Jess sank down beside her on the small bench. “Say it’s me. Tell him no one else can read it. It’s safe.”

She did, writing quickly. There was a short delay. What if his father didn’t answer? Would the message wait or disappear? Disappear, apparently, because as he watched, the letters began to fade away.

Then, suddenly, his father’s pen moved in response, writing out words. This isn’t my son’s handwriting. How do I know he’s even there?

“Does it matter who writes?” Jess asked her.

“Yes. I have to hold the pen or it doesn’t work. Sorry.”

“That’s inefficient. All right. Tell him . . . Tell him I still have nightmares about the ink-licker. He’ll remember.”

He must have, because as soon as she wrote it, his father’s response came fast. Is Jess all right?

Yes, Morgan wrote. Jess is here. None but the three of us can see this exchange. My name is Morgan. I’m his— Her quill stuttered a little, and then she wrote, friend.

This must be important, Callum Brightwell wrote. Got yourself in trouble, Jess?

“He assumes the worst,” Morgan observed.

“He’s usually right,” Jess said. “Tell him what we need.”

She wrote quickly, in pieces, explaining first that they were wanted by the Library, and next—at Jess’s suggestion—that they were bringing incredibly valuable rare books with them. Last, what they needed as far as safe passage and hiding places. It was quite a bit for his father to take in, Jess thought; maybe too much for even native greed to overcome. The page went blank. Nothing appeared. After a moment went by, Morgan looked over at him and tucked the loose strands of hair behind her ears. “Should I try again?”

“No,” he said. “Let him think.”

It took a torturously long time for Callum’s words to appear again. When they did, it wasn’t about Jess’s needs at all. Your brother is here, the words read. Word’s been put about in Alexandria that you and your friends died in Rome. You understand my concern.

“Concern?” Morgan frowned at the page and raised her voice, as if his father could hear her. “Concern? He thought you were dead, and he takes it so calmly?”

“I told you,” Jess said. “He’s not sentimental.”

She gave him a disbelieving look. He pointed at the page where more words were written. Your brother’s nickname. Now. Or we disappear and you won’t reach us again.

“He means it,” Jess said. “Write Scraps.”

“What?”

“Scraps. Leftovers. You know. Just write it.”

She looked mystified but obeyed. Another blank space, and then Callum wrote, He still hates that name. He says to tell you that. I’m glad you’re all right, son.

“That,” Jess said, “is probably all the sentimentality you’ll ever see from my family. Cherish it.”

Morgan refreshed her quill and frowned at the level of ink left. She wrote, Message back when you have everything arranged. We won’t have much time.

Done, his father wrote, and Jess could almost hear the clap of the book closing. His father would be on his feet now, tugging down his expensive silk waistcoat, pacing the thick Turkish carpet of his office. Brendan would be slouched in a chair nearby, listening to every word. He felt curiously reassured by that vision, and by knowing that though he wouldn’t trust his family to save his life, he could trust them to see the profit in what he was bringing them. His life was just part of the deal.