The St. Johnsbury Athenaeum smelled like old pages, lemon oil, and whatever deep- Vermont brand of sorcery made sunlight come through stained glass at just the right angle. I loved it.

  Built in 1871 by the Fairbanks family—yes, the scale magnates—it was one of the first free public libraries in the country. A gift to the people. An architectural love letter to learning. And, quietly, a museum stuffed with more than a few technically plundered European paintings brought back by Yankee industrialists with good money and bad boundaries.

  There was a full-blown Albert Bierstadt landscape in the gallery wing. Like, actual Bierstadt. Mountains and clouds and manifest destiny, all hand-oiled and hung over polished walnut floors. No one talked about how the art got here. Just that it stayed.

  I was curled into my usual nook between Local History and European Folklore, boots kicked off, surrounded by notes I wasn’t going to read and textbooks I wasn’t going to return on time.

  I’m 23,five-foot-eight, medium build, ballet-strong but snack-prone, which means I usually wear a size twelve, sometimes a fourteen if Vermont has been extra carb-y. My hair is dirty blonde and always pulled back in a ponytail I call “functional sadness,” and my eyes are the color of wet leaves—brown, mostly. Oh, and I have funny crow shaped scar on my inner wrist. I was adopted as a baby. Dropped at a fire station, no note, no drama. Just… placed. Steve and Martha—my parents—raised me in a house full of warmth, weird books, and suspiciously specific tea.

  I’ve always had this thing—when life gets overwhelming, I go outside. Doesn’t matter the weather. Snowstorm, thunderstorm, mosquito apocalypse—I need air and space. Martha used to say I was solar-powered. Steve said I was a flight risk.

  My earliest ‘Sadie bolted’ memory? Kindergarten naptime. The teacher turned the lights off and put on this creepy music box lullaby, and I was like, nope. Slipped off my mat, tiptoed out the door, and walked straight into the sunshine. They found me twenty minutes later behind the playground, making a bouquet of dandelions for my lunchbox. I got a safety talk. And a sticker shaped like a star.

  But I’ve always hated not knowing where I came from. Blank spaces itch.

  So, a month ago, there I was , quietly spitting into a 23andMe tube under a stained-glass depiction of Athena. She’d looked mildly horrified. Today I was expecting my results

  I left a quick note for the head librarian and packed up my books and headed out.

  Edna, the afore mentioned, librarian at the Athenaeum, was somewhere between seventy and forever. She had that ageless, paper-dust-and-perfume aura that came with long library tenures and quiet power.

  We were friendly—mostly because I was a Library Sciences major at the local university and she appreciated my healthy fear of dog-earing pages.

  She made a mean gin and tonic, shelved books alphabetically *and* astrologically, and often mailed things for me under the table so I didn’t have to pay postage.

  I once gave her a Chippendales postcard. We never spoke of it again.

  That’s when I saw it.

  There was a book on the cart beside the reference desk. Slim. Leather-bound. It hadn’t been there before. No barcode. No Dewey. No dust jacket.

  Just deep burgundy leather, fraying at the edges, and a golden E burned into the front cover. Super fancy, old and expensive looking.

  I picked it up.

  It was warm. Not like “sat in sunlight” warm. Like living skin warm.

  Inside: dense handwriting in dark inks – red, black brown and rust. Gothic script. Sharp and elegant. Nearly every page had a date… but not all in the same century. And not all in the same language – I recognized Latin, High German, French and Italian.

  Near the center, on a page marked simply “December 6,” was a line that made my spine straighten:

  “Help ! - EG”

  I closed the book so fast it slapped.

  E.G.

  That could mean anything. Elizabeth Green? Evil Goblin?

  I slid the book into my tote and told myself I was just taking it to the desk for cataloging. I knew I was bringing it home to read on my couch.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  But as I left, I swear the air shifted. Just slightly. Like the building exhaled.

  I zipped my coat, pulled my scarf tight, and headed home.

  I lived in a second-floor walk-up above The Crooked Crumb. The building had a brick fa?ade that was trying its best but clearly needed therapy and tuckpointing. A cracked wooden staircase led to the front door, but I rarely used it.

  Because of the Hope Statue.

  She was carved in the 1890s by the Carrick Brothers—part angel, part marble survivor. Draped in flowing robes with one arm lifted toward the sky,

  Her face was both worn and fierce. The statue had withstood three known fires: 1912, 1958, and a blaze in the '90s that took out the top floor of the bakery below.

  Even now, the soot had settled deep into the folds of her robes, making her look like she had just walked out of a ruin and was proud of it.

  Her gaze was permanent and downward—watching the front door like she expected confessions.

  I used the back entrance. Always.. Every time. That’s where the fire escape was, and the alley, and the bakery deliveries. Also: it’s where I found Tudor.

  It had been snowing, and I was coming home from a grocery run when I heard a tiny mewl by the crates. He was this half-starved black fluffball with golden eyes and a tail that bent like a question mark. I gave him half a muffin. He followed me upstairs. End of story.

  Getting my own place had mattered. Not because I didn’t love Martha—she was the best mom anyone could ask for, even if she did think emotional processing was best done through casseroles—but because I needed to be my own person. Whatever that meant.

  Martha had cried when I signed the lease. Then immediately brought over ten boxes of herbal tea and a fire extinguisher.

  I’d filled the apartment with thrift-store chairs, milk-glass lamps, and way too many books I’d never admit I reread.

  And in one corner of my small, second-floor home was a shelf entirely devoted to the Elizabethan era.

  I’d read every Philippa Gregory novel—twice. I’d watched every BBC dramatization. I wanted to time-travel so badly it ached. Not to meet Henry VIII—who I am firmly convinced was an absolute asshole—but to sit at Wolf Hall, to see the court intrigue unfold like poisoned lace.

  But the one who always fascinated me?

  Anne of Cleves.

  She dodged a bullet so hard she probably needed physical therapy. Married Henry and managed to survive—not just survive, but walk away wealthy, respected, and alive? She was either the smartest woman of her generation or a witch. Or both.

  I used to joke that if I had a past life, it was probably hers.

  I didn’t realize how close I might be to the truth.

  I dropped my bag just inside the door, tossed my boots into the usual corner of chaos, and flopped onto the couch. The leather journal thunked against my hip. I pulled it out and set it on the coffee table. Still warm. Still weird.

  Tudor slinked into the room, tail twitching. He stopped halfway across the floor, ears back, gaze locked on the book.

  Then he hissed.

  “Traitor,” I muttered. “I give you a name full of historical gravitas and this is how you repay me?”

  He backed away and disappeared under the couch.

  I opened my laptop and logged into the 23andMe dashboard. Just for fun. Just to check. The test had been there for over a month, and I was super hopeful.

  The page loaded. And glitched.

  Not a normal glitch—a creepy, wrong-font, screen-flicker, this-page-knows-you kind of glitch.

  My name blinked to something else—E.G.—then snapped back.

  Instead of the standard “Results pending” message, a warning flashed:

  Further verification required. This kit has been flagged. Please contact customer support immediately.

  I refreshed. Gone. Just the spinning helix and cheerful font again.

  I glanced at the journal.

  It hadn’t moved. But it also wasn’t how I left it —now open to a different page. The handwriting was the same—but older. Thicker. Redder.

  And now in a script I didn't recognize.

  Hire blōd is bunden mid min, and turh hie ic r?dan cynewyrtrum.

  I snapped a photo and fed it through an old languages translator – courtesy of a useless college degree, or so my high school counselor insisted.

  The result: “Your blood is bound with mine, and through you I shall escape”

  I stared.

  Then very calmly said: “Oh. Hell. No, bitch.”

  And I threw the book across the room.

  Tudor growled from under the couch like he was about to call in a priest.

  I couldn’t stay inside.

  I bundled up and walked. The snow had stopped. Everything sparkled.

  I ended up across from the Fairbanks Museum.

  The museum had been built in the late 1800s by the Fairbanks family—same folks who founded the Athenaeum and practically bankrolled the town. A free museum for “the elevation of the working man.” Noble on paper.

  But weird in practice.

  Inside were artifacts collected from China, Arabia, India, England, and France. Rare manuscripts. Swords. Masks. Stolen things with no clear provenance. All gathered during honeymoons to the continent and beyond during America’s Empire Stage

  It was the kind of museum that felt like it might wake up if you turned your back on it too long.

  And tonight, it glowed.

  Yellow light poured from the stained-glass windows. The snow on the steps hadn’t fallen right, like the wind had avoided them.

  Then I saw him.

  He leaned against a matte black Land Rover Defender. It purred like a panther with a secret and gleamed like it had nothing to apologize for. It was the kind of vehicle that said: I’ve survived things you haven’t even imagined.

  Blond hair, blue eyes—ice-water bright. A tailored coat, old Armani. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. The car, the coat, the calm—it was all too much. And yet not enough. IO stared. Who the hell was this guy? Who shows up in Vermont snow with a car like that? Someone who knows exactly what power looks like—and likes being watched.

  He looked directly at me.

  Not past me. At me.

  The stained-glass window behind him flickered. For a second, the scene changed—showing a crowned red-haired woman in Tudor dress.

  I blinked. Gone.

  When I looked again, he was gone too.

  No footsteps. No sound. Just the car parked on the street.

  Just the wind and the crunch of my boots as I stood there, staring at nothing.

  Back at home, Tudor wouldn’t come near the journal. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that something old had just opened its eyes—and noticed me.