Page 46 of Fangs, Frost, and Folios
Giovanni picked up the leather-bound relic. “The volume Edward rebound is undoubtedly more valuable for the craft alone. The leatherwork and the binding have been completely redone. The pages of the book are intact and readable.”
“And yet the crumbling one was kept in the vault,” René added.
Giovanni carefully set it down. “If the play is hidden anywhere, I suspect Penny hid it in the pages of this thing.”
René’s eyebrows flew up. “If?You coerce me into being your ally to find a treasure you’re not even sure of?” More muttered French curses. “And for this I have angered Arosh by losing the chance to find his own journal.”
Giovanni pointed at a brown box on the next table. “Don’t be absurd. I found Arosh’s journal before I left for London. Edward cleaned it and tightened the binding before I left town. You can deliver it to him with a clear conscience.”
René stared at Giovanni with suspicion. “Why?”
Giovanni shrugged. “I hold to my promises, Du Pont. You could learn from that.”
He looked at Beatrice. “But Elise—”
“You’re not responsible for Elise,” Beatrice said. “Are you?”
The vampire cocked his head. “No, I am not. Arosh hired her without my knowledge.”
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. “How did you know she was the one who broke in?”
“The lockpicks.” His gaze drifted to the side. “They were personalized—a gift from me a long time ago. At one point…” He shook his head. “It’s not important.”
“If you’re not responsible for hiring Elise, then you have no idea what transpired here the other night,” Giovanni said. “Take the journal and return it to Arosh. No vampire regent could find fault in you.”
Giovanni knew he was only partly correct. Arosh was notoriously fickle. He could be forgiving or find fault for no reason at all. But that was what you signed on for when you worked for the Fire King.
“The play.” Beatrice took a deep breath. “Shall we look?”
“Let’s do it.” With carefully washed hands, Giovanni gently set the book in a cradle before he opened it to the first page.
On the surface, it appeared to be exactly what it claimed, an eighteenth-century collection of one of the English Renaissance’s most celebrated poets. There were pages of Jonson’s poetry, a few essays, and then the plays started.The Alchemistwas first, of course, but large chunks of the pages appeared to be missing.
“There’s a gap in the binding,” Beatrice murmured. “See there?”
“I do.” Giovanni carefully lifted the pages and moved them from right to left. “Another play.Volpone.”
“The Fox,” Beatrice murmured. She reached out and put a hand on Giovanni’s. “Wait, no. That’s not the play.”
He looked up. “What?”
“Look at the binding. Look at the paper.”
The pages themselves were faded, and the ink was different from the rest of the book. On first glance, they appeared to be bound, but they weren’t, and Giovanni gently eased first one bundle of paper, then another one, from the cracked and crumbling volume.
“They’re handwritten.” He felt his heart move slowly. “The ink, Beatrice.”
“I know.” She moved a lamp closer and saw the bulb flicker. “Damn it, we need better lighting.”
“This is it?” René leaned in. “You have found it?”
“I believe we have.” Giovanni looked up. “It’s faded. It hasn’t been stored well in centuries. There is mold damage, but with the correct lighting and perhaps some lenses to enhance the ink…”
Beatrice’s hands were trembling. “The ink may be faded, but the handwriting…”
René pointed to a scribble on the top of one page. “Does that say what I think it does?”
Giovanni’s eyes focused on the top of the page René was pointing to.
