Chapter 1 The Margins Speak
Mireya Solenne had expected dust.
She had expected dates written in careful Latin, the stiff formality of catalog numbers, the dull ache behind her eyes that always came from staring too long at parchment older than most cities. She had expected the quiet satisfaction of order label, record, return.
She had not expected her hands to shake.
"Careful," the archivist said gently, his voice carrying across the long oak table. "That binding is fragile."
"I know," Mireya replied, though her eyes never left the page. "I'm being careful."
She always said that. And she always meant it.
The reading room smelled like old paper and lemon polish, a scent Mireya had come to associate with safety. The lights were soft, filtered through high windows that never quite let the outside world intrude. The silence wasn't emptyit was thick, layered with centuries of whispers.
She adjusted her gloves, thin cotton stretched over fingers that had learned patience early. At twenty-nine, Mireya had already spent most of her adult life in places like this. Archives. Libraries. Rooms where the past waited to be handled properly.
"Bestiary, late eleventh century," the archivist continued, more to fill the quiet than to instruct. "No illustrations beyond the usual. Wolves, serpents, birds. Religious annotations. Nothing… unusual."
Mireya hummed in acknowledgment. "That's what makes them interesting."
He smiled at that. Everyone always did.
She leaned closer, dark hair slipping from its loose tie and brushing her cheek. She smelled inkiron gall, sharp and faintly metallicand something older beneath it. The parchment crackled softly as she turned the page, a sound that always made her heart slow, steadying her breath.
"So," the archivist said, resting his hands on the table, "another thrilling day in the life of a folklorist."
Mireya glanced up at him, one brow lifting. "You say that like it's a joke."
He shrugged. "Most people think folklore is fairy tales. Children's stories."
"And yet," she said lightly, "here you are guarding them like crown jewels."
"That's because people forget," he replied. "And forgetting is dangerous."
She smiled, but something about the way he said it stayed with her.
She turned another page.
That was when she saw it.
At first, it looked like nothingjust a faint line pressed into the margin, barely darker than the parchment itself. Mireya leaned in, eyes narrowing. Her breath caught, just slightly.
"Did you see that?" she asked.
The archivist leaned forward. "See what?"
She tilted the page toward the light, angling it so the shadows fell differently. Letters emerged, thin and cramped, written in a hand that didn't belong to the original scribe.
"This," she said softly. "This isn't annotation."
He squinted. "Could be a later note."
"No," Mireya said, pulse quickening. "Look at the pressure. The ink's been diluted. It's meant to blend. Meant not to be noticed."
She reached for her magnifying glass, fingers steady despite the quickening of her heart. The letters sharpened into view.
Not Latin.
Her mouth went dry.
"Old French," she murmured. "Or something close to it."
The archivist straightened. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." She swallowed. "And it's not commentary. It's… personal."
She read silently at first, lips barely moving.
If this is found, then I failed.
Her chest tightened.
"Read it aloud," the archivist said, voice lower now.
Mireya hesitated. Then she did.
"If this is found," she read, voice quiet but clear, "then I failed to disappear as I intended."
The room seemed to shrink around them.
The archivist let out a slow breath. "That's… unusual."
Mireya didn't answer. She turned the page, careful, reverent. More writing waited there, tucked between the illustration of a wolf and a block of scripture.
"They're letters," she said. "Not notes. Letters hidden in plain sight."
"From who?" he asked.
"I don't know yet."
She read again, this time faster, hunger edging her words.
They will tell the story as they always do. They will say the beast was cursed, and the woman was punished.
Her fingers curled slightly against the page.
"They're rewriting a legend," Mireya said, more to herself than to him.
The archivist frowned. "What legend?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. Not yet."
She turned another page.
Her breath stuttered.
The handwriting grew more urgent, the strokes heavier, as if the writer had pressed harder, fighting the page.
Do not believe them when they say I died screaming.
The archivist swore under his breath.
Mireya felt a chill crawl up her spine, despite the warmth of the room.
"Someone wanted to be remembered," she said quietly. "But not openly."
"Why hide it here?" he asked. "In a bestiary?"
"Because no one reads them closely," Mireya replied. "Not like this. Monsters are easy to dismiss."
She paused, then added, softer, "Especially when they're made into stories."
She turned another page.
This time, the writing was fainter, the ink almost gone.
She leaned closer, heart pounding.
"I can't make this part out," she murmured.
The archivist shifted beside her. "What does it say?"
She angled the page again, holding it so the light caught the faint indentations.
"There," she said. "That line."
She traced it with her gaze, then read aloud.
I chose this. Remember that.
Her throat tightened.
"Chose what?" the archivist asked.
Mireya shook her head slowly. "Whatever they say happened… this wasn't it."
She leaned back in her chair, suddenly aware of her own breathing, the way her heart seemed too loud in the quiet room.
"This changes things," she said.
The archivist studied her. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Mireya laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. "No. Just a woman who refused to be one."
She closed the book gently, as if it might bruise under her touch.
"I'll need to request extended access," she said, already reaching for her notebook. "High-resolution imaging. Cross-referencing similar scripts. This isn't a marginal note. It's a confession."
"A confession of what?" he asked.
She opened the book again, turning carefully to the last page she had read.
Her finger hovered over the final line, barely visible, tucked into the fold of the parchment.
Her voice was almost a whisper as she read it aloud.
"The night she chose to vanish."