“He couldn’t read or write,” I said, though to hear it aloud was strange.

Marcus shook his head. “He could read some, at least. And there’s some evidence he may have learned to write later on. It’s hard to do research on much of anything if you’re illiterate, and from what we can tell, this man did loads of research.”

“Research?” I pulled the second sheet of paper out from underneath the first. My hands were shaking and it was almost hard to read but I forced my fingers still and stared at the page. “What was he trying to research?”

“Eternal life,” Marcus breathed. “Some seek it through God, others take a less reputable path. Avery was trying to re-create a potion that John Gray had told him about, but some of the ingredients he needed are hard to get your hands on this far from the Congo.”

“The Congo?”

“Well, I don’t know if it was the Congo, exactly, but you understand what I mean. To work the magic, he needed a wide assortment of plants and animal viscera. Since it was an African recipe, some of the ingredients were tough to come by, and Avery had to resort to some substitutions. I think he headed south seeking a comparable climate in hopes that the flora and fauna might be similar to what he required. If it weren’t for the fact that Mae wouldn’t go, I’ve often thought Avery might have found his way back to the Dark Continent.”

“Not a bad theory,” I admitted, scanning the second document. “But I can imagine that the recipe would have to be quite specific. What’s this one? Is it the birth certificate you mentioned?”

Marcus hesitated. “Yes. I mean no. Something like that. That record is mostly interesting because it tells us that he still had at least his wife with him for a while after he came here. She was pregnant, and she had a difficult labor. Avery took her out of the swamp and to the nearest church a few miles away. The nuns cared for her, and this is a record of their visit. They paid for her medical care with three white chickens. This is the receipt, with a note of explanation.”

“There was a child?” Harry took the paper from me and read it for himself. “I didn’t know there was a child. Was it a boy or a girl?”

“It doesn’t say.” Marcus shrugged. “What does it matter?”

“What if that child was the beginning of the coven that’s at work now? Hey, what if . . . well, what year was this—here it is. 1898. This child would be about Eliza’s age, were he still alive. Do you think this guy might be Eliza’s contact down here? It would certainly make sense, they would be what—cousins? Something like that.”

“That’s a reasonable thought,” Marcus agreed.