Page 19 of Atlas of Unknowable Things

Annoyed now, he put a hand on his hip. “You’re being ridiculous. And I’m not sure what you would like me to do here. Do you want me to find the bottles and hang them back up in your basement?”

“Of course not. I just want people to stay out of my space.”

“That can be arranged,” he said rather too abruptly. And then he started toward the main house.

When I headed back into the cabana, I was so annoyed, I had to keep myself from kicking something. I hadn’t imagined the grave, and it wasn’t ridiculous to think that Isabelle and Sabine might be connected.

Huffing to myself, I put the kettle on for tea and grabbed my laptop. Maybe Sabine étienne’s death was worth revisiting. Of course the details were horrific, but there was more to it than that. There was something mysterious about it. I could sense it.

When the water boiled, I made myself a cup of tea and sat down on the couch, laptop on my knees. The heady scent of raspberry and mint lifted my spirits as I read over my notes on Sabine. Once again, I shivered when I read those haunting words: They breed them up there.

I stared at the screen, biting my lip. Was I deluding myself, seeing connections that didn’t exist, or was there a potential link between Isabelle and Sabine?

They say there are no coincidences, but in this case, I wasn’t sure if the bigger coincidence would be if the two cases were connected or if they weren’t.

Determined, I tracked down the phone number for the pub where Sabine had worked.

An older man answered, and after trying to get past my terrible French, he put me on with her brother, Guillaume, who was working that day.

He slipped nervously between English and French.

I spoke to him only briefly, but he seemed anxious and was quick to suggest that we talk in private.

Something seemed a little off about him, so when he asked to meet in person, every bone in my body told me to come up with an alternative.

“What about Zoom?” I suggested. “That might be easier.”

He grunted his assent, and I gave him my email so he could send me a link.

I tried to work after that, but I found myself growing increasingly aggravated.

It wasn’t just effectively being gaslit by Lexi and Dorian.

There was more to it, and if I was honest with myself, it all went back to the relic.

I’d searched Casimir’s office and the cabana, but had found nothing.

I tried to tell myself I had time. I was here all summer, and academic research was often slow and plodding, more about methodically paging through archives than chasing exciting leads, but the desire to find it had moved beyond professional curiosity.

After the past few days, I was fairly certain I didn’t want to stay at Hildegard all summer.

Something wasn’t right. I just wanted to find it and get out of this place as quickly as possible.

A violent frustration building in my chest, I walked out into the garden, and before I even knew what I was doing, I found myself digging through soil, searching inside planters, looking for the relic in places I knew it couldn’t possibly be.

My desire to find it felt nearly biological, and I had to admit that on some level, that drive was actually starting to frighten me.

But my frantic search came to naught. After about fifteen minutes, it was clear that it wasn’t hidden in the garden, and then I had to spend the next thirty trying to make the overturned space look presentable again.

Covered in dirt and feeling like a fool, I went back inside, cleaned up, and tried to think.

Whatever was going on with that grave, there was no way I could just leave it be.

I knew what I’d seen, and I knew that although it might be quick work to remove a headstone, moving whatever was underneath it wouldn’t be so easy.

If it really was Casimir, then she was still there, and if someone was hiding her body out in those woods, then I had a much bigger problem on my hands than a missing artifact.

It was very possible a woman had been murdered, and I wasn’t going to sit idly by and let it be covered up. What I needed was a shovel.

After closing up the cabana, I headed down to the apothecary garden, where I found Aspen with her hands also buried in soil.

“Oh!” she said when she saw me. “I’ve been thinking about your sangdhuppe. Are you sure it’s one word?”

My mind was in such a different place that initially I was startled by her question. “What? Oh, yes. That’s what is in the letter.”

“But what if it’s not?” She removed her hands from the soil and began wiping them off. “What if it’s a misspelling or a typo?”

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“What if it’s supposed to be sang d’huppe?” She pulled out her phone.

“What’s that?”

“Well, nothing, but sang de la huppe would mean blood of the hoopoe.”

“What’s a hoopoe?”

Aspen was typing on her phone. She looked up at me with a sparkling smile and flashing eyes, even her diamond nose stud glinting in the early-morning sun. “It seems to be a bird.”

“Blood of the hoopoe? The formula calls for bird’s blood?”

“Seems like it.” She was busy typing on her phone with the infectious enthusiasm of an academic faced with a mystery in her field. “But you didn’t come here to discuss bird blood, did you? What’s up?”

“I was wondering if I could borrow a shovel.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re never going to believe this, but I can’t find any.”

“What?”

“Yeah, all of mine are inexplicably missing today. I’m about to go yell at someone, but I’m not sure at whom I should yell.”

“Are there shovels anywhere else on campus?”

“Probably in one of the toolsheds,” she said distantly, still focused on her phone.

“Thanks,” I said, but she didn’t respond.

When I left the apothecary garden, she was still distracted.

I climbed the low steps and set off in search of a toolshed.

I wended through formal garden after formal garden, taking a detour through a Japanese garden and a moon garden (so named because it is intended for nocturnal viewing), and then back to an English garden—all regrettably shed-less.

Finally, I took an arterial path that emerged onto a grassy clearing, on the edge of which stood (thank god) a wooden shed.

As I stared at the structure, a cold, curious feeling washed over me.

I supposed toolsheds in general were never particularly sunny places, but there was something about this specific one that gave me the creeps.

Squarely built and composed of old dark mangled-looking slats of wood, it resembled more of a remote torture chamber than a building for storing helpful implements.

I strode toward it, and finding the door ajar, I yanked at the handle.

It lurched open and I stepped in, closing the door behind me.

Inside, the shed was extremely orderly, though dank smelling.

The tools hung neatly on hooks, and a thoroughly modern chest of drawers stood in the corner.

It was uncommonly clean, without a spider in sight, though I could still feel them there with their ten billion eyes, secretly watching me from their hidden lairs.

I picked up one of the three shovels, and turning to head out, I noticed a shadow filtering through the slats in the wooden door.

Startling, I dropped the shovel on my foot.

“Fucking hell,” I yelped, wincing from the pain.

Jim towered in the doorway, framed by the midday sun, evincing none of the buoyant charm he’d displayed on the ride up to the college. Rather, he now seemed straight out of a vampire novel, giving off serious Renfield vibes.

“Hey, Jim,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I was just wondering if I could borrow some tools.”

“What for?” he muttered.

“A project.”

“What kind of a project?” he asked like he was trying to catch me in a lie.

“A gardening project.”

“What kind of gardening project?” He stepped closer. My heart was beating too quickly.

“Birdhouse,” I said without thinking.

Jesus, Robin. A birdhouse? This is what you come up with? I was so nervous that the word just escaped before I had a chance to assess its plausibility.

He eyed the shovel in my hand. “You want to build a birdhouse with a shovel?”

I stared down at it. “No. The shovel is for a hole I need to dig.”

He took a step closer. “Why do you need to dig a hole?”

I took a step back, edging ever nearer to the back wall where those billions of spider eyes were waiting.

“For the birdhouse.”

“If you need tools, there are plenty in the apothecary garden. There’s no reason to invade my shed.” He glared down at me, the tips of his canines showing, and I suddenly became very aware of the size difference between us. Cautiously I started toward the door, still gripping the shovel tightly.

“I’ll bring this right back, I promise.” Quickly I pushed past him and barged out the door. When I had made it safely outside, I turned around and saw that Jim was still staring at me, and if I wasn’t mistaken, suspicion burned deep in those eyes. The pure intensity of it actually made me shiver.

“Latecomers dig,” he said ominously.

“Excuse me?” I asked, taken aback by his odd turn of phrase.

But as if not hearing me, he turned and went inside the shed. When he closed the door, I noticed a hint of gold on his wrist peeking out from under his sleeve—an expensive-looking watch.

My run-in with Jim the Impaler had left me deeply unsettled.

I even checked over my shoulder when I reached the path to make sure he wasn’t following me.

I had no idea what was going on with him or what could have led to such an abrupt change in demeanor, but Jim was now on my list of people to stay the hell away from.

Moving as fast as I could, I hurried to the mouth of the woods.

The shovel felt heavy in my hand as I entered the forest, and once under the cover of the trees, I raced along the path until I reached the small clearing where I’d found the grave.

Locating the two birch trees, I walked between them until I was exactly lined up and then began digging. It didn’t take long.

When my shovel struck something solid, I cleared off the top layer of dirt until a length of burlap shone clearly through.

I set down the shovel and swept off the top until I could see the whole of it.

It was at most a foot in length and maybe seven inches across.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t a person, thank God.

I thought it would be difficult to pry the package from the ground, but the task was remarkably easy.

Hesitating only slightly, I lifted it up and set it before me.

My hands moved quickly through the material, unfurling what lay hidden within.

When I stripped back the final layer, I saw two glassy blue eyes staring back at me.

I screamed and stumbled back, horror rippling through my body. I don’t know how long I stood there convinced that I’d unearthed a dead child, but then I studied what I’d found more carefully. It was just a doll, an old-fashioned baby doll.

“Jesus,” I gasped, laughing now as I held a hand over my heart.

Gingerly I lifted the doll and examined it.

It was a ratty old thing, with scraggly orange hair missing in patches as if it had been haphazardly cut by a child.

It was also missing an arm, and half of its face had been sun-bleached.

Yet there was something about it that looked almost human in the way that dolls can look only when they have been poorly treated—as if the pain of being loved and then abandoned is the only thing that can infuse them with the necessary dose of humanity.

What, after all, was more human than suffering?

When I turned it over, I thought I heard something shift inside.

Listening closely, I jiggled it again, and indeed, something rattled just below the doll’s head.

There was definitely something in there.

Carefully, I twisted off the head and peered inside the hollow cavity.

Something metal glinted there. Turning the doll upside down, I shook it, and the treasure wedged itself within finger’s reach, just inside the opening.

Fishing it out, I saw that it was an ornate brass key with a bow at the top that resembled a peacock feather.

A piece of paper was rolled up and slipped through a space in the filigree.

I pulled out the tiny scroll and read:

Dear Robin,

Welcome to the threshold. What you seek is here on the grounds. I left it for you. But you must be careful. Ceci n’est pas triVial. Good luck and safe passage.

Isabelle

What the hell was this? I looked around, suddenly worried someone might be watching.

Was it some kind of sick joke? For a while I stood completely still, in shocked silence, and in that silence, the forest seemed to come to life around me.

Birdsong sounded especially beautiful, the colors were more vibrant, and I was unexpectedly shocked by the brightness of light shafts cutting through breaks in the trees, illuminating passing dust particles like fairy dust.

I began to understand. I had stepped through a veil of sorts.

Hildegard wasn’t like other places. There were rules here I didn’t understand.

There were puzzles and clues and mysteries, and even though I felt an almost immediate and palpable sense of danger, some part of me was excited.

I’d spent my entire life waiting for something to feel real, to feel important.

I’d always wanted to feel at the center of something truly grand.

And though I couldn’t say definitively that what was happening to me was necessarily grand, at least it was something.

And moreover, I no longer needed to call the police.

Isabelle Casimir’s disappearance had transformed from being a thing of horror to being a stark and haunting mystery.

I slipped the note and the key into my pocket, picked up the shovel, and then headed out of the woods.