Chapter 2

  I woke up to a cat on my chest, a book on the floor, and a faint memory of saying something extremely unladylike to a centuries-old journal.

  Tudor stared at me from under the blanket like I’d broken a treaty.

  I reached for my phone and winced at the clock. 7:22 AM. My DNA kit was still flagged, and I had a vague feeling that the library might be haunted by someone who signed their initials like a Bond villain.

  There were no new emails from 23andMe, no results, no warning banners. Just a cheerful spinning helix. But the photo I took of the journal page? Still there. Still ancient. Still creepy.

  I padded into the kitchen and turned on the kettle, then nearly screamed when the knock came at the door.

  It was Candy, of course. Crooked Crumb apron dusted with flour, holding a warm paper bag and a steaming mug.

  “Saw the lights on. Figured you could use something lemony and comforting.”

  She handed me a lemon poppy scone and a mug of herbal tea that smelled like thyme, chamomile, and something faintly floral and strange.

  “This for my mood or my soul?” I asked.

  Candy grinned. “Both. You’ve got that ‘wrestled a ghost in my sleep’ look.” Old enough to be my mother, Candy and I had become close over the last two years. She gave great advise and even better hugs.

  She hovered by the door like she wasn’t sure whether to come in or leave me be. Eventually, she stepped in and leaned on the counter.

  “So… how’s school? Finals eating your brain yet?”

  I shrugged. “It’s fine. One more semester, and then I guess I’m an adult.” “Guess?” she teased. “You don’t sound thrilled.”

  “Thrilled is a strong word.”

  Candy tilted her head. “You seeing anyone?”

  I sipped my tea and gave her a flat look. “Just the old men at the library.” She laughed. “Romantic.”

  “That’s me. A real heartbreaker.”

  Candy smiled softly. “How are your folks?”

  “Steve and Martha are great,” I said. “Retired now. Still feeding the neighborhood. Still hoping a library sciences degree will be helpful in getting me a good husband”

  She smiled. “They really love you, don’t they?”

  There was a pause.

  I nodded. “Yeah. They do.”

  I hesitated, then added, “They adopted me when I was a baby. Fire station drop-off. I don’t remember it—I was barely hours old—but I’ve memorized the way they tell the story. How Steve said I looked like a loaf of bread wrapped in a bath towel. How Martha cried and held me like she’d been waiting her whole life.”

  Candy didn’t interrupt.

  “They kept everything from those first weeks. Martha has a box in the attic—little knit hat, ID bracelet from the hospital, some letter from a social worker. I’ve never opened it.”

  “Why not?”

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to change the version I already believe.”

  Candy reached out and nudged the scone toward me again. “Well, whoever left you, they didn’t do it because you weren’t wanted. They did it because someone else was meant to find you.”

  I blinked hard.

  She didn’t push. Just stood quietly for a second, like she could feel the shift in the air.

  “You ever want to talk—about any of it—I’m around. Or we can skip the talking and do baked goods and dog walks. Basil’s been circling the coat rack since sunrise.”

  “Poor guy,” I said. “He takes schedule betrayal very personally.”

  Basil was her Border Collie—black and white with one ear that flopped and the other that stood straight up like he was always halfway between a nap and a

  mission. He was smarter than most humans, judged freely, and acted like any disruption to his routine was a declaration of war.

  “He barked at the toaster,” Candy said. “Again.” “Saturday?” I offered.

  “You better.”

  She pulled me into a brief, warm hug that smelled like thyme and dish soap. Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

  I curled onto the couch and stared at the journal. It was back on the coffee table. I could’ve sworn I’d thrown it across the room.

  Later that afternoon, I walked back to the Athenaeum with the journal in my bag.

  Edna was behind the reference desk in a chunky wool cardigan and readers on a chain, sipping something that definitely wasn’t tea.

  She raised an eyebrow. “You look like you slept on a merry-go-round.” “Close. Found a weird book yesterday. Thought it was from here.”

  I placed the journal on the counter and opened it to the same page I’d seen last night.

  Blank.

  Totally blank. Not a drop of ink. In fact, noting was left on any page. My mind went completely blank.

  Edna leaned over, squinted, and shrugged. “Looks like a donation from someone’s attic. Happens all the time. Want me to log it or you keeping it for aesthetic angst?”

  “I’ll… hang on to it.”

  She gave a small, amused nod—then paused, like she’d just remembered something spicy.

  “Oh! By the way, a Viking came in here asking about you.” I blinked. “What?”

  “Tall, blond, cheekbones that could cut glass, accent like a BBC narrator with secrets. Gorgeous in a vaguely felonious way.”

  I stared at her. “Edna.”

  She grinned. “He asked if you came in often. Which, yes, you do, and this isn’t a bar so I don’t lie about regulars.”

  “EDNA.”

  She held up a card. Crisp ivory, name embossed.

  I snatched it like it might catch fire in my hand. Richard. Of course it was a Richard.

  “I don’t like this. I don’t like him.”

  “Well,” she said brightly, “then you’ll be very mad to hear I gave him your number.” My jaw dropped. Actual jaw. Dropping.

  “Edna!”

  She just sipped her drink and said, “If he’s dangerous, at least he’s punctual. That one was in here right when we opened.”

  As I turned to leave, something caught my eye above the gallery doorway—one of the older oil paintings I’d seen a hundred times. A dark-toned portrait of a woman in Renaissance dress, candlelight caught in her eyes.

  Except… I could’ve sworn her head had been facing the other way yesterday. The brass plaque beneath it just read: “Unknown, 16th c.”

  I blinked. The woman stared straight ahead now. Still. Perfectly still. Back home, I opened my laptop and refreshed my DNA results.

  Something had changed.

  A new tab had appeared: Lineage Tree – Beta View. It looked like someone’s half- finished ancestry web. Lots of nameless branches and tiers showing generations yet to be filled in. And near the top, only one name. But one name flickered.

  Anne of Cleves.

  Next to it: Flagged Lineage. Additional verification pending.

  What the actual fuck? I asked no one in particular.

  I blinked. Then Googled.

  Anne of Cleves, Queen of England for about 15 minutes, famously divorced Henry VIII and lived to tell the tale.

  But as I dug deeper—past the Wikipedia page, past the documentaries—I found something strange. Her portraits were inconsistent. Her German family crest bore odd symbols. And in one archived Lutheran correspondence, there was a reference to “a daughter of Cleves who binds shadows with scripture.”

  A stretch? Maybe. But my gut clenched.

  Somewhere in the footnotes of history, Anne might’ve been more than a clever queen. She might’ve been part of something older. Something darker. Something that hunted things that didn’t belong.

  A Lutheran occult hunter. My ancestor?

  “Okay, Sadie,” I muttered. “You need air. And maybe an exorcism.” I bundled up and stepped out the back door.

  ---

  Outside, snow had started again—fine, glittery flakes whispering over the sidewalk like static. I pulled my scarf tighter and headed down Main, past the bookstore, past the café, toward nowhere in particular.

  Until I saw him. There couldn’t be two hot Vikings in town, so there he was.

  Across from the Fairbanks Museum, leaning against a dark Defencer. Richard. He didn’t wave. Just watched.

  And behind him, lit up in the stained glass window of the museum entrance, was a woman in a white dress.

  Red hair. Pale skin. A look like she knew exactly how I’d die. I blinked, and the image was gone.

  The glass was just glass again. But Richard was still there.

  Waiting.

  And what did I do? I pulled out my phone, took a photo of my new stalker and practically ran down the street.

  Are you enjoying this?