Page 65 of Crown of Tides and Fury

Wickham had said, once, that Scotland was full of engineers. Apparently, that included Muirsglen.

My friends and I took turns napping in the house, since none of us had slept well the night before, and boredom got the best of us. When the sun headed for the horizon, the locals started getting nervous again, and the pressure on Persi to perform disappearing tricks suddenly stopped.

Someone came running from the end of the street, and the minivan returned. Just a driver and our two men. They both looked weary but elated. Wickham was obviously trying to keep his excitement to himself, but a wink told us everything we needed to know.

They unloaded three metal boxes from the back of the van and set them on the grass. He thanked the driver and the handful of people who climbed into the vehicle before it drove off. The rest waited, like sentries, to make sure we left town, repeatedly glancing at the sunset to make their point.

We gathered in a circle, Kitch, Alwyn, and Urban each holding a box, the rest of us making the physical links that would keep us together.

Wickham shouted over his shoulder, “I’ll be back, to protect the rest of ye, as soon as I’m able.” He turned back to us and explained, “Tattoos.”

“That’s what took all day,” Urban said. “Tattoos on all the bairns.”

We popped home with three dull metal presents to open. Gifts from the Grandfather.

* * *

A cold supperwas waiting for us in the fridge. Little brown lunch sacks with sandwiches on croissants, a cold banana, and crisps—chips. Alwyn wasn’t a fan of serving a piece—a sandwich—in place of a meal, but he was happy to eat it if someone else had done the work. In this case, it was Ivy and the boys, and he gushed his appreciation.

Crisps and pieces--I was starting to use their lingo, but I would never get used to calling a bathroom a toilet. That was just a bridge too far.

* * *

I woke in the dark,well before dawn, and knew there was no use trying to go back to sleep when there was a book, somewhere in the house, that might tell me what Hank really was.

In fuzzy slippers and a black nightgown, I took my phone as a flashlight and made my way to the war room. No one had said where they’d stored the boxes when the men had joined us in the kitchen the night before. The war room was the logical place. No need for locks when burglars wouldn’t be able to find the house, even if they were looking for it. And no need to secure it from the rest of the team.

Or at least, I hoped so.

As I approached the closed door, I heard the low murmur of voices. Many voices. And when I stepped inside, I found I was the last one to the party.

Ivy and Everly sat on the couch where Wickham’s sisters used to sit. Persi and Kitch were against the wall, on a pile of pillows. Wickham and Urban sat on the floor, facing their wives, with the silver boxes between them, and Flann and Brian sat on chairs, making the circle complete.

Ivy scooted to the side and patted the cushion beside her. “Here you go.”

I held onto Urban’s shoulder while I stepped between him and Kitch. There was barely room to walk between all the knees and boots and the small stack of boxes, but I made it to the couch all right. Then I laughed at them. “Everybody cozy?”

Wickham grimaced. “I didnae wish to wake anyone, but I…”

“Couldn’t wait.” Everyone finished his sentence for him, and we laughed, though quietly.

Each of the three boxes was roughly the size of a computer tower, about sixteen inches by twenty, and half as deep. The one on top had already been opened. No lid in sight, book still inside. I hadn’t missed much.

“It’s taken us an hour to get it open,” Kitch said, waving a screwdriver. “No hinges. Sealed shut.”

“Aye, by more than just soldering,” Wickham grumbled. “He couldn’t have assumed the rest of ye could open it without me. Used every ward on it, the bastard.”

Kitch chuckled. “And what did ye think? When we left him, he kenned we’d go hunting for the thing the moment we were back. He never expected us to find it without ye, did he?”

Wickham conceded, rubbed his hands together, then smiled around the circle and reached for the book with his bare hands. No gloves. No pomp and circumstance. No more delay.

I held my breath, half-expecting the thing to disappear as soon as he touched it. But it didn’t, and I relaxed. “Too bad we don’t have some little bookmarks to lead us to the right pages.”

He lifted the book to a pillow on his lap and stared at the cover. It was made of rich, chestnut-brown leather with sections of faded burgundy. The surface was roughly weathered, with wrinkles and scuffs from being handled what I guessed to be a thousand times…by the same pair of hands. The only décor was a tooled square in the center with what looked like a coat of arms, and brass corner protectors that had seen better days.

“The Grandfather’s ledger,” Brian said, with reverence. “I suppose that means it’s yers now, so it is.”

Wickham nodded absently, then lifted the top. The rest came with it. He set it down again, lifted the cover, but it wouldn’t separate from the book. He turned the whole thing over, examined each side. “There’s no clasp. Nothing holding it shut.”

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