Page 17 of The Book of Heartbreak

Only those in quest of seeking or offering aid can reach my journals.

Excerpt from The Book of Revenge, Müneccimbasi Sufi Chelebi’s Journals of Mystical Phenomena

The office is situated in the basement. Leon takes the lead as we descend the stairs.

We arrive at a decrepit old door, and I hesitate at the threshold when he unlocks it, contemplating whether I should retreat back upstairs.

But Leon is already inside, and he flicks on the light, illuminating a mundane office – not the eerie, underground lair of Bluebeard I’d envisaged.

He’s practically a stranger, a small voice says inside my head. Why are you alone with him, Sare?

He’s a neighbour, another voice counters.

A strange neighbour, I conclude. But I’m not exactly the most normal person either.

I peer down at the book, at the promise it holds as a guide to breaking curses . . . Fuck, I have to know what it’s all about. I slip inside and the door bangs shut behind me, the clank of the metal hinges echoing in the empty stairwell outside.

‘Please sit,’ Leon says, settling on the edge of a metal trunk that seems too low for his tall frame; his knees almost poke out of his trousers. With limited options, I settle into the office chair opposite him, mindful of the tight space between us.

‘Did Munu guide you to the journal?’ He leans forward, surveying me for a reaction. ‘Are you here to steal it?’

‘Excuse me?’ I glare at him, clenching my fists. ‘Do I look like a thief?’

‘If you’re not a thief,’ he says, pinning me down with his stare, ‘then what are you?’

I hold his gaze defiantly. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Please.’ His voice dips, revealing a flicker of vulnerability. ‘Drop the act. Is the journal the reason you and your ethereal sidekick showed up here? Are you two some sort of relic hunters?’

‘It was on the floor,’ I say, agitated. Why is he so mad about this bloody book? ‘I literally stumbled on it – I just . . . I had to pick it up.’

‘Do you expect me to believe that?’ His jaw clenches. ‘I caught you running away, remember?’

‘I wasn’t r— Look, I don’t care what you think.’ I shrug. ‘But that’s what happened.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ he says, rising from his seat. My heart skips a beat as he leans over me, but I realise he’s only turning on a computer. His sea-salt scent fills my nostrils as the operating system starts with a hum. ‘Where exactly did you say you found it?’

CCTV footage fills the screen. I blink at the grainy grey light.

‘Upstairs . . . about ten minutes ago,’ I reply, my annoyance swelling as he rewinds the recording. But then I see myself on the screen. In the black-and-white footage, I lean down to scoop something non-existent from the ground.

On the camera, the book is invisible.

‘Shit,’ I gasp. ‘I swear to you— I swear the book was there!’

Leon stares at me, his expression unreadable. The steady tread of visitors on the level above us fills the silence in the dark office.

‘So.’ Leon lets out a sharp breath as he pauses the screen, where I now stand still, compelled by an invisible item between my hands. ‘You’re telling the truth.’

‘Why would I lie?’ My voice rises in pitch. ‘You’re fucking annoying.’

I glimpse a fleeting trace of hurt in his expression, but it disappears so swiftly I might well have imagined it. He switches off the monitor and returns to his spot on the trunk.

‘I assume you’d like to read the book, Silverbirch, so I suggest keeping it civil as you’ll need my help with translation.’ He looks angelic as he smiles. ‘Or have you learned how to read Turkish?’

‘Well, you’re either confused, or blinded by your over-confidence, because it’s already in English.’

‘What do you mean?’ Leon sounds taken aback. He reaches out for the book, and our fingers brush. A warmth travels up my arm, straight to my heart. I flinch, inadvertently letting go of the journal.

‘It’s in English,’ I mumble as he cradles the book in his hands like it’s the most fragile thing on the earth. ‘I obviously couldn’t have read the title, if it was in Turkish.’

‘I see.’ Leon is lost in his thoughts. ‘And here I am, reading the title in Turkish. Müneccimbasi Sufi ?elebi’nin Gizemli Olaylar Seyahatnamesi: En Muamma Lanetleri Bozmak icin bir Rehber . But I believe you.’

I lean over to check, but the title hasn’t changed for me. Still the same letters: Müneccimbasi Sufi Chelebi’s Journals of Mystical Phenomena: A Guide to Breaking the Most Enigmatic Curses.

‘What does that mean?’ I ask, poking my finger at the word Müneccimbasi.

‘It’s his title,’ Leon explains. ‘It means the chief of the seers. Sufi Chelebi served as the sultan’s advisor – until he . . . lost his mind while writing this journal.’

‘And what did he journal about that was so special?’ I frown, staring down at the book. ‘It looks like an ordinary old thing.’

‘Hate to repeat myself, but not everything is as it seems, Silverbirch.’ Leon raises the book. ‘This is the most prominent book for seers of my kind – the curse-breakers – and revealed only to those deemed worthy.’

The word curse-breaker makes me forget the book for a moment, and Leon’s bossy advice. I wish I could trust him, but I still feel uneasy looking at his face, and I don’t want to feel hopeful when I can barely believe a word he says.

Hope , Munu whispers in my head, is a malfunction.

I’m frightened to believe there may be a way to break the curse and save my heart and be just . . . normal.

‘You haven’t got a clue about any of this, have you?’ Leon mutters. ‘The curses, the craft of seers, the Otherside, or the Hidden even. Yet, Sufi Chelebi’s wisdom chooses you, despite your obliviousness to its significance.’

I can’t believe how he reads me so easily, and how much he knows when I don’t.

But there is something he doesn’t know about me.

Of course a guide to break curses would appear for me, I want to yell at him, it’s me who’s cursed, not you!

But I can’t let him know that, and I swallow all the words on the tip of my tongue, which only serves to make me angrier.

‘You’re the most arrogant and pretentious person I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet.’ I take a deep breath to calm down.

‘I’ve been watching you for over a week now.’ Leon grins, clearly enjoying my misery. ‘Enough to figure out you’re the most stubborn and grumpy girl I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.’

‘So you admit you’ve been watching me.’ I snatch the journal from his hands.

Leon shrugs. ‘It’s part of my job.’

Of course, I scold myself. Why else would he be interested in me?

‘A job you’re not so good at, given I managed to find your beloved book before you did,’ I muse and he purses his lips, eyes fixed on the book as my fingers fumble over the cover.

‘This is the original copy,’ Leon says. ‘The only compilation of Sufi Chelebi’s three books, where he famously documented the three curses he worked on.’

Three curses . A shiver runs down my spine. I know I’m not the only soul who had the misfortune to carry a curse. Still, hearing about other curses – broken curses – unnerves me.

‘Are you going to open it, or shall I?’

I glance down at the book, and delicately flip to the first page. The parchment is aged, its yellowed surface marred by stains. I start by reading the foreword aloud, intent on demonstrating to Leon that the text is indeed in English.

My rare and most fortunate reader,

Our world revolves under the watchful gaze of the sun and stars, cruel and merciful, with night surrendering to day in an unending rhythm, and darkness bowing to light.

Perhaps you’ve already uncovered the wisdom that all of this is a magnificent creation, orchestrated by divine hands.

Yet, even the most skilful of designers can make errors.

It is the mistakes of a flawless and eternal universe that my journals investigate.

Perhaps it is our imperfection as mortals, or the insatiable desires that weave complexity into our existence, that release curses to drift among us.

And seldom does a curse burden a single soul alone; its tendrils spread far and wide.

This intricate web of afflictions is what makes the task of curse-breaking so fulfilling.

I have dedicated my life to finding traces left by curses and their connections with the Hidden.

This pursuit of unearthing their legacies has been the very essence of my life’s work.

This tome serves as a testament to unravelling the enigmatic curses and mysterious phenomena that have plagued individuals through the centuries.

It is my fervent hope that my endeavours will illuminate the path of fellow seers who traverse shadows like mine, or serve a cure to those encumbered by plights, seeking a way out.

But I caution you now, dear reader, to tread carefully and turn away if you lack the fortitude for what lies within, for one will not be able to stop seeking the truth once the poison to know more invades your heart, and these tales have the power to bend your perception if you do not possess the right eyes to see.

My heart sinks with this ominous introduction as the harsh reality of the situation hits me.

‘He certainly has a flair for drama, doesn’t he?’ I try to make my voice sound light.

Silent, Leon lowers himself to a crouch, drawn to the book sprawled open on my lap. There’s an intensity in his posture, a magnetic pull, a need to bridge the gap between himself and the pages. His eyes devour the words as if he’s on the brink of diving head first into its depths.

‘Can you just break . . . any kind of curse?’ I turn my attention back to the tome. It’s the perfect excuse to avoid Leon’s scrutiny. ‘Perhaps some curses aren’t meant to be broken?’

Leon lifts an eyebrow. ‘Why do you want to know?’