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“No!” I cry, and hurl myself across his body.
I grab them just in time.
“My God,” I gasp, heart pounding. I’m laying in a tangle across his legs, my arms outstretched. “You need to be more careful!”
“It’s OK, you got them.” Reeve tells me, plucking the pages from my hand. I roll over, and find I’m practically draped over his lap. “Look, not a mark on them.”
I scramble free. “But they could have been stained, or singed, or burned! These pages are over a hundred years old! They’re irreplaceable!”
“Breathe,” he says gently. “Everything’s alright.”
I take a gulp of air. He’s right. Everything’s OK.
I exhale, shaky. “Sorry. I can get a little … excitable when it comes to document preservation, and—"
“Wait,” Reeve interrupts me. “Was that there before?”
“Was what where?”
“That.” Reeve leans over, pointing to the letter in my hand. It’s the one that fluttered closest to the fire, and the plastic cover is still warm to the touch.
I look closer. There’s the faintest imprint of writing along the side of one page.
I blink. “No…” I reply slowly. “It wasn’t there.”
Reeve and I exchange an excited look.
“When I was a kid …” I start, my mind racing.
“—me and my sister would write with lemon juice—” Reeve blurts at the same time.
“—it’s activated by heat,” I finish, our words tripping over each other.
We pause. “Invisible ink!”
“Oh my God,” I whisper, my heart racing with excitement. “This is from Madeline to Earl. Maybe they were using secret messages, in case anyone found the letters!”
“Go on,” Reeve urges me. “Try it again. We have to see what it says!”
Slowly, carefully, I hold the page closer to the fire.
“Closer,” he urges me.
“Do you want the whole thing to go up in smoke?” I snap back. I wave it a safe distance from the flame, and slowly, the writing becomes darker and more distinct.
“What does it say?” Reeve demands, excited.
“It’s Maddie’s handwriting,” I realize, peering at the tight lettering. “I think it’s an address. Yes, see, that’s a street. 480 North Poplar Street,” I read, as the last of the message becomes clear.
Reeve grabs his phone. “It’s in Charlotte,” he reports. “That’s, what, less than three hours away. We need to go. Get your keys!”
“Easy, cowboy,” I tell him, although my adrenaline is spiking with excitement, too. “In case you’ve forgotten, it’s late, and there’s the small matter of a major storm raging outside?”
There’s another gust of tree-shaking wind to prove my point.
Reeve exhales. “Fair enough,” he says with a reluctant grin. “We should go first thing tomorrow, then.”
“If the weather’s cleared up,” I agree. “But get too excited,” I tell him – and myself. “It could be nothing.”
