Page 1 of The Capo & the Curator

Chapter 1

Evelyn

There's something magical about the library after hours.

The soft hush that settles in, the warm glow of my desk lamp like a beacon in the dimming twilight. It's just me and the manuscripts, full of stories waiting to be unearthed.

I let my fingers trail across the delicate parchment, tracing the faded ink with reverence. This particular text is a real beauty—a fifteenth-century manuscript detailing the secret rites of a Renaissance society. Every page is a work of art, ornate calligraphy intertwined with rich illustrations. I can practically feel the weight of its history beneath my touch.

With a contented sigh, I lean closer, scrutinizing the intricate details. Cross-referencing with the other documents sprawled across my desk, I start piecing together the puzzle. Codes, ciphers, symbols—this is where I thrive, untangling the intricacies of the past like a complex riddle.

A soft chuckle escapes my lips as I decipher a particularly clever play on words, the scribe's wit shining through centuries later.

"Clever," I murmur in admiration, making a quick notation in my ever-present journal.

The library may be my second home, but moments like these truly make me feel alive. I'm not just a curator but an explorer, an interpreter of histories long forgotten. With each decoded message, each revelation unearthed, I forge a connection to those who walked before us, giving them a voice once more.

My eyes flit to the ornate clock on the wall, its ticking the only sound in the tranquil space. Already past seven. No wonder the library has grown so peaceful. Most of my colleagues have likely gone home for the evening, their desks tidied and research tucked away until morning.

Not me, though. I live for nights like this, when the distractions fade away and I can fully immerse myself in the work. My fingers itch to unravel the next layer of the mystery, peeling back the veil on centuries-old secrets.

A soft thud from the corridor outside makes me start, my heart skipping a beat before a familiar voice calls out.

"Burning the midnight oil again, I see." Maggie Sinclair, my ever-chipper assistant, sweeps into the room with a teasing grin.

I shoot her a mock glare, unable to hide my own smile. "As if you're one to talk. I'm surprised you haven't set up a cot in the archives room at this point."

She laughs, waving a dismissive hand. "Fair point. But at least I know when to call it a night, unlike some workaholic curators I could mention."

Huffing out a sigh, I lean back in my chair, absently tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "You know there's still so much to sort through before next week's exhibit opening. I can't afford to leave anything unfinished."

Maggie's expression softens as she steps closer, peering over my shoulder at the scattered documents. "I could stay and give you a hand if you'd like. We'd have it wrapped up in no time."

"No, no." I wave her off. "I've got this under control. You've been running yourself ragged enough as it is."

She arches a brow, clearly skeptical of my insistence on shouldering everything alone. "If you're sure. But don't be afraid to ask for help if you need it. We're a team, remember?"

"I know, I know." I can't quite mask the fond exasperation in my voice as I start gathering the reference books strewn about, making neat stacks once more. "I'll try not to pull an all-nighter. Promise."

"Famous last words." She steps back, grabbing her bag from where she'd tossed it by the door. "I'm heading out, but I'll leave my ringer on in case you change your mind about that help."

"Yeah, yeah. Get out of here." My tone is all teasing affection as I shoo her away. "I'll be fine."

With one last pointed look and a lilting "Night, Ev," she's gone, the soft click of the door echoing through the hushed space.

With Maggie gone, the library grows even more still and tranquil. I turn my attention back to the manuscript, letting the outside world fade away as I become utterly absorbed in its secrets once more.

These ancient pages hold such weight, such significance. The exhibit next week will be my chance to share these marvels with the world. I envision awed gazes devouring every detail, transporting guests back through the ages with each new revelation.

The hours fade away in a contented blur, the only sounds the scratch of my pen and the occasional creak of the archive's settling bones. Before I know it, my desk lamp is the last golden pocket of warmth left in the cavernous space. I glance at the clock, its hands edging past midnight, and give a rueful chuckle.

So much for not pulling an all-nighter.

With a sigh, I begin gathering my belongings, carefully stowing each manuscript and reference book exactly as I found it. I make a final round, flicking off lamps and straightening stray papers until the library is bathed in near-total darkness. Even the normally comforting shadows feel heavier now, the silence almost palpable.

I linger a few moments longer in that eerie quiet. Then, I slip out into the deserted parking lot.

The crisp night air is a shocking contrast after the archive's mustiness, and stars wink down from the inky sky. My footsteps echo across the empty asphalt as I make my way to the car.

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