then,” Mr. Shawyer says as I reach the
open doorway at the landing's far end. “I was worried you might struggle. Now come along, Ms. Culper, I need to explain just a few things before I leave you for the night.”
“About that,” I reply, trying to hide how breathless the climb has left me. “I won't really be alone in this place all night, will I? I mean, I won't be alone alone. Right?”
“Come in and shut the door.”
I step into the room, and I immediately see that Mr. Shawyer is at the far end, lit only by a few candles that burn in holders arranged on the walls. There's what looks like a wooden writing desk in the center of the room, with a table alongside, and as I walk over to take a closer look I see that Mr. Shawyer is standing at another table at the far end, where there seems to be some kind of flat cabinet resting on its back with glass doors facing up toward the ceiling.
“The door, Ms. Culper,” he says suddenly. “Please shut the door.”
“Oh.”
I turn and head back over, pushing the door shut.
“Attention to detail is very important here,” Mr. Shawyer continues as I head over toward the writing desk. “You did tell me on the telephone that attention to detail is one of your skills.”
“Of course,” I say, unable to keep from admiring the desk as I walk around. This thing looks old but well-maintained, made of rich dark wood and with a large pad of bone-white paper laid out beneath an array of pens and quills. Frankly, the desk looks more like something that a writer would have used hundreds of years ago, and it's certainly more impressive than the fold-up camping table that I use in my bedroom at home.
Reaching out, I run a hand over the desk's surface. I know I shouldn't be into desk porn, but this really is a magnificent -
“Ms. Culper!”
Startled, I pull my hand away and turn to see that Mr. Shawyer is waiting for me next to the table at the room's farthest end, and he doesn't look entirely impressed. Checking his watch, he seems to be in something of a hurry.
“This is already taking longer than it should,” he explains. “Fortunately I added a little extra time to the schedule. You don't absolutely have to be at work before eleven, although at your current speed even that deadline might be in jeopardy. Now please come over here so that I can explain to you the rules of your assignment.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, hurrying over and stopping on the other side of the glass cabinet, “I was just -”
Before I can finish, however, I look down at the cabinet and see that it contains a large, beautiful old book. In fact, beautiful doesn't even do it justice, because this book might just be the most stunning thing I've ever seen in my life. I don't know whether it's the sheer size of the thing that's more impressive, or the fact that even through the glass I can tell that this book is seriously old. The pages must each be about two feet wide by about three feet tall, and in the candlelight I can make out pocks and marks all over the surface. The text on the pages, meanwhile, is written in the most beautiful old-fashioned handwriting, and I have to squint slightly to make out any of the words.
“And this,” Mr. Shawyer says, with great pride in his voice, “is the Fabricci manuscript.”
“The what?” I ask, mesmerized by the gorgeousness of the book.
After a moment, I spot Mr. Shawyer's smiling reflection in the glass, and I turn to see that he's watching me with some satisfaction.
“Isn't she magnificent?” he continues, looking down at the cabinet. “Two hundred and thirty years old, written on two hundred and ninety hand-crafted pages imported at great cost from India by the book's original sponsor, Lord Charles Fabricci. The word priceless is bandied about these days with far too much regularity, Ms. Culper, but I assure you that the Fabricci manuscript is truly priceless in every sense of the word. There is no amount of money in the world that could see it moved from this house. From this room, even – nay, even from this very cabinet. And there is no other version that exists anywhere in any world or any realm. You are looking, my dear, at something truly, unfathomably unique.”
“It's beautiful,” I stammer, looking back down at the book. “I've never seen anything like it. Maybe in museums, but even then...”
“Even then, you have seen nothing like this,” he purrs. “The Fabricci manuscript is simply beyond comparison in every possible way.”
“Huh.”
Leaning closer, I squint again as I try to read some of the lines.
“Fulum dictori,” I whisper, struggling a little, “in patri compansori?”
I read the words again, before glancing up at Mr. Shawyer.
“What language is this written in?” I ask.
I wait, but he doesn't reply immediately. Instead, he stares at the pages as if he too is captivated by their beauty, and it takes several seconds before he even seems to register that I spoke at all. Even then, he turns to me with a somewhat startled expression.
“I beg your pardon, Ms. Culper?”
“I just wondered what language this book is written in,” I reply, “and what it's about. It's not Latin, is it?”
“It's not, no,” he replies with a faint smile. “Well observed. A lot of people assume that it must be Latin. Tell me, do you happen to read Latin?”
“No,” I tell him, “I just... I mean, I just picked some up online.”
“Impressive,” he says. “It seems that my initial impression of you from the telephone was well-founded.”
“So what language is it?” I ask, looking back down at the pages. “It's obviously western-based.”
“The language is not important at this stage,” he explains, as I continue to read the lines. “Most likely, it was created specifically for the book and was used nowhere else. Certainly, our extensive searches have revealed no further examples of its use anywhere in the world.”
“So it was invented just for this book?” I ask, feeling more than a little impressed. “That's cool. What does it say?”
“That has not yet been determined.”
I glance at him. “You don't know what the book says?”
“There will be time for that in the future.”
“Do you know what it's about?”
“Ms. Culper, you are rather jumping the gun. Nobody has yet translated even one line of the Fabricci manuscript. Its secrets remain hidden for now.”
“Like the Voynich?” I ask.
“The Voynich?”
“I've read about the Voynich manuscript online,” I continue. “It's from the fourteen-hundreds and it's filled with words and drawings that people have been trying to decipher for centuries. Some people think it's about botany, other people think it's something to do with alchemy. I think last year someone suggested parts of the book were written in Hebrew, but even that's not definite. People are still trying to decode the thing, even today. They're using computers and AI now.”
“I know the item of which you speak,” Mr. Shawyer replies. “It's nothing compared to the Fabricci manuscript. You'll see no gaudy drawings in these pages, Ms. Culper, and nothing here is written in Hebrew. Or in any other recognizable language, for that matter. The Fabricci manuscript exists according to its own rules and its own laws, and it is no mere puzzle to be pondered over by weak minds. Why, it is a common estimation that the Fabricci manuscript exists not to be studied and solved, but merely to survive until such time as it passes into the hands of the one person who will understand – without study or hesitation – what is written in these pages.”
“So it's... code?” I ask cautiously.
“Your task is not to consider such things,” he says, before checking his watch again. “It is half past ten, Ms. Culper, and time is upon us. I must explain your role here.”
“Am I guarding it?” I ask.
“In a way, but not as you imagine.” He pauses, eyeing me with caution as if he's trying to determine whether I'm trustworthy. “On the desk in the middle of the room,” he explains finally, “you will find a set of pages that are of the same dimensions of the pages here in the cabinet. Your one a
nd only task here each night is to transcribe the pages. Copy them, if you will, from the book onto the loose sheets.”
“So... I'm supposed to just copy the book?”
“You are indeed.”
I wait for him to explain further, but he seems to think that there's nothing more to say.
“You did tell me on the telephone,” he adds finally, “that you have great attention to detail. You have a degree, do you not, in English Literature?”
“One sixth of a degree, actually,” I reply. “I had to drop out halfway through the first year.”
“But you are good at working accurately?”
“I can copy a book,” I tell him. “I mean, yeah... Sure, I can do that.”
“You cannot make any errors,” he explains. “When Charles Fabricci died, he left the manuscript to his daughter Eleanor, and it was she who bequeathed the book and her fortune to the foundation that runs this house even today. Eleanor Fabricci left detailed instructions as to what the foundation must do with the fortune she left, and our one and only task is to ensure that a full and exact copy of the manuscript is made.”
“You can't just... photocopy it?” I ask.
“Eleanor Fabricci specified that the copy must be made by hand,” he continues. “After the death of her father, she became the sole guardian of the manuscript. Upon her own death in 1797, at the age of fifty-two, Eleanor left behind a very clear set of instructions as to how the manuscript must be handled. Ever since then, successive executors of the estate have worked to ensure that her specifications are followed to the letter. Why, even this very room has been left untouched since the day Eleanor herself was found collapsed at her desk.”
“At...”
I pause for a moment, before turning and looking over at the desk in the center of the room.
“At... that desk?” I ask cautiously. “Is that where she died?”
“I am merely the latest in a long line of executors,” Mr. Shawyer continues, as I turn back to him and he checks his watch again. “And you, my dear, are the latest in a long line of transcribers.”