“No,” he said grimly. “He won’t.”
That froze Morgan for a moment, but she shook her head. “Then we have to offer him good reason. Surely what we’re carrying will be enough of an incentive.” She used a thin-bladed knife that Wolfe had given her to carefully slit the endpaper of the Codex and peel it back; beneath that lay inked symbols that shimmered like metal in the dim late-afternoon light. She touched them and lifted her fingertips, and a three-dimensional column of symbols appeared, floating on the air as if they were made of burning fragments of paper. She studied them for a moment, then reached in and pinched one of them between her thumb and forefinger. As she pulled it out of the column, it dissolved into ash and smoke. She put her hand over the top of the shivering column and pushed it back down until her palm lay flat against the backing.
When she took her hand away, it looked exactly the same. “That takes care of anyone trying to read anything written in this particular Codex,” she said. “Now I’ll link it directly to your father’s. Give me your hand.”
“What?”
“I don’t have a link to your father, but you do. It’s necessary for it to be a personal connection.”
Jess shrugged and held out his hand, and before he could blink, she’d drawn that sharp little knife across his finger. The cut was shallow and he hardly felt it at all, but a line of blood welled up. Morgan grabbed a quill and dipped the end into the red, and he frowned at her as he sucked the wound closed. “Shouldn’t do that,” she said as she wrote a line in a blank page of the Codex—more symbols, then his father’s name: Callum Brightwell. “I might need more blood.”
“Make do with that,” he said. “Have you ever heard of vampires?”
She gave him a wild sort of smile, put down the quill, and reached for a bottle of silvery ink she’d brought with her. She shook it, then uncapped it and dipped the quill into it. “What I write here, only your father will see. By using your blood, I’ve mirrored this Codex to his. The ink will disappear in about a minute after I write, and it’ll leave no trace on either book. So tell me what to say.”
Jess sank down beside her on the small bench. “Say it’s me. Tell him no one else can read it. It’s safe.”
She did, writing quickly. There was a short delay. What if his father didn’t answer? Would the message wait or disappear? Disappear, apparently, because as he watched, the letters began to fade away.
Then, suddenly, his father’s pen moved in response, writing out words. This isn’t my son’s handwriting. How do I know he’s even there?
“Does it matter who writes?” Jess asked her.
“Yes. I have to hold the pen or it doesn’t work. Sorry.”
“That’s inefficient. All right. Tell him . . . Tell him I still have nightmares about the ink-licker. He’ll remember.”
He must have, because as soon as she wrote it, his father’s response came fast. Is Jess all right?
Yes, Morgan wrote. Jess is here. None but the three of us can see this exchange. My name is Morgan. I’m his— Her quill stuttered a little, and then she wrote, friend.
This must be important, Callum Brightwell wrote. Got yourself in trouble, Jess?
“He assumes the worst,” Morgan observed.
“He’s usually right,” Jess said. “Tell him what we need.”
She wrote quickly, in pieces, explaining first that they were wanted by the Library, and next—at Jess’s suggestion—that they were bringing incredibly valuable rare books with them. Last, what they needed as far as safe passage and hiding places. It was quite a bit for his father to take in, Jess thought; maybe too much for even native greed to overcome. The page went blank. Nothing appeared. After a moment went by, Morgan looked over at him and tucked the loose strands of hair behind her ears. “Should I try again?”
“No,” he said. “Let him think.”
It took a torturously long time for Callum’s words to appear again. When they did, it wasn’t about Jess’s needs at all. Your brother is here, the words read. Word’s been put about in Alexandria that you and your friends died in Rome. You understand my concern.
“Concern?” Morgan frowned at the page and raised her voice, as if his father could hear her. “Concern? He thought you were dead, and he takes it so calmly?”
“I told you,” Jess said. “He’s not sentimental.”
She gave him a disbelieving look. He pointed at the page where more words were written. Your brother’s nickname. Now. Or we disappear and you won’t reach us again.
“He means it,” Jess said. “Write Scraps.”
“What?”
“Scraps. Leftovers. You know. Just write it.”
She looked mystified but obeyed. Another blank space, and then Callum wrote, He still hates that name. He says to tell you that. I’m glad you’re all right, son.