It’s a plain hardcover notebook in A4 size with about five hundred pages—the generic kind most bookshops sell to secondary and university students. I flip through it. Words in a strange, unfamiliar language but written in the same hand leap out at me. There are a few hand-drawn diagrams, and even pictures, either cut out from somewhere else or taken specifically for whatever purpose the notebook holds.
Most of the diagrams and pictures are of flowers, herbs, and roots I don’t recognise. Some clear plastic bags, taped to the pages, contain what I assume are seeds and samples.
“I can’t read this,” I say, dropping the book onto the desk.
The drawer on the right rattles. I step back just in time for it to fling itself open once more. This time, an apparently hidden panel at the base of it falls open, and a smaller notebook—hardbound, just like the bigger one—plops unceremoniously to the ground.
I can’t open it. It’s like I’m fiddling with a perfectly flat, rectangular rock.
I notice a thumbprint right in the middle of the plain, yellow-grey paper on the front, dark and rusty with age, like someone had used ink or something else to—
The book drops from my hands, landing on the table with a loud thud that makes me flinch, my heart pounding.
An eshé ward, made with blood—one of the most powerful ways to protect or lock something. I’m not going to be able to read this notebook without access to the blood of whoever had locked it. And a blood ward like this will take too long to unravel on my own, time I know I don’t have.
I turn my attention to the first book. The chair moves as I’m making to sit in it, and then slides forward on its own until I’m pushed nearly against the desk, my hands resting flat on the old, polished wood.
I start with my glasses, activating them as I stare down at the bigger notebook. Nothing. I look around the study just in case; same result.
My ability with the sight isn’t quite up to speed, but should be enough to at least get me something useful.
I murmur a quick incantation for my ancestors’ guidance. It takes a few moments for me to completely open myself, not just to my own eshé, but the thick currents of it I feel around me, spilling sluggishly out of the house’s walls.
I place both hands on the notebook, closing my eyes for a better picture.
The first vision I see is of Genevieve, sitting right where I’m perched. It looks to be early evening, the setting sun casting its pink-yellow glow into the room. This must’ve happened fairlyrecently—possibly a day or two before my arrival—because she looks the same, and has the exact same hairstyle she has now.
The two notebooks are open in front of her—my breath hitches; does that mean her blood had worked to get the smaller one open?—and her eyes are flying across the pages, moving back and forth between each book, her expression drawn. My temples throb when I force the vision to speed up, stopping when Genevieve’s stopped, too.
The curtains are closed now, the lights turned on. She’s leaning back in the seat, staring blankly into space. Then she stands. She looks like she’s going to be ill.
My heart throbs viciously. I try to reach out, even though I know it’s not real.
The vision morphs suddenly, without my permission. An elderly woman is perched in the chair this time, bent over the notebook, scribbling furiously. The curtains remain closed but I can hear it storming outside, the room lit in warm candlelight.
Startled, my hands fly off the book, ending the vision. I glance around the room, but it remains the same. I don’t look above me, at the corner of the ceiling where the head of the shannko had briefly appeared.
When I get my bearings, I touch the notebook again, closing my eyes.
The vision is the same but different; it’s bright outside this time, the curtains wide open. The same old woman is sipping on a mug of tea, the hand holding the pen poised over the pages, resting against the edge of the open book, possibly taking a break after she’d just finished writing something down.
I take my hands off the book again, opening my eyes.
It’s the woman from the window. From this morning, in the guest bedroom, and just now, when I’d first stepped into the study. Genevieve’s grandmother, from the look of it. Or someone even older. The eshé had been conflicting, hence my confusionabout it being a simple, neutral spirit or an evil one. Something about it feels simultaneously as ancient as the house as it does brand new, like the person had literallyjustdied a few days or weeks ago—months, at most.
I wonder if I should ask Genevieve. She’s repeatedly stated she’s the only one here; does that mean the shannko hasn’t manifested to her or tried to contact her at all? It doesn’t make sense, especially not if this is her home. I realise she hadn’t said anything to that effect last night, so I can’t be sure.
I flip back to the beginning of the notebook.
There’s what must be a table of contents. I’d noticed during my first flip-through the chapter headings are highlighted, with each corresponding chapter in the book highlighted in the same colour for easy reference since the pages aren’t numbered.
It’ll take an expert—or at least someone more patient and better at scrying—to figure out the code; I’m not about to bother.
I understand why the house had given these to me: to help me find out the identity of the shannko, and perhaps uncover a few secrets written down by said shannko, who seems to be one of the previous owners of the house.
Somehow, attempting to read the book feels like a violation. If this is indeed Genevieve’s home, I don’t want to read it without her permission. Then again, if this is her home, how had she onlyjustfound out it was sentient?
One thing Icando right now is try a stronger call to the shannko. Now that I have a firmer image of her, I can make the call specific to just her alone, instead of the general one I’d used to attract any and all spirits within the vicinity of the house.
