November 26th, 1894 — Crowdy Memorial Library

Christabel Daphnel adjusted her hat against the drizzle as she slipped into the comforting dimness of Whispering Pages, a secondhand bookshop that smelled of aged paper and candle wax. The quiet murmur of rain against the windows mingled with the occasional creak of floorboards underfoot as patrons browsed. She carried on through the stacks, the folds of her dark green cloak swaying lightly as she moved.

In her gloved hand, she clutched a leather-bound volume titled W.B.Ashfords, The Art of Wandlore: A Comprehensive Treatise. The book, though unremarkable in appearance, was one she had carefully selected for its lack of popularity—an ideal candidate for her clandestine endeavor. She had enjoyed it immensely, but it was a singular text! Nestled within its pages, concealed between two chapters on wand cores, was a folded letter penned in her delicate hand. It was written in her signature cipher, one she hoped the recipient would recognize: an intricate code blending Arithmancy with fragments of ancient Greek.

As she approached the towering shelves near the back of the shop, Christabel’s sharp blue eyes darted around the room. A balding wizard muttered to himself over a stack of Charms manuals at a nearby table. A young witch hummed softly while browsing through a collection of magical herbology guides. None seemed to take notice of her.

Perfect.

She slid the book into its designated place on the shelf, the motion smooth but deliberate. Second row from the bottom, third shelf from the left. It joined a collection of other wandlore texts, blending seamlessly into its surroundings. To any casual observer, it was just another dusty tome. She patted spine pleased with herself.

To the Bearer of This Letter,

If you have found this message, then you have undoubtedly discovered an interest in Ashfords singular text—a sign of both your resourcefulness and discernment. These qualities, I believe, are essential to what I propose next.

Though we have not yet been introduced, I trust that fate—or mutual interest—has guided you here. What I seek is not a trivial endeavor; it requires both discretion and conviction. If you possess these, and if you are willing to entertain the possibility of further collaboration, I invite you to respond.

The method is yours to choose, but it must be subtle. Indicate your interest by leaving your reply in this very book, perhaps next to your favourite chapter.

You may address me simply as C. For now, that is all you need to know.

Proceed with care,
C.

(the second page is the coded page)

  

---

I am my mother's savage daughter, The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones

I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice
MJ made glory

Ezra was tired. Cecilia's estate was mostly dissolved by now, but her child had not ceased to be fitful. This was only to be expected, everyone said, after having lost his parents so suddenly and tragically — but its being expected did not make it any easier for Ezra to manage, with no parenting experience and no one else around to help. The days were growing shorter, the weather wetter, his mood duller. The shadows were starting to creep closer. He kept going day to day through a sense of obligation — to Hanna, to Cecilia's child, to Byron — but he was mostly going through the motions, and he felt the shadows could tell. They had always been drawn to apathy.

He was here on a work task, doing research in response to an artifact that had arrived quite mysteriously. An afternoon in the library wasn't any more interesting than an afternoon in the Department of Mysteries, so his mood remained subdued. The only difference here was that the windows were real and the weather beyond them could not be blamed on the malaise of a maintenance worker.

He found the letter entirely by accident, as he supposed must have been its writers intention. Even before he'd figured out how to read it, it had the feeling of something that had been left rather than forgotten. The penmanship was too tidy, the characters too strange for it to have merely been a piece of scrap parchment used as a bookmark. He recognized some of the characters, but not others. As he considered it something sparked in the back of his brain — this was something like a puzzle, something like his tile game. Something he could momentarily lose himself in. He went to fetch a book on alchemical symbols, but after an hour realized that was a false start. He hunted down some traveler's dictionaries, and seemed to make more progress — some of it was Greek, but some of these definitely weren't. Eventually he made the right connection and was able to translate the rest. He had overstayed his work day, he realized — and when he looked up from the translated letter there were no shadows lingering in the reading room. A suitable distraction, indeed.

He checked the book out and took it home, and worked two days on creating a new cypher with which to encode his reply.

C,
I am not sure I believe in fate, but I did enjoy your cypher.

You make the game too easy by prescribing where I leave my response. I will, but let your reply find me elsewhere. A book with a tree in the title, let's say. I await —

A

---

  

---

The small reading nook of the library was dimly lit, the only light coming from a single enchanted candle flickering atop a writing desk not exactly efficient for the purpose of the room. The rain drummed softly against the windowpane, but the rhythmic sound barely registered in her mind. Her focus was entirely on the letter now resting before her—a reply.

The parchment was neat around the edges, the writer hadn't scrawled this in haste and her lips quirked in a pleased smirk at the thought. The cipher she’d originally employed had been cracked, the message read and understood. A faint smile played on her lips; whoever this "A" was, they were clever enough to decode her work and confident enough to challenge her to do the same.

Her fingers toyed absently with the silver ring on her left hand as she reread the letter. A tree in the title. Herbology perhaps? But that was bound to be a near infinite list... No - they had started in wandlore, best to stick there.

"Very well," she murmured to the silent room, before picking up the book and heading into the stacks to find her cipher and her real response. When the pulled the thick red volume from the shelf, and flicking to the first page the neatly folded parchment slipped out.

It was almost 3 days later before she returned with her own reply.

A,

It is rare to find one who values this type of challenge as much as I do. I find myself intrigued. Such initiative deserves recognition.

Tell me, A, do you believe the world’s greatest mysteries are meant to be solved, or savored? My next book is one published in 1732, and by a woman no less.

Until the next move,
C

  

---

I am my mother's savage daughter, The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones

I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice
MJ made glory

He had waited two days before coming back to the library and starting to scan the shelves for books with trees in the title — then after thirty minutes he had realized he was being daft and had gone back to the book where he'd left the letter, to check whether it had even been retrieved yet. No such luck, which stood to reason. He didn't know how long the letter had been tucked into the pages before he'd found it; they might very well have given up on waiting for a response at all. Or it might not have been in the place where it was left — someone else could have found it, not recognized it as a code, and used it as a bookmark for a few chapters or even a few books before leaving it somewhere else. Maybe this was an impossible way to go about things; maybe his response would never reach them. He was beginning to understand why they had talked about fate.

He went back to work, to home, to daily life. Went back to trying to coax Cecilia's child into eating something over dinner, and to throwing his hands up in impotent dismay when the boy woke with nightmares again. The shadows flitted in the distance, then became more persistent; more menacing. They gradually grew closer. The next time he found himself in Crowdy it wasn't to seek out another letter, per se; he'd just needed a break from the crowd on the street. Crowds made the shadows harder to manage, because he couldn't keep an eye on them all the time, and he had never gotten the self-control not to jump when one surprised him. As he slipped into one of the reading alcoves at the library and took a second just to breathe, he thought about the letter. Maybe this wasn't the best time, but — he could use a distraction.

He went to the book where he'd left his and felt a thrill when his letter was missing. It might still have been nothing. A library cleaning up, or a patron who had seen it and discarded it. But it might have been a response. He wandered through the nearby shelves, pulling down any book with a suitable title. Eventually he found it. He wasn't especially well versed in literature, particularly not any so old as that. He cheated a bit, asking a librarian for help. The title he arrived at, The Happy Unfortunate, made him chuckle. Perhaps C knew more than they were letting on.

C,

Without pursuit of a solution there is nothing to savor. I appreciate your choice of title. I consider myself unfortunate in many ways, but this game has given me a glimmer of light. I admit I haven't read this book; I was too keen to return your letter to check it out. Do you recommend it?

A

---

  

---

Christabel had not expected a reply so soon. She had left the letter days ago, not knowing if the game would continue or if she would be left wondering whether her words had reached their intended recipient. And yet, here it was—a new letter, carefully placed between the pages, waiting for her as though it had always belonged there.

She hadn't even brought this one home with her, instead she had slipped a piece of paper from her reticule and procured a desk in a quiet corner of the library, the letter held between her fingers. A thrill of satisfaction curled in her chest. A had not only continued the game but had also acknowledged her choice with a certain wry humor. That pleased her. She liked intelligence, but she liked wit even more.

Slipping a fresh sheet of parchment onto the desk before her, she dipped her quill into the inkwell and began to write.

A,

I chose the book because it is one I hold in some esteem, though I admit, the title was a fortunate coincidence. If you have not read it, I do recommend it—though I wonder if it will hold the same meaning for you as it does for me.

You say that without pursuit, there is nothing to savor. I agree—but tell me, do you believe every puzzle has a solution, or are some meant only to be chased?

I suspect you already know my stance.

I trust you will hear from you.

Until then,
C

  

---

I am my mother's savage daughter, The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones

I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice
MJ made glory

The same book, the same place. He was glad of the letter and recognized the fault was his in not having given his correspondent any indication of where the next step in their riddle-labyrinth might be; they could hardly have picked a book at random and had any hope of his finding it. But there was something distinctly lacking when there was no mystery to be solved before the page was revealed.

C —

There is a distinction perhaps between puzzles having answers and having answers discoverable by mortal men. I believe the former is always true (else there would be no point in the attempt, no?) but the latter is not.

Is our game bounded by the walls of Crowdy? I should like to venture farther afield... but would not like to lose you in the attempt, if you're in a position in life where your movements are not entirely free. Put your next letter opposite an illustration in one of the research books on the south end of the third floor. Choose the field of study you find most interesting, and I shall learn something about you in its discovery — and then tell me where you might find my next letter, if not in a book.

— A

---

  

---