SHE SAT LOOKING AT IT FOR A QUARTER OF AN HOUR: A PLAIN OAK BOX, somewhat soiled, not at all large, spotted with mildew in places, finished with metal fastenings that she took, despite their tarnish, to be silver. It looked anything but precious, and she felt a little deflated inside, as though it were an anticlimax—a plain object, clearly containing no jewels, she thought. Was it right that it should be her role to unlock it? Alex had brought her tea and some toast, and sat watching her now, amused but equally intrigued; while Henry managed to strike a balance between polite disinterest and gentle curiosity, tending the fire and drawing the curtains but keeping half an eye on the tentative Lucy. Neither of them hurried her, and the grandfather clock ticked deafeningly in the quiet atmosphere.

Now, she took the key from around her neck and placed it in front of the tiny silver-wrought lock. She looked earnestly at Alex and his father and asked, “Is this for me to do?”

Alex smiled, left the sofa, and came to kneel beside her. He closed his hand over hers to still the tremble. “Go on.” His tone encouraged her; and she fitted the key into the mechanism, and turned. She half expected it would be rusted and stubborn, even that it would fail. Instead, it yielded cleanly. Lucy put on some gloves Alex gave her, and both men watched while she drew back the lid and released an aroma of centuries, of mustiness and old scent, into the room. Henry stood and came over.

Lucy peered in, hesitated, and then reverently withdrew a straw-colored leather wrap, which was secured lazily with a cord thong. She gently unbound it, and found herself holding some folded sheets of vellum, sealed with a red sigil. There was a sparse dusting of white powder on the surface—was it salt, or perhaps alum or lime? Alex was asking—but the condition of the papers was sound. Henry came and went wordlessly, returning with a small sharp knife; so she now slipped the blade through the wax. “It’s orris root,” she told them, very familiar with the delicate scent of dried iris that underscored potpourri and helped to preserve the dried flowers.

And in a moment they were looking at a cache of beautifully calligraphed riddles, keeping company with a small golden coin that had slipped from within their midst.

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