>Evelyn
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The reply from my father arrived on Thursday morning, while I was fastening the last button of my academy coat.
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I recognized the handwriting before I broke the seal. My father had taught me to identify letters by their weight and paper, a useful skill in a household where servants carried messages between rooms that were sometimes only twenty paces apart.
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His letter was short.
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He had received mine. He wished to discuss it in person. A carriage would be available on Saturday afternoon if I wanted to come home for supper.
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There was no mention of Adrian.
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I read it again, though I hadn't missed anything the first time. My father could write three pages about a disagreement over a garden wall. Four lines about the man I was seeing meant he was choosing his words with considerable care.
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That wasn't necessarily bad. It wasn't reassuring either.
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I put the letter in my satchel and went downstairs.
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***
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My father's household kept an apartment in the city for the weeks when I attended academy functions. It was quieter than the family estate, but not particularly private. Someone always knew whether I'd eaten breakfast, which coat I'd worn, and how many hours I'd spent away.
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Mrs. Bell, the housekeeper, was waiting beside the breakfast table.
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“Your father sent a message.”
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“I received it.”
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“He asked whether the carriage should remain available on Saturday.”
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“I haven't decided yet.”
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She looked at the untouched tea. “Would you like something packed for later?”
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“Yes, please.”
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Mrs. Bell didn't ask about the letter. She had worked for my family long enough to know when a question would be answered and when it would merely make the room uncomfortable.
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I wished my father possessed the same talent.
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That was unfair. He had listened to me many times. He had also spent years assuming that if I disagreed with him, I must not yet understand the matter properly.
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I ate half a piece of toast before leaving. Mrs. Bell packed the rest.
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***
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Adrian was outside the archive when I arrived, holding a notebook against his chest. He looked at me, then at the clock above the corridor.
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“I'm early,” I said.
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“I wasn't going to say anything.”
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“You looked.”
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“I look at clocks. It's one of my few respectable habits.”
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I handed him the small packet Mrs. Bell had prepared. He opened it and found bread, cheese, and an apple.
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“Evelyn.”
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“She packed too much.”
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“For one person?”
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“For me,” I said. “You can argue with Mrs. Bell if you'd like.”
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He considered that and put the packet away.
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“Your father replied?” he asked.
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I hadn't realized I was touching the satchel.
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“He wants me home for supper on Saturday. To talk.”
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“Are you going?”
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“I think so. I haven't answered yet.”
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He nodded. He didn't ask whether he was invited, which was fortunate because I didn't know what I would have said.
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Miss Vale opened the archive door before either of us could continue.
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***
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The specialist was a woman named Dr. Sorel, who worked with damaged manuscripts for several private collections and the academy's older records. She had ink on the side of one finger and an inconvenient habit of answering a question only after she'd finished whatever she was doing.
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Miss Vale introduced us, then placed the rigid folder on a cleared table.
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“Before we begin,” she said, “we agreed to visual examination only.”
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“I've read the conditions,” Dr. Sorel replied.
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“No heat, reagents, scraping, or magical treatment.”
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“Yes.”
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“And no removal of material.”
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Dr. Sorel looked up. “Miss Vale, I do understand.”
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“Good. Then we understand each other.”
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I liked her more for insisting.
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Dr. Sorel adjusted a lamp and asked us to stand back while she opened the protective sheets. The damaged letter lay between them, smaller than I remembered. Adrian had shown it to me several times, but I usually found myself looking at the surviving words. Today I noticed how much of the page was missing.
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Mira had carried it here.
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I tried not to think about the hands that had given it to her.
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***
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Dr. Sorel began with the edges. She examined the darkened corner through a magnifying lens, then changed the angle of the lamp.
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“Some of this is scorching,” she said. “Not all of it.”
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Adrian leaned forward. “What else?”
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“Mechanical damage. The fibers have been pulled apart along this edge. The sheet may have torn while it was under tension.”
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“Could the spell have done that?” I asked.
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“I don't know what spell you're referring to.”
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“A hypothetical transport spell,” I said. “One that affected the object carrying it.”
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She moved the lamp again. “I can't identify a spell from torn paper. If you have a known sample damaged by that method, I can compare them.”
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“We don't,” Adrian said.
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“Then I wouldn't put that explanation in a report.”
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I almost smiled. Adrian had been saying much the same thing about his barrier for days.
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Dr. Sorel examined the surviving ink next. She could distinguish ordinary spreading from places where the writing had been physically lost. A few strokes near the fold became clearer under angled light, but not enough to produce another complete word.
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I felt Adrian shift beside me.
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“Can you read anything new?” he asked.
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“Not confidently.”
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He accepted the answer. I wasn't sure I could have done so as calmly if I'd been the one carrying the letter for weeks.
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***
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The most useful discovery came from a section that looked unremarkable.
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Dr. Sorel pointed to a narrow band across the lower half of the page.
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“See the difference in the surface?”
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I could, once she showed me. The fibers reflected the light unevenly.
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“It was folded there,” I said.
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“Yes. More than once, I think. The wear is older than some of the damage around it.”
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Adrian frowned. “So it was carried before it was burned?”
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“Possibly. I can say it was folded and handled before the final damage occurred. I can't tell you how long before.”
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“Could it have been written, folded, and damaged on the same day?”
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“Certainly.”
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It wasn't the answer we'd hoped for, but it changed the picture in my mind. I'd imagined a desperate message written in the last moments before Mira's journey. The paper might have existed well before that night.
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Or it might not.
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I disliked how quickly I wanted to choose the more comforting explanation.
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Dr. Sorel made a sketch of the fold pattern. She marked the places where the paper had been handled most often and where the scorch damage interrupted the fibers.
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“Someone may have kept this folded in a pocket or another confined space,” she said. “That's an interpretation, not a finding.”
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Miss Vale wrote the distinction into the record.
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***
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When the examination ended, Dr. Sorel asked whether we wanted a written summary.
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“Yes,” Adrian and I said together.
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She looked between us. “One copy or two?”
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“Two,” I said.
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Adrian glanced at me.
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“I'd like my own,” I explained.
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“Of course.”
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I knew he would have shared his. That wasn't the point.
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Miss Vale checked the letter's condition against the original record before sealing the folder again. Nothing had been removed. No new damage was visible. The consultation had taken most of the afternoon, and we were leaving with fewer answers than I'd wanted.
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But the letter was safe.
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Outside the archive, Adrian sat on a bench and opened the food packet I'd given him that morning.
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“Have you eaten anything?” I asked.
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“Half an apple.”
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“That was in the packet.”
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“Yes.”
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I sat beside him. “You know, I was hoping you'd discover the other items.”
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He handed me the cheese.
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***
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We discussed the examination while we ate. Adrian wanted to compare the fold pattern with the marks in his notebook. I wanted to speak to Miss Vale about other documents damaged during magical accidents, though I had no intention of taking Mira's letter near an experimental spell.
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“Dr. Sorel didn't find proof of time travel,” Adrian said.
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“She wasn't examining it for that.”
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“I know. I still wanted something.”
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“So did I.”
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He folded the empty wrapper and put it in his bag. “Mira asked about your father yesterday morning.”
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I turned toward him.
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“She wanted to know whether he knows her. I told her not yet.”
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“What did she say?”
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“That he likes presents, although he pretends he doesn't.”
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I laughed before I could help it. “That sounds like him.”
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“She drew him something.”
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“Did she?”
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“She wants you to see it when you're happy.”
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I looked down at my hands. Mira had been trying to protect my feelings without knowing what had caused them. I was beginning to understand why Adrian sometimes seemed exhausted after an ordinary day with her.
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“I'll come by tomorrow,” I said. “If that works for you.”
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“It does.”
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“And I'll answer my father tonight.”
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Adrian waited.
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“I think I should go on Saturday.”
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“Then go.”
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I turned to him. “You don't have to sound so pleased about it.”
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“I'm not pleased. I just don't want you deciding based on whether I'll worry.”
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That was a better answer than the one I'd been prepared to argue against.
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***
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At home, I found my father's letter where I'd left it. Mrs. Bell had placed fresh writing paper beside it, along with a cup of tea that was still warm.
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I sat down and wrote that I would come on Saturday afternoon. I asked him to make time for a private conversation before supper. I didn't apologize for my earlier letter, and I didn't repeat its contents.
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Then I sat with the pen in my hand for longer than necessary.
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My father had taught me how to control a flame without extinguishing it. He'd told me that strength was useless if I couldn't decide where to direct it. I wondered whether he remembered saying that.
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I sealed the reply and gave it to Mrs. Bell.
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“Will you be staying at the estate on Saturday night?” she asked.
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“I don't know yet.”
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“Shall I prepare a bag?”
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“No. If I decide to stay, I can send for what I need.”
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She nodded and took the letter.
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After she'd gone, I opened my notebook to the sketch Dr. Sorel had made of the damaged page. The fold crossed the surviving writing at an awkward angle. Whoever had carried it hadn't been concerned with preserving a beautiful document.
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They had wanted to keep it close.
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I thought of Mira holding Sir Flopsy, Adrian checking the letter's wrapping, and my father keeping gifts he claimed not to want. Then I closed the notebook.
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Saturday would bring its own questions. Tomorrow I'm going to visit Mira.