The boy is a dullard in all respects. Slow, uninformed, friendless. Alas, I could continue waltzing through my dictionary of terms to describe him, but I deem it redundant. Nevertheless, this is how I like my scribes. Never too intelligent. Seldom-speaking. Young, and thoughtless. Yet, good at their job.

  Otto slept with the light on, for certain things in this world terrified him. Many of these things were related to the witches of Bellvoir, and the dark things he had known them to practice. Maria frightened him most of all, her and her sinister ways.

  So, as it was, shortly after Maria’s departure, Otto followed her request to write to a friend who knew more about the books circulating through France. He sought to learn how many of Lucien’s works were on the market. Then, he would be able to understand how large of a problem they were dealing with; and, perhaps, a way to mitigate it.

  Even though Otto’s regard for witchcraft-related matters was low, his devotion to the task was two-fold. Firstly, he could not deny that the thought of obtaining such historical artefacts was seductive. But, mostly, he liked the idea of keeping these things from getting into the hands of more would-be witches.

  As far as Otto was concerned, the world did not need more of them. This thought alone made him severely unwell, and he found himself drinking copious cups of ginger tea to relax.

  Otto spent the next few days doing little but organising his own library, and awaiting word from his friend. Bellvoir remained its usual self. The weather was pleasant with no rain or trouble to speak of. The only daily problems he ever encountered were falling tree branches (occasionally) and sewage bubbling in overflowed gutters. But these two things had always been an issue in Bellvoir, so he accepted it as it was.

  “It is what it is,” he often told himself, and went on his way.

  The letter back from his friend arrived two days later. Timely, as always. Unfortunately, upon obtaining the letter, Otto had twisted his ankle climbing the stairs back to his residence. The shock of it had sent him to the ground, shrieking into the warm mid-afternoon air. Clutching his ankle in one hand, the letter in the other, he hobbled the rest of the way up the stairs and limped into his room, flinging the door angrily behind him.

  “Damn it, damn it,” he groaned. He applied an ointment to his ankle and saw that it was already becoming bruised, then wrapped it with a bandage. Limping, he brought the letter into his study and sat down on his chair while he read it.

  He had received a list of items from Edgar Lucien, including what he assumed were pages from Principles of Witchcraft, but the exact titles were coded. There was a separate note outlining the quantities of these transactions, and he was not surprised to find they were numerous. Worse still, he was sure this was not exactly up-to-date.

  “Great,” he mumbled. Otto’s understanding was this. The knowledge of witchcraft was a secretive thing. One did not stumble upon it by happenstance; it was one witch to another. Maria enjoyed how this worked, as it allowed her to keep record of where covens were operating. Yet, if these teachings were suddenly all over the world, with no way of knowing where they were ending up, then suddenly witchcraft becomes unregulated.

  This results in a very unhappy Maria Lucien, was what Otto had discovered. It was a careful balance, these two worlds co-existing. But when anybody can suddenly learn how to curse someone they disagree with, well, Otto could see Maria’s point.

  Maria will murder me, he thought, scanning through the information. The question on his mind was, who were these buyers? He assumed many were simply curious readers, archivists, or historians, for there were surely not so many witches travelling the piracy market...

  At least, he hoped not.

  Nevertheless, he didn’t fancy telling this to Maria. If she saw how many copies of these pages had been made and purchased, she would have some sort of a fit. He could liken it only to a disease. Once spread, it simply grew wilder and wilder out of control.

  A letter from Maria came the following morning.

  She had enquired with him regarding more chapters from Principles of Witchcraft. Only, these ones had never been published. This was an interesting and potentially useful scenario, as it drastically narrowed down the origins of said pieces. As she had mentioned in the letter, only somebody with direct access to Edgar Lucien’s private office could have obtained something that was never made public. Such as it was, there was a good chance (though not absolute) that the source of that leak was also the source of others. Of course, it was possible the Count could have just been robbed. He could have left one of these chapters on a bench somewhere and somebody had taken it. Yet, Otto could admit that these scenarios were far more cumbersome and less likely.

  He wondered, who else but either Edgar’s scribes or his concubines had such access to his private collection? But there were a lot...in both categories.

  The Count had employed many scribes in his time. Though, he was predictable in his selections. Those who were unassuming, insignificant, foolhardy. By all accounts, as far as Otto was concerned, the very kind of person Edgar Lucien allowed in his private spaces was the exact kind who would not likely have the wits to steal from him.

  And yet...this gave Otto some hope. He had worked, once, in the scriptorium of Bellvoir. Given, this was many years ago, but perhaps he might find he still had access. Besides, he was all out of other ideas. Finding the scribes who worked with Edgar late in his life would be a good start. Of course, the scribe could also be dead. Yes. Otto thought that very likely, unfortunately, for all who associated with Edgar Lucien seemed to find themselves with such a fate.

  Even if he was alive, the scriptorium had long started reducing its staff. Otto would not likely find the Count’s traitorous scribe there, but he could find information—not to mention the limited yet useful archive of manuscripts contained there. Scribes knew scribes, Otto knew this, and perhaps somebody had known one who had worked with the Count before his death. One who was suspicious. One who had motive to steal from the Count.

  Good one, Otto, he thought, excited.

  With a little spring in his step, Otto stood up on his sore ankle, and though it made him grimace, he was able to get to the other side of the room and out the door.

  #

  Otto deflated at the sight of what remained of the scriptorium of Bellvoir. The miniscule building, with only one door leading inside and out, no windows, and virtually no furnishings, had severely diminished since the last time he had visited it.

  In the dewy entry chamber, it took him walking directly up to the desk before the clerk raised his eyes from what seemed to be a large black tome. Otto noticed the clerk blink blearily, and even rub his eyes, as if having woken from a long slumber.

  “Who is there?” said the clerk.

  “It is me, Otto,” Otto replied, continuing to be impressed at the dreary state of his old workplace. A little archway to his left opened into an adjoining space where three scribes worked silently at short wooden pews, the only other people in the building.

  The clerk focused his glasses lenses and peered over his desk at Otto. His curved spine popped as he did this, and his long turtle-like neck bulged at the joints. Otto stepped away as he caught whiff of the smell coming from the clerk’s oily mouth. “Oh, it is you!” said the clerk through jagged teeth with a tone of amazement. “Otto, was it? I don’t know if you remember me. Barty’s the name.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Good to see you, Barty,” Otto replied.

  “If you’re looking for work, I’ll have to disappoint you. Most of the scribes work independently now with private clients, so there’s not much left to do.”

  “I rarely worked the pews anyway.”

  “Ah, yes. It’s coming back to me.”

  “I wanted to ask if I could exercise a favour with the scriptorium. Perhaps I would be allowed to look in the archives for something?”

  Barty furrowed his brows. “Not much left of the archives, friend. Boy, it really has been a long time since you’ve been around.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “It’s all been bought,” Barty said unhappily. “There’s a library opening in Paris. I suppose the offer was too good. So...you are welcome to look, but do not expect to find much. What is it that you are trying to find, anyway?”

  Otto cursed inwardly. Of course, so now he was not only dealing with the unlikelihood that there would be anything related to the Count or his scribes in the archives at all, but now most of the archives had been sold off already to Paris. It was never easy around here.

  “Do you know if there was anything of the Count’s?” Otto asked.

  This caused the wrinkles between Barty’s eyebrows to deepen, so much so Otto thought the man’s head could split in half. “The Count Lucien! Boy, I wouldn’t particularly have a clue. Shall we take a look together, friend? Though, I am unsure if the Count’s work was ever archived here. Knowing the Lucien estate, they would have held firm to such things.”

  “Maybe not,” Otto said.

  “Well, come on then.”

  Otto followed the clerk, who happened to be a very small man with wispy grey hair and a funny—somewhat painful-looking—gait. He led Otto into the writing chamber, towards another door that Otto had not seen before. Otto observed the scribes who were working, but did not recognise any of them. All three men were younger than himself, and he couldn’t imagine that any of them had been associated with the Count more than ten years ago.

  As he walked these halls, he was reminded of his time at the scriptorium. He had worked only briefly as a scribe, before acting as a manager of sorts, overseeing some operations and minor delegating of work. He was never particularly close with anybody during this time, which he enjoyed, as he spent most of his working day in his office.

  Otto and Barty exited the chamber and walked into what now was little more than a broom cupboard with several bookshelves, mostly picked-apart as if from vultures. There was no book smell—the kind that Otto had known the room to smell of—just dust and dirt left by people coming in and out. Otto scrunched up his face as he searched around in the dim light. Barty stood in the centre of the room, with his keys jangling from his hand.

  “Yes, not much left, as I said,” Barty told him.

  Otto already knew where to look, and it was no effort at all to find it. The scriptorium had always archived their manuscripts by subject matter. He walked into the section marked “spiritualism” and found only a single work remaining.

  “This is not it,” said Otto without even picking it up. He sighed, continuing to wander and pick at the books, finding nothing remotely close to what he was after.

  “Are you looking for anything in particular? I’m not sure how much of the Count’s work was archived here. I wouldn’t call most of it...of substance.”

  “Just...anything recent. Well, you know what I mean. Close to his death.”

  The thing was, Barty was right. Principles of Witchcraft wasn’t kept here. Certainly not anything that wasn’t published. He was probably going to have to get lucky. Strike upon a familiar name. Some kind of connection that put somebody in the Count’s vicinity. Perhaps just walking these halls again, he’d be reminded of something.

  Barty scratched contemplatively at the side of his weathered, scruffy cheek. “Well,” he said. “Let me look around for the old inventory sheets then.”

  “I had probably written some of them,” Otto said.

  Barty chuckled and began sorting through the room, Otto following closely behind and continuing to glance at the remaining manuscripts.

  “Who did you say purchased the archives?” Otto asked as he cleaned dust off the cover of a red book filed under the heading of “Folktales.”

  Barty seemed to have no issue in locating his ledger, which was inside a cabinet at the back of the room. He moved a lantern closer in order to assist in reading it. “The archive was purchased by a partnership in Paris—brothers, I believe.” He opened up the ledger and went through it, Otto closing in and attempting to peer over his shoulder. “Oh,” Barty said suddenly, in a very high-pitched voice. “Boy, would you look at that.”

  Otto started. “What is it? You found something?”

  “Yes. Between the years of 1789 and 1792, Edgar Lucien published a series of periodical letters under the title of”—he squinted—“the ‘Recommendations of Edgar Lucien in Opposition to Proposals to Overhaul the Electoral System of 1792.’ Yes, I do somewhat recall this. It failed dramatically. But perhaps you might find some use of these. Another archive is relating to...the costs of sanitary items rising. Hmph. Ah yes, he certainly was an unexpected and varied man.”

  “That is all?” He pinched his brow in frustration. Edgar’s book on witchcraft was published 1793, and featured the work of a number of scribes. Since there was nothing here from the period during which he developed the book, it was quite possible that these earlier works were written by completely different scribes. He could find out who had been assigned to those ones, but then, it was useless information. Maybe they also produced Principles of Witchcraft, maybe not. Regardless, he enquired about the names of these scribes. The clerk paused.

  “Most interesting,” he said.

  “What is?” responded Otto.

  “It appears the Count wrote letters these himself.”

  Otto frowned. In his time, it was well-known that the Count employed scribes to notate his writings. Perhaps he was more selective than most had thought.

  This was too much for him. They didn’t have access to these manuscripts anyway, for they had already been procured by the library in Paris. He had not been able to learn anything he didn’t already know, except that the Count had written some more obscure works, and sometimes alone.

  This is a waste of time, Otto thought, sighing in defeat.

  “If you need me, I will be at my desk,” Barty said, walking out. Otto heaved his shoulders, staring at the ledger, which Barty had left open. He walked over to it and checked where the Count’s titles were archived. There were references to where they had been stored. Otto glanced at the corresponding shelf—or, at least, where the shelf should have been. The entire thing had not just been gutted; it was gone.

  “Before you go,” he called out as Barty passed the threshold of the door. “Might you have an idea of when the Count first began hiring scribes? As long as I was working here, I had never heard of him not using them. Though, it could have passed me.”

  “I can check, though I think you’re becoming desperate,” said Barty. He did not wait much longer, leaving the room and disappearing.

  Otto spent the next few minutes observing the names of everybody who had contributed to a published work in 1815 (the year of the Count’s demise), as well as the years surrounding it, 1814 and 1816, just to compare. And, knowing that the Count hired his scribes out on exclusive contracts, this would narrow down the possibilities.

  When eventually he returned to the front chamber of the scriptorium, Barty had retrieved a small ledger containing names of all the registered scribes and their contact details, along with other information that Otto found to be uninformative to his case.

  “As far as our records go,” Barty said, “the Count approached the scriptorium first in 1792 to produce the first volume of Principles of Witchcraft. He returned subsequently in 1794 for the revised second volume, but then was absent until 1805.”

  “He kept publishing in the intervening years, though.”

  Barty shrugged. “It happens, that one becomes dissatisfied with their work after a certain period of time, mostly in their later life. Or when money is bountiful.”

  “Well, we know that to be true about the Count.”

  “I’m not sure if there is much to be gathered from the revelation that he was inconsistent regarding his use of scribes. I don’t know, perhaps he even had private scribes.”

  Otto frowned deeply, his brows furrowing as he did this. “Do you know who it was? The last scribe who worked for the Count before he died?”

  “Boy, you are taking me a long ways back. Jacques, was it? Or something like that? Boy, it is on the tip of my tongue!”

  “Ardouin,” said Otto. “I saw the name in the ledger.”

  “Yes! Oh, but he is dead, I believe.”

  Otto deflated.

  “Poor kid,” said the clerk. “Never saw him after the fire. But I do remember it was written that he was dead. At least, he never returned to the scriptorium.”

  “As they say, most who ever worked with the Count are deceased,” Otto said in a depressed tone. “Anyway, thank you for your help. Sorry for wasting your time.”

  “Being here at all is a waste of my time.”

  Otto walked out of the scriptorium to the streets of Bellvoir, concerned he was at a dead end. Then something hit him.

  Jacques Ardouin. The name was actually familiar. But, where had he last heard it?

  He stood right outside the scriptorium, staring into the distance. He touched the side of his head, searching in his memories. His dry lips mouthed the name.

  Jacques Ardouin. Where do I know you from?

  Wait. There had been a report made on the boy. Yes, he was rather young, but many of the scribes in those years were. Although Otto mainly worked in the archives, he did occasionally become involved in handling such incidents.

  But what was the nature of this report?

  “Wasn’t he writing...” It came to him. “Smut!” Otto said aloud, in disbelief that he had managed to make this connection by himself, to some event that must have occurred at least fifteen years ago. Jacques Ardouin had been caught writing his own grossly perverted work during business hours, with the scriptorium’s resources.

  He had been selling it.

  He is a criminal, Otto thought. And, he worked for the Count. No, no, no, he was the last to work for the Count! Otto was feeling things he had not felt in a long time, deep inside himself. It was absurd, but he even began to smile. Does the report still exist?

  If it did, Otto would have plenty to go off. Like, who he was sending it to. A distributor, perhaps? One, even, who he would reuse later?

  He rushed back inside the scriptorium.