Not all of her books, Emily thought as she shuffled a little to the side, away from Phoebe and those dainty feet. Only one, and I doubt you’ve even read it.

Then there were the questions, the inevitable desire to know whether there was any truth to the rumors. Did it mean that the lost manuscript could be here, in Rome? Did Emily know what was in it? Would she be able to mention the library, and the librarian, by name, if he in some way had proven helpful to her search? Did she know what it was about, or could she, please, give him just one little clue?

Emily had crawled under the desk, traced her fingers over the C and R cut into the wood, had allowed them to venture further, over a scattering of tiny V’s that made her think of a child’s way of drawing a bird. She wondered what had made her grandmother decide to leave a piece of herself behind in so random, so obscure, a place. It gave her some comfort to know that the stories she had been told were true, that not everything in the books was pure make-believe, even if it was proving impossible to use them, to help her figure out what it was her grandmother was trying to show her.

“What about the shop?” Tyler lit a cigarette, smoke twirling into the sky, making Emily think of bonfires, fireworks, blowing through mittens and stamping her feet on frosty ground.

“No.” It felt like she was going around in circles, and nothing in the memories her grandmother had shared was helping.

“Why not?” Tyler took another drag, looked at Emily with slanted eyes. “Surely it’s worth a try?”

“I said no.”

“But the photograph is of them, here, in Rome. You told us it’s where they bought the very same locket you’re wearing.” Phoebe yawned, stretched her arms high to reveal a line of unblemished stomach.

Emily crossed her arms over her own torso, pictured the thick, silver line that ran around her left hip.

Phoebe looked down at Emily, then over to Tyler, who stood at the edge of the street, hands on hips and staring at something she could not see. “So not Rome?”

“Apparently not,” he called over his shoulder.

“Then where?” Phoebe said.

Emily groaned. “I don’t know.”

“You must have some idea, surely?”

“I. Don’t. Know.”

Perhaps if she simply stopped talking they would keep arguing amongst themselves, forget she was even there. Perhaps at some point, if she was quiet and still for a long stretch of time, she could meld herself into the fabric of the church wall. Become no more than the memory of someone who once was stupid enough to believe that any of this was a good idea.

So many pictures of imaginary faces and places that swarmed inside her mind. A lake, birds, music connecting it all. She began to hum, nodded her head in time to the music nobody but she could hear. Her fingers automatically reached for a pen, a sketchbook, turning each page over until there was a fresh rectangle of white.