Chapter 3 The Antiquarian
I meet Alaric Voss on a gray afternoon that smells like rain and old stone.
I know this before I know his name.
I know it in the way the bell over the shop door doesn't ring right away, like it's been waiting to decide whether I belong there. I know it in the way the air inside feels cooler than the street, heavy with dust and leather and something faintly metallic, like ink that never quite dries. I know it in the way my chest tightens not fear, not excitement, but recognition without context.
I step inside anyway.
The shop is narrow and deep, shelves rising too high on either side, packed with books that look untouched and overhandled all at once. There's a ladder on rails along the left wall. There's a desk at the back with papers stacked into careful chaos. There is a single lamp turned on despite the daylight, casting a warm circle in an otherwise dim space.
I pause just inside the door.
"I'm just looking," I say aloud, to no one in particular.
My voice sounds too loud.
From the back of the shop, someone answers.
"Everyone is."
The voice is calm. Low. Unhurried.
I move forward, my footsteps muffled by a rug worn thin at the edges. As I walk, I notice small things. A teacup abandoned on a shelf, ringed with brown. A pressed leaf tucked into a book like a forgotten promise. The smell shifts as I move deeper less dust, more paper, something faintly woody.
He stands when he sees me.
He's taller than I expect. Not imposing. Just… present. Dark hair, threaded with gray in a way that feels deliberate rather than accidental. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms marked with faint ink stains. His face is lined, but not tired. Observant. Like he's been paying attention longer than most people.
I know, somehow, that he has already noticed the way I hold myself. The way my bag is clutched too tight. The way my eyes keep drifting to the shelves instead of staying on him.
"Can I help you?" he asks.
"I'm looking for a book," I say.
He smiles slightly. Not indulgent. Curious.
"You'll have to narrow that down."
I exhale, a small laugh slipping out before I can stop it. "Fair."
I step closer to the desk, resting my bag at my feet. My fingers itch, like they want to reach for something, anything.
"I'm a folklorist," I say, because it feels important that he knows. "I'm researching marginalia in medieval bestiaries."
His eyebrows lift.
"Specific," he says. "And rare."
"You carry rare things," I reply, gesturing around us.
"I carry old things," he corrects gently. "There's a difference."
I tilt my head. "Is there?"
He considers me for a moment, then nods. "Yes."
I wait.
"Rare things are valuable because few exist," he continues. "Old things are valuable because they've survived."
Something in my chest loosens.
"I'm Mireya," I say.
"Alaric," he replies. "Alaric Voss."
The name lands oddly. Familiar in a way that makes no sense.
I ignore it.
"I was told you might have private collections," I say. "Uncataloged ones."
"I might," he says. "Depends who's asking."
I meet his gaze fully now. His eyes are a strange gray-green, the color of water before a storm.
"I'm not looking to own anything," I say. "Just to read."
That earns me a longer look.
"You're not here to prove anything," he says.
It's not a question.
"No," I admit. "I think something's already been proven. I'm just trying to understand it."
He nods slowly.
"Follow me."
He leads me past the desk, through a narrow doorway into a back room that feels even older than the shop itself. The walls are stone. The shelves here are lower, the books thicker, darker. A small table sits in the center, scarred with age.
"You can sit," he says.
I do, perching on the edge of the chair like I might bolt.
He doesn't rush me.
"So," he says, leaning against a shelf, arms crossed loosely. "What did you find?"
I hesitate.
"I don't usually talk about my work like this," I say.
"With strangers," he supplies.
"Yes."
"I won't be one for long," he says, not unkindly.
That makes me smile despite myself.
"I found letters," I say. "Hidden in a bestiary. Written by someone who didn't want the story told the way it was."
His expression changes. Not shock. Not disbelief.
Recognition.
"Stories rarely are," he says.
"They rewrote her," I continue, words tumbling out now. "They turned her choice into punishment. Her leaving into fear."
"History prefers clean endings," he says. "Messy truths don't last."
I lean forward. "But this one did."
He watches me closely.
"Did it?" he asks.
"Yes," I say firmly. "Because someone hid it where no one would look too closely."
"In the margins," he murmurs.
I freeze.
"That's… that's what I call it," I say. "The margins."
He smiles faintly. "Of course you do."
A silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable, but charged.
"Can I see what you're working with?" he asks.
I hesitate again, then reach into my bag and pull out my notebook. I open it to a page covered in careful transcriptions, symbols sketched in the margins.
He steps closer, bending over the table to read.
I am suddenly very aware of how close he is. The warmth of him. The way his sleeve brushes my arm.
"These are careful," he says. "You didn't rush."
"I couldn't," I reply. "It felt… wrong."
He nods. "It would have been."
I glance up at him. "You speak like you know."
He meets my gaze steadily. "I know what it's like to be misread."
The honesty in his voice catches me off guard.
"I don't mean to pry," I say softly.
"I know," he replies.
Another pause.
"I'm not sure why I came here," I admit suddenly. "I just… the name kept appearing. Over and over. I thought maybe "
"You thought I might know something," he finishes.
"Yes."
He straightens slowly.
"Names have weight," he says. "They survive longer than people."
I swallow.
"The name is Alaric," I say.
He doesn't react.
Doesn't blink. Doesn't flinch.
Just breathes.
"That's an old name," he says.
"I know," I reply. "That's why it stood out."
"Do you believe names repeat themselves?" he asks.
"I believe stories do," I say. "Until someone listens."
He studies me for a long moment, then moves to a shelf and pulls down a book. He sets it gently on the table.
"Read," he says.
I open it carefully. The text is dense, unfamiliar.
"This isn't what I asked for," I say.
"No," he agrees. "But it's what you need."
I look up at him. "You're very confident."
"I've had time," he says.
I don't know why that makes my heart skip.
I begin to read aloud, my voice steadying as the words take shape.
Halfway through a sentence, I pause.
My breath catches.
Alaric speaks.
He finishes a sentence she hasn't read aloud