Illuminated (11 page)

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Authors: Erica Orloff

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Later, Miriam lent me a pair of sweatpants and a long T-shirt for bed. She had a master bedroom on the first floor, and August and I each had a room on the second floor. My bedroom had a skylight, and I could hear the rain splattering against it. The sound was almost deafening.
A candle in a jar burned on the dresser. I sat on my bed and tried to decide if I felt sleepy. I heard a soft knock on my door.
“You up?” August whispered.
“Yeah,” I called out.
He opened the door, and I stood. He was to me in three steps, then stopped, grabbed my face, stared at me in the darkness, and finally kissed me.
I honestly thought I would pass out. He didn’t so much kiss me as seem to devour me, hungrily kissing me until I could barely breathe, and I was doing the same. It was like movie kissing—insane, crazed, feverish.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the first time we met.”
“Me, too,” I whispered back. We kissed in the dark, the storm making me feel like we were in our own little cocoon.
“Calliope?”
“Yeah?”
He brushed a curl from my face. “You ever think that . . . I don’t know . . . your uncle’s matchmaking aside, that the book wants us to be together? Even getting stranded out here. Going to Paris, maybe.”
I nodded. “It’s like Heloise and Abelard are reaching out to us from the book. Pushing us together. The night you texted me at three in the morning?”
“The night I couldn’t sleep thinking about you . . . ”
I nodded. “I had a dream. And I swear it was a dream about Heloise and Abelard. It was a dream of being in a medieval castle or maybe even a convent. And I was searching for someone or running from something. And I’m certain you were in the dream. And the
second
I woke up, you texted me. Does that sound crazy?”
He kissed my neck, gently pressing his lips to the hollow where my collarbone was. “No,” he whispered.
He kissed me again, then stopped and just touched my face. “When we go to Paris,” he said, “let’s go see their grave. Let’s go see them.”
I nodded. August pulled me closer to him. “I’m crazy about you. I can’t sleep, you know. I think about you all the time.”
“That’s why I was awake.”
I touched his stomach, which was rock hard and chiseled. Like Miriam, I felt like I understood Heloise. He was beautiful, my Abelard, my August. But it was his soul I thought I loved.
He slid a hand up my shirt. I wasn’t wearing a bra, and I stiffened for a second.
“I . . .” I wanted to tell him I was a virgin. That after Charlie, I hadn’t dated anyone, hadn’t even
liked
anyone until him. But he stopped me.
“Don’t worry. We don’t have to rush. Okay? I’m not in this for some fling . . . this is real to me, Callie.”
I kissed him again, and as the storm raged, I almost hoped morning would never come and we could stay there forever.
10
 
Treachery. What name dost thou speak?
—A.
 
 
I
woke up in August’s arms as a clear sky dawned pink over the Long Island Sound. I shifted slightly. We had fallen asleep in a state of undress. He had on his jeans and no shirt. I had on the sweatpants and T-shirt—no bra. I had never woken up with a guy before.
Asleep, August looked like a little boy. His hair fell across his cheeks, and his expression was utterly peaceful. His eyelids fluttered. As soon as he opened one eye, he grinned at me.
“I thought you were a dream.”
I leaned down and snuggled into the crook of his arm. “Maybe I am.”
I ran my fingers down his chest.
“You do that,” he said breathlessly, “and we won’t make the ferry.”
“All right . . . I hate to leave, but we’ve got more plans to make.”
He nodded. “Off to find Astrolabe.”
After we washed up and dressed, we walked downstairs. Miriam was slicing grapefruit.
“Still no power. But the ferry’s running. I called. There’s one at nine twenty,” she said. “Here, eat this. I can’t even make coffee with no power. Not a very good hostess.”
I laughed. “Well, what kind of guests arrive and unexpectedly stay the night?”
The three of us sat down at the kitchen table and ate the grapefruit.
“Will you call me as you continue searching for proof and the origins of the manuscript?”
August nodded. “We wouldn’t even know the next place to look if it weren’t for you.”
I looked at my watch. “We better go if we’re going to catch the ferry.” We all stood, and I hugged Miriam. “Thank you for everything.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I hadn’t been able to bear thinking about Astrolabe, but you have brought him back to life for me. Good luck.”
After leaving, August and I walked to the ferry dock. A tree had been split by lightning, and puddles in the road were deep. I even saw frogs hopping about, looking rather lost.
On the ferry ride, I said, “I hate going back. It was special being there.”
“I know.”
Our hearts slightly heavy, we caught a cab after we arrived at Penn Station. I was dropped off at Uncle Harry’s, and August headed back to his house. No one was home, so I called the auction house—Harry’s direct line.
“I’m back.”
“Great. Listen . . . I’m rereading the A. writings, imagining that it’s Astrolabe. It certainly
sounds
like it could be him. Parents with an obsessive love affair. Tragedy. He sounds like he wants to love someone but is afraid. Afraid to end up like his father—less than a man. I mean, it really could be him, Callie.” I could hear the excitement in his voice taking on a feverish quality.
“I think so, too, Harry. We have to go to Paris. We have to meet Etienne, the man who led Miriam to the book, and hear its history firsthand. Maybe we can even track down the family who owned it . . .”
“I’m working on it. We have to sort out your father and a few other things. So tell me, how are things with August?”
“Good, I mean, great, I guess. He’s so amazing, I can’t believe it’s only been a few days we’ve known each other . . .”
“I knew it! Listen . . . I’ve got to run, sweetie. Dinner tonight?”
“Um . . . I don’t know.”
“Ah yes, August. Dinner tonight if you don’t have dinner with August then. Or maybe the three of us can go out to eat somewhere.”
“All right. I’ll call you later.”
“
Au revoir.
We’ll get to Paris, sweetheart; see, I’m practicing my French already!”
I hung up, laughing to myself. I went into my bedroom, picked out some clothes, then took a shower. The dark circles were still there. They may have been happy dark circles, but August was definitely impinging on my beauty sleep.
I put on moisturizer, lip gloss, and added a coat of mascara to my lashes. My cell phone rang, and I answered it hurriedly when I saw it was August.
He was breathing hard. “Callie . . . ?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you come here? Please?” I heard something in his voice. Something horrible.
“What?” Panic raced through me.
“It’s my dad. Come here. Please.
Please.”
The desperation in his voice terrified me. “I’ll be right there.”
I ended the call, wrote a hurried note to Harry, grabbed cab money, and fled the apartment, wondering what was wrong, and praying August and the professor were okay.
 
When I got to Greenwich Village and August’s home, he was waiting on the front steps, completely ashen.
“My God, August . . . what?” I hugged him, but he didn’t hug me back. “What?” I asked more insistently.
“When I got home . . . I found him.”
“What?” I wanted to shake him, wake him up from this.
“Apparently, someone broke in during the night. They ransacked the place. Definitely looking for something, Callie. And now my dad . . . he’s fallen apart, Callie. This was the one place he felt safe. And now it’s ruined. How can I fix it?”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand—what did they want? What were they looking for?”
“The manuscript.”
“Our manuscript? August . . . that’s crazy. For one thing, only a handful of people know about it. For another, it’s back at the auction house, under lock and key.”
“Callie, you don’t understand. In the insular world of antiquarians, it’s known that the Rose Collection is up for sale. And I can guarantee you that people know my father was consulted. We don’t know what James Rose did after we went to visit him—and if someone like the Tome Raider suspects that there’s a palimpsest at stake, he could be looking for clues, same as we are.”
“August, that’s the second time I’ve heard the Tome Raider mentioned. I can’t believe it’s all that dangerous. He sounds more like a comic-book character than someone we should worry about.”
“Then explain to me why not one single thing—like a TV or electronics, or antiques, or even the art on the walls—was taken and only our papers and books were gone through.”
“I can’t.”
“And explain to me this: the papers are a mess, but someone treated the actual books with respect. That sound like a common thief to you?”
“No. Are you sure nothing’s taken?”
“Only one thing.”
“What?”
“
Leaves of Grass.
The most valuable book we have right now.”
August set his jaw. He was upset—and he was mad. He turned. “Come on.”
I followed him up the steps wondering what this meant for August and his dad. And, indeed, for A.
11
 
Spinning lies like the spider’s web.—A.
 
I
nside, Dr. Sokolov looked broken. He sat, slumped in a dark leather chair, hair mussed, white Oxford-cloth shirt more rumpled than usual. I almost didn’t recognize him. I suppose I had believed that, in that fancy brownstone, on that hushed wealthy street, in August’s lush garden, in August’s care for his father, that it was all just a watered-down version of helplessness and eccentricity. Not real mental illness.
But there his father sat, bereft, unable to speak clearly.
“I stayed locked in my room until August came home.” He stared vacantly into space.
“Did you call nine-one-one?” I asked.
He shook his head. “August did. They should be here soon. But
Leaves of Grass.
I should have kept it in my safe.” He stared up at August. “Where are my glasses?”
“On your head, Dad. Here.” August tenderly pushed the silver wire-framed glasses down until they perched on his father’s nose. “Come on, let me get you upstairs until the police come.”
“Can I help?” I whispered.
“Maybe boil some water for tea? Okay?”
I nodded and went to the kitchen. Hands shaking, I filled the shiny kettle with water, finding the sound of the ordinary—the faucet running, the water hitting against the inside of the kettle—somehow reassuring. I stared out at the garden.
How had the book changed everything from good to bad so quickly?
I stepped outside as the kettle nestled on the burner’s flames. I walked over to the aviary and pressed up against the mesh wires. “Poor little pretty finches,” I whispered. “You need your nanny birds.”
The plain brown and white society finches preened a pair of electric green and blue babies, who ruffled their feathers and spread their tiny wings as if adoring their attention. A few minutes later, August stepped outside. He didn’t walk over to me right away. After how close we’d become in less than a week, it hurt.
“I’m sorry, August. How could we know someone else would be on the book’s trail, too?”

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