Page 36

“Morning,” I say, upbeat, as I approach the counter.

A window runs the length of the frontage, overlooking Main Street. Behind the counter, a lady sits at a heavy oak desk in a room built for six, typing on a beige computer.

“My name is Ellery.”

“It’s afternoon, dear.” She peers over her cat-eye glasses, attached to a thin beaded cord around her neck, and nods at the antique wall clock.

This has to be Roslyn Thorndale, Editor-in-Chief. In three words, she sounds just like her articles. Hair like Betty White. Her slight frame is stuffed into a green knitted cardigan, the kind you know can’t be found on a rack because the intricate pattern could only be achieved by a professional-level knitter. Half of me wants to adopt her as my grandmother and the other half is utterly terrified.

“Gosh, you’re right. Where does the day go?” I use my best senior-citizen opener, something mundane and weather-adjacent, delivered brightly. Hasn’t failed me yet. “I wonder if those clouds will move on today?”

She purses her lips and waits for me to continue. I cough.

“Do you keep old issues of the paper?” I lean on the counter, and when she stares pointedly at my elbows, I promptly remove them, standing up straight.

“We do.”

“May I look through them? I’d love to learn more about Ravenslight.”

“We’re too busy to be chaperoning members of the public.”

The office is empty. A second desk faces hers, with nothing on it but a monitor and a layer of dust. There’s not even a pen cup.

“I promise to be careful, and I won’t make a sound.”

Her chair creaks as she rises with a sigh and strides over to the other desk. “Issues from the past twenty years you can access through this. Older ones are over there.” She points to a tall timber bookcase filled with large vinyl folders.

I take her instruction as an invitation to enter, pushing through honest-to-goodness half-height saloon doors into the rear of the office. They swing back and forth behind me, and I push through them a second time because I can.

“Water fountain is in the corner. You’ll have to find amenities elsewhere if you need to relieve yourself.”

“Ah, okay, no problem.” If the woman doesn’t want to share a restroom, I can respect that.

“No food or drink, either.” She gives a little sniff before returning to her station.

“Got it. Thank you.” I pop my tote on the desk, fish out my notebook and pen, and get started.

The computer hums as it warms up. I start with editions from around the time Mikel died and Nick returned home. If there’s going to be anything to find, it’ll be there.

Working backward from the most recent, I skim through a few issues. Nothing jumps out, other than Marthe winning the pie category at the Alaska State Fair.

A search for the word “clans” turns up three names: Valzera, Renard, and Lund. There’s a council notice, a business listing, and an obituary from four years ago, but the index lists a lot more than what’s in the digital archive, including an article about the town’s bicentennial from the nineties. I write down the issue date.

The smell of ink and old paper clings to the bookshelves. Each folder holds a year’s worth of papers, and I locate the one from 1990. The vinyl cracks as I open it, sticky with age, and Roslyn looks up sharply. I mouth an apology.

The bicentennial was a huge deal. A four-page color spread. Three families arrived in the valley around 1790, and there was trouble immediately. Trouble is the word the article uses. The writer is polite about it, the way local history usually is. Initial hostilities were put aside in favor of a formal accord between the Tanana people, the newcomers, and a handful of Russian traders who’d wintered here. Two hundred years later, and the descendants are still here, dozens of them, in a photo where everybody smiles wide. One big happy family.

The caption names the families who were present at the founding agreement. Valzera, Renard, and Lund, alongside Briarwood, Thomas, Baranov, and Thorndale. Listed like they all showed up on the same day.

Thorndale. My gaze flicks to Roslyn, her head down over her work. She’d have been a little younger than my mother when this ran. The name under the headline isn’t hers though.

Makes sense these families would still be around. Lots of people stay in small towns for generations.

With my phone, I capture the pages to go over later and return to the obituary the clans search turned up.

Mikel Valzera. A front-page feature. He was a well-loved and respected fixture of Ravenslight. Again, the only photo is of a young Mikel. Surely, there are more recent pictures of the man? I skim the text to see how old he was when he died, but there’s no birth date given. That’s odd. Doesn’t every obituary have dates? Nick’s around my age, Luca’s nearly twenty-one. By my rough calculations, Mikel would’ve been late forties or early fifties.

“Sorry, excuse me.” I turn to Roslyn. She carves me up with her eyes, and I shrink. “Is there anywhere in town I could see birth, death, and marriage records?”