Page 13 of A Most Abhorrent Vessel

“Like your skin?”

“I suppose.” I shrug.

“And this so-called physician had no explanation?”

“He was just as confused. He promised to contact the board, but I have not heard from him yet.” A movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. Outside of the window, the Platanus x hispanica sways gently, its leaves illuminated by the orange lamp next to it. From here, it looks a bit like the illustrations in scary tales. I wonder how late it is?

“Alright, I think you must visit Nicodemus.”

“What?” I say, startled.

“Nicodemus,” she repeats. “Do you have a pen?”

“Who is Nicodemus?”

“He is easier seen than described, but if anyone could help, it would be him.”

“Very well, then,” I say, grabbing my fountain pen and writing down the address given to me.

“Are you alright, Orlando?” she says softly.

I hesitate a moment before answering. “I don’t think I am.”

“You want me to come? I could be there within the week,” she says, sounding quite unlike herself.

“I don’t think it would be of any use.”

“I don’t want you to be alone if…” She lets the words hang between us.

I suppress a sigh. “It will be fine,” I finally say, trying to seem as convincing as I can.

“Nicodemus will help you,” she says, unable to muster much conviction herself.

“I’m sure,” I force a smile into my voice. “Thank you, Aphra.”

“I love you, little beast,” she whispers.

“As do I,” I reply before hanging up the receiver.

The shop’s door looks rather ordinary. Well-worn dark-coloured wood hangs from a simple frame. The large window is obscured with newspaper, barring the view to its interior. Above it hangs a vaguely medieval-looking sign with peeling paint spelling out the word Books. A distorted bell chimes when I enter what appears to be an antique book shop.

As an archaeologist, even an amateurish one such as myself, old books are an essential part of understanding my craft. On the surface, this shop looks just like one of the many I have frequented throughout my life. Books fill every available library case, in addition to tomes upon tomes stacked in rows along the floor. A narrow path leads to a comically large partner’s desk, which must have been already out of fashion during Queen Anne’s reign.

Behind this desk sits a man.

A crimson smoking cap is precariously stacked on long, white, curly hair reaching past his narrow shoulders. Small spectacles sit atop a prominent nose. Grey eyes focus on me, immediately crinkling with mirth. When the old man stands, a much too-large silken banyan in garish colours rustles around him. The robe looks older than my grandfather and just as brittle. I’m surprised it hasn’t disintegrated with every movement.

His small chest is wrapped in a flowered waistcoat adorned with golden thread reminiscent of the same era. Underneath that, an unexpectedly simple white shirt and black trousers finish the ensemble.

With my exceeding height, the man has to tilt his entire face up to look at me. Even after three decades of being taller than most men, the way he’s watching me makes me feel a bit like a giant.

“Good day, dear stranger. How can I assist you on this fine day?” he says, holding his hand toward me.

I reach out to accept his greeting.

“Gloves on a hot summer day. Unusual,” he says, still gripping my hand.

“I’m Orlando Balfour. I was told I would find Nicodemus here,” I say, wondering how much longer until he releases my hand.