King of Wands
When Semele awoke the next morning, fragments of the dream stayed with her. She remembered the car ride and the bike accident—those were real memories her subconscious had served up. When she was nine her family had gone on vacation to Austria and she had seen an accident on the side of the road. She hadn’t thought about that trip in years.
Then there was the helicopter ride with Theo—and that kiss. What had that been about? Her thoughts returned to the moment she’d shared with Theo in the gallery. She had replayed their stolen kiss a thousand times.
A heady sense of anticipation filled her. Theo would be here soon. They had a lot to discuss. But first, she had something very important to find.
*
She looked all day, in every drawer and cabinet, in every inch of closet space. She was growing more frustrated by the minute. It was Wednesday and she had to return to New York tomorrow. Mikhail expected to meet with her Friday morning to discuss Beijing, but she couldn’t leave New Haven without finding what her grandmother had left her.
For the first time since her father’s death she entered her parents’ bedroom. Her mother had already given up on the search and had gone downstairs to make dinner. Semele could hear her singing something terribly off-key, possibly with a glass of wine in hand.
Semele grimaced. “God, please help me.”
She lay back on her parents’ bed and closed her eyes. For a moment, she felt herself drifting off. Then she looked over at her father’s nightstand. All his things were still there: Fahrenheit 451, his favorite book, the earplugs he wore at night because “his beloved wife snored,” and the Geiger wristwatch he took off right before bed.
He had bought the watch on that same trip to Austria so many years ago and had refused to get a new one. Helen could only talk him into replacing the leather band.
Semele picked up the watch and laid it across her chest. Closing her eyes, she felt her body become heavy and, for a moment, it felt as though her wrist had become his. Her mind emptied, floating untethered. Suspended in this limbo, her mind brought forth the answer she was seeking. With a gasp she opened her eyes and sat up. She knew where her father had put the package.
The Tower
The bank opened at eight the next morning. Semele and Helen arrived at 7:55 with the key to her father’s safe-deposit box. Semele had to bribe her mother with a venti-macchiato-something to get her out of the house: Helen was not a morning person. She wore oversized sunglasses and sipped her coffee stoically.
“Why haven’t you looked in it yet?” Semele asked again. It had been six months since her father died, and her mother had yet to open the safe-deposit box.
“Because everything I need is in the house. I have no idea why we even have one.”
Semele had thought it odd too when she came across the key.
Inside they both presented their IDs, her father’s death certificate, and the will. The manager escorted them into the back. He took out the box and led them into a small private room and told them to take their time.
Semele looked at her mother. “Do you want to do it?”
“No, you go ahead.”
Before she lost her courage, Semele gave the lock a decisive turn and opened the lid.
Inside was a legal-size envelope thick with papers. On the front her father had written:
For Semele Cavnow
A square box wrapped in old postal paper rested on top of the envelope. The paper had been opened and taped back up.
Semele motioned to the box. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
Helen nodded.
Semele already knew what was inside, but she still couldn’t allow herself to believe.
Her heart pounded in her ears like the ocean in a shell. She unwrapped the paper with shaky hands to find Rinalto’s wooden box, the one so perfectly described in the manuscript.
When Semele opened the lid she felt like a part of her was no longer in the room. Her world and Ionna’s had finally collided.
“My word,” Helen said. “What are those?”
Semele placed the cards on the table.
Time had preserved their brilliance. The twenty-two cards—Ionna’s originals—looked more weathered than Rinalto’s matching fifty-six. But together they created the oldest tarot deck in existence.
There was a photo tucked inside the box. It was a small black-and-white of two women: a mother who looked about forty-five and a young girl, no more than fourteen or fifteen. Semele knew exactly who they were.
There was no mistaking the dark-haired girl, posed with a hand on her hip and a dare in her eyes—Semele’s real mother when she was young. Her grandmother looked just as Semele had imagined, except for the sorrow in her eyes.
Nettie was staring straight into the camera lens, as if she knew the picture was meant for Semele. Semele turned the photo over.
Semele,
I cannot cut the card in half
and come back for you.
Forgive me.
We are always yours,
Nettie
Semele took a seat at the table, unable to speak.
Nettie had foreseen Semele’s question from the card exhibit in Amsterdam, the one she had carried inside her heart every day afterward.
Her grandmother had written the answer before Semele had even asked the question.
Semele could feel her reality shifting. Her grandmother was the Nettie in the story. These cards had been kept for her, entrusted to her father, who had known their worth and hidden them in the safest place he knew. As curator of the Beinecke, he had recognized their incredible significance.
Her mother hovered beside her, looking concerned.
“Do you want to open the other package?” she asked gently.
“No,” Semele whispered. “You do it.”
While her mother opened the envelope, Semele studied Nettie’s handwriting, analyzing every line and curve. Nettie had been left-handed. Her hands had been shaking with nerves—or illness—when she wrote the message. The script slanted downward with sadness, yet the lines showed strong conviction.
“Oh, I’d wondered what happened to this,” Helen said as she pulled the pages from the envelope. “Why is this here?”
When Semele saw what her mother was holding her whole body went rigid. She had been prepared for the cards, but not this.
Reaching out, she took the pages. It was a photocopy of Ionna’s writing alongside her father’s handwritten translation.
“How did Dad get this?” Semele asked, her voice now barely a whisper.
“Some collector in Europe asked for his help earlier this year. I don’t remember his name. Your father was shut up in his office for weeks translating it.”
Marcel Bossard.
Her mother had no idea what these pages were. Semele flipped to the back and found the place where she had stopped reading the night before. Here were the lost pages. Marcel had given her father a complete copy of Ionna’s manuscript, and her father had translated every last word.