adjusted his glasses, and Natalie recognized the same gleam in his eyes that he always had when he was expounding on an idea that interested him. “During the Dark Ages,” he continued, “barbarians swept across Europe, burning and pillaging everything in their path, including libraries. Most folks back then were too busy rebuilding their lives to worry about a bunch of old books. The monks took this as their sacred task. “
“Well, our sacred task is to open this portfolio and try to make sense of it all,” Natalie interrupted.
He unlaced the leather ties on the portfolio and laid it open. They both stared wordlessly at what lay inside. “Is this what it looks like?” asked Natalie finally.
“It’s looks to be at least 300 years old, or else it’s a very clever reproduction.” He bent down closer and examined it minutely. “Made from parchment, which is good news, because it’s tougher than paper.”
“I can’t believe it!” Natalie said breathlessly. “If this turns out to be authentic, we have just found one of the earliest copies of Paradise Lost! And written by hand, no less!”
“This could even be the original copy,” said Calvin with mounting excitement. “John Milton dictated the poem to his daughters, I think, but I don’t see evidence of that here. This book looks like his own hand-writing.”
“How on earth do you know that?” Natalie asked.
“I just dusted his biography–right before I found the cupboard!” He ran back to the hidden compartment and searched the nearby shelves until he found the book. “There was a photo of one of his manuscripts in here,” he said flipping through the pages with growing excitement. “Ah! Here it is!”
He laid the book down next to the manuscript and together they compared the handwriting. “There! You see?” Calvin exclaimed triumphantly.
“I can’t believe it!” Natalie repeated. “They are remarkably similar. I knew Uncle Richard often came across rare books, but this is priceless!”
“But let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Calvin cautioned. “It could be a forgery, after all.”
At that moment Mrs. Murphy shouted at the bottom of the stairs, “Come down for dinner, you filthy bookworms!”
~
After dinner, they were completely exhausted. “I don’t think we should tackle that manuscript till we’ve had a good night’s rest,” suggested Natalie. “It’s been a long day.”
Her brother let out a huge yawn. “I agree,” he said. “You might think I’m being paranoid, and I’m not kidding when I say this, but I honestly think Mrs. Murphy has been drugging our dinner ever since we learned how to read.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said in agreement. “I have a very clear memory of her yelling at me one morning when I was probably only six or seven. “I’m sick and tired of you children staying up all night reading and waking up looking like little zombies from some horror movie, with temperaments to match!” Natalie laughed at the memory. “I distinctly recall her walking away muttering, ‘And I’m going to do something about it, by God!’”
“I wonder what she gives us,” mused Calvin. “I bet it’s laudanum!”
“Laudanum?” Natalie laughed, shaking her dark head. “You’ve been reading too many Victorian novels! No…I rather think our lethargy is due to her comfort food. It seems to make one rather too comfortable.”
“Well, if Mrs. Murphy ‘helped’ us get sleepy tonight, I, for one, am grateful,” he replied. “I’m going to have enough trouble quieting my thoughts after our discovery this evening.”
“Well, we’ve got to try, in any case,” said Natalie. “Otherwise our brains are going to be pudding, and we’ll need to be sharp tomorrow if we’re going to figure out that manuscript.”
After much tossing and turning, Natalie finally drifted off to sleep and dreamed she was meandering through a distant garden of impossible beauty.
~
Calvin woke early the next morning and stretched his arms. He looked out the window, shaking his head sadly. It was a blustery and rainy morning. Looks like our fall sunshine won’t be making an appearance today, he thought glumly. He remembered his recent trip to Africa with fondness. How he loved the dry heat of the Serengeti! The weather in England sometimes makes one feel like one will never be warm again, he reflected bitterly. If this manuscript business took too long, he might miss the annual migration.
Calvin had fallen in love with wild animals from the very moment he first laid eyes on a real tiger, in the West Midland Safari Park. While Natalie’s first memory was of their arrival at this house, Calvin’s was of his trip to the park. He was almost certain he had been with his mother, who had bought him a large stuffed tiger in one of the gift shops.
“There, Calvin!” she’d said, as he wrapped the animal in his chubby arms. “Now you have your Hobbes.” Calvin rubbed his eyes. Thinking about his mother made him feel sentimental and sad, so he tried not to think about her very much.
After he finished his doctorate in zoology, he was offered a job at National Geographic, a dream come true. When his uncle died so unexpectedly three weeks ago, the magazine had generously given him a three-month sabbatical to settle his affairs. Luckily, Natalie was a self-supporting author, so her time was always her own. As she presently had no looming deadlines hanging over her head, she had plenty of leisure time to spend at their childhood home.
Calvin stepped into his favorite sheepskin slippers and pulled on his robe. After locating his glasses under his pillow, he headed down the hall and knocked softly on his sister’s door. She had always been a late sleeper, and it was oftentimes an effort for her to wake up and get straight to writing, except when she was under a deadline. She worked well under pressure, but was a terrible procrastinator otherwise.
“Ten more minutes,” he heard her mumble beyond her door.
“Fine, I’ll be back,” Calvin warned. He knew it was useless to argue. Even in college, she barely made it to class in time, often with items of clothing inside-out or missing altogether. His sister spent many mornings shivering in a thin sweater at the Department of Plant Sciences, because she had rushed out the door without her coat.
Calvin headed downstairs to fetch coffee for them both. In the kitchen, Mrs. Murphy was already busy making breakfast.
Calvin looked around happily. “You sure are going all out, Mrs. Murphy,” he noticed. “It looks like you’re making the full Irish breakfast!”
She looked quite satisfied with herself. “Oh yes, I’ve made eggs, sausage, bacon, grilled tomatoes and black-and-white pudding.” She went on, “Oh, and of course my own brown bread with sweet butter.”
Calvin gave her a huge bear hug.
“Off me, you big goon!” she cried, and pushed him away with a laugh. “I’m not doing this just for you. We have a visitor.”
“Oh? Who is it?”
Just then a man appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing a dapper black overcoat and carrying a cane with a lion’s
