The Cracked Spine

 

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For my agent, Jessica Faust, and my editor, Hannah Braaten. Thanks for wanting to take this journey with me.

 

PROLOGUE

Wanted:
A bold adventurer who would love to travel the world from a comfortable and safe spot behind a desk that has seen the likes of kings and queens, paupers and princes. A humble book and rare manuscript shop seeks a keenly intelligent investigator to assist us in our search for things thought lost, and in our quest to return lost items to their rightful owners. This multitasked position will take you places you can't even imagine. Apply only if you're ready for everything to change. Please note: the position is located in Edinburgh, Scotland.

It was perhaps fortuitous. I'd never know exactly what had been set in motion for all the pieces to fall in place. But I knew this: when I was given my walking papers from the small museum in Wichita, Kansas, a place I'd worked since receiving my master's degrees in both literature and history from the University of Kansas, I knew I needed an adventure. I wasn't bold but I wanted to be, so when I happened upon the ad, I simply reacted and immediately sent an e-mail to the listed address. Only minutes later, I received a phone call.

I spent an hour and a half talking to the man who would become my new boss, Edwin MacAlister. Once I got semi-used to his light Scottish accent, the conversation flowed. Okay, maybe not flowed, but my ear became more accustomed to the words. “Aye” meant “yes,” that I became sure of. He also said “yes” a few times too. There were words I didn't understand, but maybe I could chalk that up to the transatlantic nature of the call.

The time flew and before I knew it I'd told him about growing up on a farm in Kansas, a place that was so wide-open that as a teenager I'd wondered if I'd ever get used to being inside four walls. I told him that not only had I discovered that I did, indeed, like walls, I came to crave them; that when I went away from the farm, away from the unchallenging world of high school and farm duties that I'd never liked, and to college, I found that my moments indoors with my nose in a book or my attention upon a professor were
almost
the best moments of my life. I confessed to Mr. MacAlister that
the
best and most perfect moments had been spent in a hidden corner of the library with a stack of books and undisturbed hours to read them, or in the basement of the university's Natural History Museum, amid the many shelves of historical items, each of which, even the simplest arrowheads, was deeply fascinating to me. During those moments when I'd been surrounded by walls, I'd been comforted, held close. After my time in the library and basement, the Kansas farm became a contradictory source of claustrophobia, and I knew I had to be, to work, to exist some place full of items that fascinated me: books, historical things, things that spoke to me—Mr. MacAlister had liked hearing that; in fact, he almost crooned.

My previous job at the Wichita museum had extended to on-the-job-trained preservationist as well as archivist. I'd thrived there, grown in ways I never would have imagined in that small but interesting place. Always learning, always listening. My surprise dismissal due to budget cuts had been the worst shock of my life. My first real job had ended in an unceremonious layoff.
Sign this, here's a little severance pay, don't let the door hit you.

I knew I'd eventually find another job, but I didn't want
just
another job. I wanted something I could throw myself into again, something that spoke to me. It was a lot to wish for, and not something I could afford to yearn for for very long.

I didn't even realize how much I was sharing with Mr. MacAlister on that phone call, how telling him about the walls, the books, the things, and my dreams seemed natural and easy. He loved hearing that I'd cared for a good number of rare books and manuscripts as well as meticulously preserved for archiving other things too: fossils, historical clothing, and other artifacts. Even a taxidermy buffalo. We laughed about that one and he was genuinely excited that I'd had such assignments.

I didn't tell him everything about me, of course. I hinted at that other thing that made me a little different, made it sometimes seem like I might have checked out for a second or two—even though that wasn't the case at all. But it wasn't easy to share that part of me with anyone over the phone, particularly a potential new boss and a stranger, even if he had seemed to transition from stranger to friend, and perhaps almost confidant, in the span of the call.

“Well, dear lass, you sound like a perfect delight,” Mr. MacAlister had said, his
r
s rolling like I imagined the green hills of his country did. “I would be thrilled tae offer you the position and honored for you tae accept it.”

The position was at his shop in Edinburgh. The Cracked Spine, a book and manuscript shop that specialized in rare offerings and was nestled (his word) into a charming block right in the thick of things, a part of Old Town Edinburgh called Grassmarket; an area that had once been a medieval marketplace and a site for public executions, though he assured me with a laugh that it was perfectly civilized now.

Despite my excitement, my immediate reaction had been a brief hesitation. As I thought back over our conversation, I realized that I'd told him lots about me, but I hadn't asked very many questions of him. My normal self was innately, almost compulsively, curious. It was rare that I wasn't asking questions or taking notes. Not asking for specific details about the circumstances and responsibilities of a job was unlike me. However, in that brief hesitation I realized that my answers to his questions had somehow told
me
what I needed to know too. Well, it was that or I was just afraid that if I dug too deeply I might find something, a tear in his Scottish tartan, that would make the job something less than the perfection it seemed. Maybe I didn't want to risk knowing.

“Thank you, Mr. MacAlister, I would love to accept the position,” I said, swiftly becoming content and excited about the whole idea of uprooting every part of my life and moving to Edinburgh, Scotland, so that I could begin a whole new career and life. An adventure. A bold adventure.

“Excellent news! And, please, my dear, call me Edwin. Everyone does, except for those who take an ill will tae me.”

“Thank you, Edwin,” I said as a different voice also sounded in my mind.

If we do not find anything very pleasant, at least we shall find something new
.

I silently thanked the character from Wilbur Smith's
The Seventh Scroll
for that sensible and timely piece of advice—he'd shared with me only. The words had been distinct in my head, understandable, though spoken with a heavy German accent. This was the part of me, the part my dad called my “bookish voices,” that I wasn't quick to share with others, particularly strangers. I hurried to speak again, just so Edwin wouldn't think I'd drifted off. “I can't wait to begin.”

I couldn't predict that in the mix of all that was to come, there'd be some wicked things too. But how could there not have been? It was Scotland, after all—the home of the likes of outlandish and murderous Shakespearean characters like Macduff and the true historical bloody battles fought in the name of independence and freedom; battles like Culloden and Bannockburn. The place where, in the 1800s, William Burke and William Hare went on a murderous spree and then sold the corpses to be used for anatomy lessons. Yes, adventure goes well with Scotland, but so does a little bit of wicked, and I was about to find out truly how much.

 

ONE

“Oh, um,” I said, mostly involuntarily as I lost my balance. I reached up for a bar to grab, but there wasn't one there. It was on the side panel instead, next to the door that opened in what seemed like the wrong direction. I settled myself on the seat and tried to put my feet in better spots so as to save my body from being propelled out of the cab. There were no seat belts in the backseat to hold me in place. My safety would depend upon luck and my personal sense of balance.

“Sorry 'boot that. Hold tight, there's 'nother sharp curve ahead. We'el be there shortly. Directly in Grassmarket, correct?” the cabbie said. It took me a second to translate the words. His accent was thick and I wasn't used to it yet. So far with the few Scottish people I'd spoken to—people at the airport and the cabdriver and a man on the plane whose voice and physical build had reminded me of Shrek—I found the syllable dance delightful, though some accents were more difficult to understand than others. I'd only been in Scotland for approximately one hour and forty-seven minutes though. Not quite enough time to judge if I would be able to communicate without asking everyone to slow down and repeat.

I'd been clutching the piece of paper since the plane's wheels touched down at the Edinburgh airport. I glanced at it again and repeated the addresses of both the bookshop and the Grassmarket Hotel, my home until I could find one of my own.

“And the shop's called The Cracked Spine?”

“Yes.”

“I've ne'r heard o' it, though I live a good distance away, a long stroll on a sunny day, or a quick coach ride. You wilna see many of those; sunny days, ye ken. Oh,
know
—not ken. I apologize. ‘Ken' is know.”

“Thank you.” I smiled into the rearview mirror.

“Of course, I'm nae much of a reader myself. The missus is. She'll read a book a day, a book an evening when she's working hard on the guesthouses. We hae two of them, guesthouses that is. She also spends a few hours a week at the neighborhood primary school, helping there with some of the wee-uns' reading skills. Aye, she loves her books. I tried tae buy her one of those flat computer contraptions tae read them on but she told me that she wasnae interested, that if she'd been meant tae read from those sorts of things, she'd at least have figured out how tae have an e-mail by now.” He laughed.

I'd understood him much better that time. I couldn't be sure if it was because he was working to make me understand better, or if I was already getting the hang of it. I'd originally thought I'd be encountering bits and pieces of Gaelic with the English, but my research told me it would be more about something called “Scots” and that Scots was neither Gaelic nor English. Nae way, nae hou.