Chapter 4 Manuscript Task

[Professor Ashcroft’s Office]

Professor Ashcroft tossed the manuscript onto his oak desk, the heavy thud echoing in the wide chamber. His office was a solemn place, walls lined with old books, iron scales that looked as if they belonged in a court of law, an hourglass half-drained of sand, and a small magnifying glass glinting in the candlelight. A black rug sprawled across the middle of the floor, long windows framed with crimson curtains stood open, letting in pale daylight. The air carried its usual fragrance, aged parchment, dust, and the acrid tang of ink.

Leaning back in his chair, he regarded me with a gaze heavy with disappointment. I quickly lowered my head, afraid to meet his eyes.

“Is this the apology I requested… the one that made you miss your morning class?” His voice was low, edged with disdain.

“No… I—”

He cut me off. “And I gave you a deadline, did I not?” He tilted his head, adjusting his spectacles.

“I… I did half of it,” I faltered.

“Where is it, then?” His brow arched.

“It’s not here with me—”

“Then go get it.”

“But professor—” I blurted, desperate.

“Miss Lambert?” His voice hardened, his anger pressing the air tight around me.

“I just discovered something that… might be worth more than copying Meditations.”

He lifted the manuscript from the table, holding it up between us. “You mean this?”

I nodded quickly.

“Do you have any idea what this book is?” he asked.

“I can find out, if you’d just give me more time—”

“You can’t even complete a simple task,” he interrupted, his voice sharp. “And yet you dare to trifle with an incomplete Latin manuscript?”

Before I could answer, a loud knock rattled the door.

“Professor Ashcroft,” a trembling voice called.

He straightened in his chair. “Yes, come in.”

The librarian entered, Mrs. Campbell. She was a woman well-advanced in years, clad in a dark green gown brushing her ankles. Her wrinkled skin looked brittle as parchment, and her burnt-orange hair, streaked with white, was bound tightly at her nape.

I turned toward the window, feigning interest in the pale morning outside as she approached the desk. My stomach twisted. Surely she had come about the missing manuscript.

“Forgive me for disturbing your splendid morning, Professor Ashcroft,” her voice trembled as though on the edge of breaking, “but I was told the student you punished yesterday stayed in the library until late… and now a book is missing from the restricted shelves.”

Dread creeped along my spine, but I dared not turn.

Ashcroft’s gaze burned with fury concealed looking at me.

“Mrs. Campbell,” he said smoothly, “I had no idea the student would take a book without your consent. I apologize on her behalf.” He slid the manuscript across the table toward her.

I turned then, finally meeting his gaze, but silently pleading.

“No problem, professor,” she sighed. “But make sure she is punished for such an egregious mistake.” She reached for the manuscript.

The moment her hands closed around it, despair coiled in my chest. Without it, I would lose my one chance for discovery.

“Mrs. Campbell,” Ashcroft called as she neared the door.

She halted, turning. “Yes, Professor?”

“May I ask a favor?” His tone softened, almost coaxing.

Her brows rose. “And what would that be?”

“Leave the book with me… for a few days. For research.”

She hesitated, clutching the manuscript closer. “But professor—”

“Only a few days,” he said firmly, his gaze unwavering.

Her steps slowed, deliberate, until she returned to the desk. Their eyes lingered on each other with an unspoken weight, as if they shared some unholy pact. Finally, she surrendered the book back into his hands.

“It is only for your sake, Professor Ashcroft.” She straightened, glanced briefly at me, then left.

The moment the door closed, he turned to me. “You stole this book from the library?”

“No! Not in the way you think… I only took it when she wasn’t looking.”

His expression darkened. “And what, Miss Lambert, is the difference?”

“The difference is… she wasn’t there.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling. “Miss Lambert, I admire a student’s hunger for knowledge. But obsession? Obsession is dangerous.” He set the manuscript upon the desk, fingers tapping its cover. “This was written by Aurelius Nox, an author and a principle in Gravenmoor Academy of the sixteenth century. Its title: Cum Rosae Sanguinant. When Roses Bleed.”

He leaned closer, opening the book. The first two pages were torn out. “Mm. It turned out. Likely the prologue.” He turned two charred pages slowly, voice dropping:

“Act One… Act Two… Act Three… Act Four—”

He paused. “Act Five.” The parchment was blank, untouched by ink. His eyes narrowed. “It isn’t finished.”

Closing the book, he tossed it lightly toward me.

“Your task, Miss Lambert: translate the manuscript in its entirety. Recover the two missing pages. And discover what should complete its final act.”

My heart leapt,  finally, a chance.

“In forty-five days,” he added.

The air drained from my chest. “Forty-five days?”

“Too little?” His lips curved, faintly mocking.

“But—”

“You will not work alone. Julian will assist you.”

My blood ran cold. “But I brought this to you. Alone.”

“And I do not want you working alone,” he replied firmly. “That book is no ordinary relic. It requires… sharper company. Someone like Julian.”

He leaned back, dismissive. “Do not forget the apology. I expect it before the day ends.”

“But…”

“That will be all, Miss Lambert. You may leave.” His voice was velvet over steel.

Slowly, I rose, the manuscript clutched tightly in my hands. As I reached the door, he called again.

“Lambert.”

I turned, tense.

“No one must know of your work with this book. Only you and Julian. Do I make myself clear?”

My forced smile faltered. “Yes, professor.”

He had already returned to the book on his desk, dismissing me entirely.

I left, shutting the heavy door behind me with a muffled slam. Anger and dread knotted in my chest. Of all people, why Julian?

As I stepped into the hall, I tucked the manuscript inside my coat, its weight pressing against my ribs.

“Lexie!”

Melissa’s voice rang out. I stopped, turning. She hurried toward me, her brown curls bouncing.

“Where have you been? You left early this morning, and you weren’t in Ashcroft’s class.”

“I… I was serving my punishment in the library,” I stammered.

She looped her arm through mine, tugging me forward. “Come on. We’ll be late for the studio.”

“Studio?” I echoed.

“Painting class.”

I bit my lip. I was hopeless at painting.

But there was no escape, Mel pulled me along.