It was the ink that was her undoing. She’d used a kind of German black that, although certainly employed by writers of Rossetti’s time, was known to break down over time in a very particular way that the more common cuttlefish ink did not. Although the woman had made a valiant attempt to make the manuscript appear aged, a simple laboratory test revealed the ink to be less than a year old, and the hoax was revealed to the not-insignificant satisfaction of skeptics, most of whom had spent their own lives in search of the same prize and were now free to believe that it still waited somewhere to be found.

Hudson’s manuscript, while not nearly as old, was still nonetheless a matter for great debate. Typed instead of handwritten, it could have come out of one of a million different machines. The type was perfectly ordinary, no dropped “e” or off-center “r” to provide even a small physical clue to the pages’ origins. The paper, too, was common and undistinguished by either texture or watermark. It could, he knew, have been nearly anywhere by anyone.

But it wasn’t. He was certain of it. Paul, the only other one to know the full story, had been certain of it. The thought stopped him. Once again, Paul’s ghost had entered the room. Hudson felt him, hovering in the corner, watching. He heard again the question—Have you found it yet?—and he pulled the sheet up against the chill that seemed now to seep under the closed door.

Go away, he thought, closing his eyes. Please. Just go away. This is hard enough.

He shook, fighting back fear and sorrow. Something in the room, something beyond his tight-closed eyelids, moved almost imperceptibly. He felt it as a breath of air, just for a moment across his cheek. Then it was gone. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the sky outside the window was touched with the first light of coming morning.

He returned to the manuscript. Reading to make the dawn come faster, and not in search of clues, he turned to a random page and began.

The dog, a mix of retriever and terrier with the less agreeable physical characteristics of both breeds, was sniffing, with great interest, the bottom two feet of the wall belonging to the Kingfisher Cannery’s loading platform. Several hundred pounds of sardines had recently occupied the dock above, and the bricks were stained with the proof of their temporary residency. The dog was licking the streaks of fish-scented water with the satisfaction of one whose last meal was far enough behind him so as to be forgotten, and consequently did not see the man behind him or hear the rock that was thrown by the man’s hand. Only when the missile struck him in the side did the dog turn from his dinner, giving a sharp cry and flattening his ears alongside his head.