Page 23 of Atlas of Unknowable Things

Everyone was gathered in the music room when I arrived, looking divine and drinking green cocktails out of sparkling crystal glasses.

Aspen, who looked smashing in a little black dress and an Audrey Hepburn tiara, came over when she saw me, her eyes lit up by the fairy lights strung from the ceiling and leading out to the patio.

“Look at you,” she said, giving me a cheeky nudge. “You clean up nice.”

“You too,” I said. “What are you drinking?”

“They’re called malevolent pixies. Dorian invented them. They’re on the sideboard. Go grab one.”

Waving a quick greeting to the others, I started to make my way over to the cocktails, but got waylaid by a tray of the most delightful-looking mini sandwiches—what appeared to be some kind of potato omelet crowned by a vibrant orange pepper.

I picked one, and when I bit into it, it was like an explosion of flavors, the potato, egg, oil, and spices combining in such a way as to far exceed the sum of their parts.

I had a few cocktails, which is more than I was used to, and soon the evening devolved into charades, at which I did not excel, and finally that disbanded, and we all ended up on the patio smoking clove cigarettes like dumb teenagers from a bygone era.

I was leaning against the balustrade tipsily laughing with Finn when I began to feel eyes on me.

Turning, I saw Lexi sitting at a table shooting daggers at my back.

Shivering a little, I tried to ignore it, but when Finn went back inside and I saw that Lexi was still seated in the same spot, I decided to go over and talk to her.

“Mind if I join you?” I asked, setting my drink down before she could answer.

“Please,” she said, sitting up straight and trying to reaffix her hair.

Although she still looked beautiful, she looked deeply sad, and I wondered why she seemed so unhappy so much of the time.

“Are you worried about Isabelle?” I asked. “You must be. With everything that has happened in the area, that girl who was mauled and whatnot.” I lifted my glass to take a sip.

“Or the girl who ran away,” she said curtly.

“Excuse me?” I said, pausing before the rim touched my lips. “What girl who ran away? I’m talking about Sabine étienne, the girl from the village who was killed by a wild animal.”

Suddenly she locked eyes with me. “Have you ever read ‘Bisclavret’?”

I shifted around in my seat, noticeably uncomfortable. “Sure, it’s one of the first werewolf stories.”

“Then you know it. A woman runs off with a knight because her husband is a werewolf. Who can blame her? Maybe that’s what happened here. Maybe the girl’s fiancé was a werewolf.”

“I think we can safely assume that he wasn’t. Also, who are we talking about? Sabine étienne was killed by a bear,” I said, but she just shrugged.

Not sure how to respond to this especially prickly version of Lexi that alcohol seemed to bring out, I excused myself, but as I was leaving the patio, I turned and saw that she was still staring at me, that same fixed intensity in those haunting eyes.

The others were now gathered around the piano caterwauling and swaying back and forth.

Finn tried to call me over, but I held up a finger as if to say I would be there to join in a minute, though I had no intention whatsoever of doing so.

Instead, I decided to hide for a bit, so I slipped through the house to the exterior walkway that led to the library.

By this point, I’d searched the library as much as I could without drawing undue attention, but I felt emboldened to try once more.

Maybe it was the liquor, but the place felt especially magical to me that night.

The warm caramel glow of the lamps brought out the soft red tint of the wood, and the vast array of books, instead of feeling overwhelming like they did some days, created the impression of endless possibility and an expandable sense of time.

Slowly I walked the room, looking for nooks and crannies, anything that might be large enough to conceal the artifact.

I pulled out a book here and there to make sure there was nothing behind it, but there never was.

On a lark, I pulled out a copy of Linnaeus’s Philosophia Botanica.

It was a beautiful copy, and momentarily I wondered if I could just borrow it and sneak back down to my cabana without causing a fuss. I could hear them up there now performing a terrible rendition of Steve Miller’s “The Joker.” Maybe the party was over for me.

I was just starting to replace Philosophia Botanica when I noticed something familiar on the shelf—the book with the blazing sun on the cover.

Isabelle had pointed to it in my dream. I walked over and grabbed it off the shelf.

Ficciones by Jorge Luis Borges. It turned out to be a first edition.

Nice. I thumbed through it briefly, then replaced it before heading back out of the library and sneaking off down to my cabana.

The night was still lovely out, and I was humming Steve Miller against my will when I reached my cabana and froze. My door was open, a shadow cast onto the stones outside. I crept quietly forward, slowly making my way until I was able to see through the opening.

It was Dorian, standing by my bed, examining the box I’d found in the storeroom. Surprise quickly turned to anger as I stormed into the cabana, slamming the door open. He startled, nearly dropping the box.

“Robin,” he said, looking guilty.

I noticed he’d draped his jacket over the back of my desk chair. “I see you’re making yourself comfortable.”

“You’re angry,” he said, taking a step back. “I’m sorry if this looks bad, but I didn’t come in here to snoop, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Well, what else am I supposed to think? Enlighten me.”

His shoulders fell. “I came here to ask you something, but you weren’t here, and then this box caught my eye. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have intruded. I know how women can be about their privacy.”

“What does my being a woman have to do with anything? It’s not like I can’t handle you trespassing and going through my things because I have ovaries.

I promise I will not get the vapors. It’s just general courtesy not to snoop.

Also, I was at the party at your house. You could have just talked to me there. ”

He gave me puppy-dog eyes. “But you disappeared.”

“I just went to the library. I was coming back.”

My anger reaching a crescendo, I picked up the box and held it to my chest, but then I saw the sadness in his eyes, the genuine contrition that seemed to simmer there, and my rage began to subside. Maybe I was overreacting.

“I’ll go,” he said softly. “I really am sorry.”

“No, wait, Dorian,” I said, stopping him. “I’m sorry. I’m not happy that you invaded my privacy, but I shouldn’t have yelled like that.”

“No, really, I’m in the wrong, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come in here.”

I thought that was going to be that, and then he would leave, but instead he pointed to the box, a wry smile forming on his lips. “These things, these cards, you don’t believe in them, do you?”

I could feel myself blush. “No. Of course not. But also that’s none of your business.”

“They’re for your research?”

I stared at him blankly. I couldn’t really lie and say that they were part of my research because if he pressed, it would become clear that I hadn’t the first clue what they were. Of course I also didn’t want to reveal that I’d basically just stolen the lot of it from his house.

“No,” I said carefully.

He laughed. “You don’t use them, do you? Because this is hokum. Ridiculous. For the small-minded.”

I crossed my arms in front of my chest, seeing an opportunity. “Do you know what they are?”

“Of course. Locals use them. They are much like tarot, but with older roots.”

“What about these?” I asked, showing him the tiles. “Do you know what these are?”

“They’re called widows’ keys.”

I grimaced. “Morbid name. Do you know how to use them?”

He shook his head. “I think you need a book.”

“I assumed as much. I’ll look into it.”

“Let me know if I can help,” he said.

“No need,” I said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to sleep.”

He didn’t budge, so I physically turned him around and pointed him toward the door. He tried to give me handsome-boy sad eyes, but I wasn’t falling for it. Looks only counted for so much.

Reluctantly he left, closing the door slowly behind him.

It was only a moment or so later that I noticed he’d left his jacket draped over my chair.

I picked it up and started toward the door, intending to call after him, but then something fell out of his pocket.

Reaching down, I grabbed it, and was stunned to discover it was a key card.

My mind flashed to the building I’d found in the woods.

Ask and ye shall receive, apparently. I bit my lip, thinking, and then set the jacket back on the chair where I’d found it.

Did I want to go down this road? I decided I did.

I set my alarm for three A.M. and went to sleep.

When my alarm went off, I arose and got dressed. I then stepped out into the darkness. Around me, the night was warm and violent, a hot wind playing in among the leaves. I moved quickly and quietly, much more so than I’d expected of myself, slipping along the garden paths, hiding in the shadows.

The woods were quiet as I made my way past the night-blooming flowers and over toward the building.

I broke into a jog as I made my way along the path, watching my step as it shifted from stone to brick.

When I reached the entrance, I found the key slot and swiped Dorian’s card; the door buzzed open.

Inside, the atmosphere felt different, as if it were somehow pressure controlled.