Nathan
“Could Aunt Gertrude really have been ‘Greta’?” Olivia asked, her voice filled with a dreamlike wonder. “The historian?”
I swallowed. “I don’t know,” I murmured, slowly walking up to one of the shelves tucked into the wall. “Let’s find out.”
Dust motes swirled in the dim sunlight that was bleeding through the single tiny window in the wall. I reached for a hefty, leather-bound tome nestled snugly between its companions on a particularly old shelf. The spine was unmarked, the edges worn by time.
I slowly pulled it out, and a cloud of dust erupted, causing Olivia to sneeze from across the room.
“What have you got there?” she asked, brushing a strand of golden hair from her face which had come loose from her bun earlier when we were messing with our old costumes.
