Her alarm went off at 6 a.m. Augusta rolled over to turn it off—except it wasn’t her alarm, it was her mother calling. “Augusta?”
“Mom,” she yawned, “why are you calling me at six in the morning? Today is Saturday.”
“Something happened to your grandmother,” her mother said tensely. “She’s okay, but I think you should come to the hospital.”
“What? What happened to Grandmother?” Augusta wasn’t sure she heard clearly.
“She was attacked last night at home. She got a nasty bump on the head, and she’s lost a lot of blood, but she’ll be fine. She wants to see you.”
Augusta sat up and put her feet carefully on the floor. Slowly, yesterday’s events came back to her. After the mysterious phone call at her grandmother’s house, she had eaten dinner and driven back to her apartment in town. She had stayed up late looking through the strange Ottoman book, looking up individual letters and trying to piece together what it said. That strategy didn’t work very well; she had only managed to figure out a few words that didn’t seem very interesting.
She had also, of course, looked up the lost discourses of Epictetus, but they didn’t seem to exist. There was definitely an ancient philosopher called Epictetus, and there were definitely teachings called discourses that had been written down by one of his students. But no lost discourses. At least, nothing that could have survived until the 21st century. One source mentioned that there might have once been eight discourses, whereas now there were only four. But they had been lost long ago—so long ago they didn’t even count. She had decided that the phone call was just a hoax.
Now, getting dressed to visit the hospital, Augusta considered whether she might have been wrong. How could someone do such a thing to her beloved grandmother? Could it be connected to the mysterious book and phone call?
When she arrived, Grandmother was propped up in bed, a large bandage wrapped around the top of her head. Augusta gave her a long, warm hug. “How are you feeling? Who did this to you?”
“I’m not too bad, really. I probably don’t even need to be here, but you know how they treat old ladies!” her grandmother chuckled. She shook her head and frowned. “I wish I knew who did it, but it was dark and he was wearing some sort of mask. I heard a noise in the middle of the night. When I got up and went in the back room to look, a man was in there turning the place upside down. The back door was standing open, and I tried to run out, but he must have hit me on the head with something. When I woke up, he was gone and my head was hurting something awful.”
“Thank goodness she had enough strength to get to the phone and call me,” her mother continued. “We’ve been here a few hours, but I didn’t want to wake you earlier.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Yes. They’re at the house right now looking at everything. When they’re done, you can go over and start cleaning up.”
“Of course.” Augusta squeezed her grandmother’s hand and sat down on a chair beside the bed, feeling guilty. She was starting to realize this was all her fault. The phone call yesterday wasn’t a stupid prank, it was real. The old book her grandfather left really was rare and valuable, and somehow a mysterious man in a faraway country had found out about it. He had said they were in danger. She should have told her grandmother everything yesterday after the phone call. She should never have left her alone after that.
Augusta’s lip started trembling. She was responsible for this!
“Grandmother, I need to tell you something,” she said, breathing deeply and trying to steady her voice. “That phone call yesterday may not have been a prank. I thought it was, but the man who called asked about Grandfather’s old book and said we might be in danger. I should have told you, but I didn’t, and now this happened and it’s all my fault…” She broke down again in anguished tears.
“Nonsense! This isn’t your fault,” her grandmother scoffed, looking more relieved than angry. “Now you listen to me. It’s the fault of whoever hit me on the head. Not yours. You can’t hold yourself responsible for all the crazy folks in the world.”
She looked at her granddaughter with interest. “But tell me about this phone call. It might explain everything. Maybe there’s something more to that book than Nicolas ever let on.”
Through her tears, Augusta told her mother and grandmother exactly what the man on the phone had told her. They sat quietly and listened, looking at the floor and occasionally stealing glances at each other, not nearly as surprised as she expected. As she spoke, her mother placed a comforting hand on Augusta’s arm.
“Gus, you did the right thing, this is not your fault,” her mother said firmly. “Don’t you ever think that. And your grandmother is fine. But I think you should consider this offer to sell Grandfather’s book, especially if the man offers a good price.”
Augusta looked at her mother with horror. “How could you even think about selling Grandfather’s favorite book, Mom?” A terrible thought dawned on her—what if her mother and grandmother had known about this all along? They were suspiciously calm about the whole thing. What if everyone really was playing a horrible prank on her, and her mother and grandmother were in on it?
“Mom, did you know about this book?” she said archly. “You don’t seem upset about it at all!”
Her mother looked offended. “No, Augusta, I didn’t. I’ve never heard of the book before, and I was just as puzzled as you were when Grandfather left it to you. But if he never mentioned it to any of us, maybe it wasn’t as important to him as we think. Maybe he knew it was valuable and wanted you to have the money. This could help you open that art studio you’ve been dreaming about for years. It seems like too good an opportunity to go to waste.”
“I agree,” her grandmother suddenly added. She had been sitting quietly, nodding as Augusta’s mother spoke, and now she turned forcefully to Augusta. “Your grandfather never saw fit to tell any of us what was in the book. But he did see fit to tell everyone how proud he was of you and your artwork. You know he always supported your dream to open a studio. I’m sure he would have wanted you to sell the book if you could get a good price for it. Besides,” she added with a smile, “haven’t you always said you wanted to travel? If this stranger really did send you a plane ticket, this might be your chance to see someplace new.”
Augusta sat staring at her mother and grandmother. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This was so unlike them—what had happened to the two women who had always taught her to be realistic, to think before she acted, to look before she leapt? They had always lived such a normal—boring—life together. Augusta couldn’t think of two people who were less likely to urge her on to adventure. She was almost as incredulous as she had been the day before, listening to a stranger tell her about her grandfather’s mysterious book.
She shook her head. “You want me to just get on a plane and go meet a stranger in Istanbul? I’m not even sure I know where that is. What if this is a scam? Or worse, what if it’s a trap and they want to kill me after I give them the book?” She looked from one to the other. “The whole thing sounds really suspicious. I can’t believe you two are even considering this!”
Standing up, Augusta began pacing around the room, arms crossed angrily in front of her. “What is going on? What are you not telling me?”
Her mother turned to her with a faraway expression on her face, as if she were looking out over a great distance. She spoke slowly, thinking carefully about every word. “Your grandmother and I truly don’t know anything about this book, Gus, or about the man who attacked her. But we have confidence in you to make the right decisions when you get there. You have a good brain in your head. Don’t go anywhere you believe to be unsafe. Look around you and stay alert. Use your good judgment. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And anyway”—here her mother grasped the locket she always wore around her neck—“remember you always have someone looking out for you.” She brought the locket gently to her lips and gave Augusta’s grandmother a faint smile. “Your father will be watching over you.”
Augusta rolled her eyes. Her father had died in a car crash when she was small—so small she didn’t have any clear memories of him. Yet her mother persisted in telling her he liked to keep an eye on her.
“I don’t think spiritual assistance is going to help me escape from kidnappers,” she told her mother testily. “I don’t think any of this is a good idea.” She uncrossed her arms and waved a hand impatiently in the air, as if shooing away an unpleasant thought. “You know what? I’m going to head to Grandmother’s house to see if the police have found out anything. I’ll start cleaning up the mess if they’re done.”
She walked over and kissed her grandmother on the cheek. “Bye, Grandmother. I’ll see you soon. I’m sure they’ll let you come home later today.”
************
Augusta sat in her grandparents’ kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee and staring out the window. It was late summer, and she had opened the windows to let in what little breeze could be had in the middle of the day. Her grandparents had never gotten around to putting in air conditioning in their old farmhouse, but the weather didn’t seem to bother them. They took life as it was, never asking for things they didn’t have. Simplicity, Augusta sighed to herself.
She took another sip of bitter coffee, rolling it around on her tongue, trying to really taste it. She focused on the warmth as it slid down her throat—a good feeling, with good memories connected to it. Her grandfather had taught her to drink black coffee in this kitchen. She had watched him drink it for years before she worked up the courage to try it herself. Augusta smiled at the thought of his laughter the first time she had tried it and spit it right back out. A slight breeze stirred the red checked curtains in the kitchen window.
Suddenly the skin pricked up on the back of her arms. What if the masked man came back again? She was alone in the house. If he was really looking for the Ottoman book, and he couldn’t find it this time, what might he do to her? She tiptoed over to the kitchen window and peeked out. Nothing. She went to the front door to make sure it was locked. The police hadn’t found much evidence—no fingerprints, nothing to tell them who might have done it or what he might have been looking for.
On this last point, Augusta had no doubts. He had to have been looking for the lost discourses. Her grandparents’ house had never been broken into before. All of this was obviously connected with the strange phone call and the book. She was glad she had left that strange old book back at her apartment. Surely a thief wouldn’t be able to trace it there—at least not today.
What she couldn’t figure out was whether to trust the man who had called yesterday. Was he the one who arranged the break-in when she refused to sell the book? But if so, why would he have tried to warn her of danger? That didn’t make sense. None of it made any sense. She had told the police about the mystery caller, and they assured her they could trace the call from phone records. But it would take some time. They wouldn’t know anything for a few days.
She heard a bang on the front porch.
Augusta jumped. Heavy footsteps stomped down the porch stairs. In the driveway, a truck engine revved loudly then slowly faded away. Heart racing, she crept down the hallway to the front door and pressed herself flat against the wall. She could just see out a corner of the front window. She breathed a sigh of relief. It was a delivery truck, and the courier had left a small package leaning against the front door. She laughed at herself, shaking her head at how nervous these bizarre events had made her. She opened the door and scooped up the package, locking the door behind her.
Her hands were trembling as she looked at the brown envelope. She immediately recognized one word—Istanbul! Just like the voice had told her on the phone yesterday. She tore open the envelope and dumped out the contents: a small, folded piece of paper, and a stiff, glossy plane ticket, purchased in the name of Augusta Carter. Seat 25E, Boarding Gate 8. The date printed on it was for tomorrow.
She turned the ticket over in her hands, and for the first time the possibility of getting on a plane to Istanbul seemed real. She considered the situation carefully. It’s true, she had a passport, so theoretically she could leave at any time. She didn’t have a job—well, of course she worked every day at her sculpting, and she had sold some of her pieces already. But it wasn’t a job that she had to clock into every day. Maybe going to Istanbul wasn’t such a far-fetched idea. But could she really fly off somewhere to meet a man whose name she didn’t even know?
She unfolded the paper that had fallen out of the envelope. Inside, in thick black ink, was a handwritten note.
Dear Mrs. Carter,
Please accept my apologies for the suddenness of this request. I believe you may be in some danger, and it is therefore necessary to conduct the purchase of your book very quickly. Enclosed you will find a plane ticket to Istanbul. I will meet you at the airport, and together we will take the lost discourses of Epictetus to the museum. If authenticated, the price they wish to offer you is $100,000. Please keep the book hidden while you travel. There is a chance it could be stolen.
Yours truly,
Erol Yılmaz, Ottoman History Museum
A name! That was a relief. She quickly tapped the information into her phone. An outdated website came up, with old graphics, written in a language she assumed was Turkish. She couldn’t read any of it, but at least it was real. She clicked through grainy photos of museum displays: strange-looking old clothes, sharp weapons painted with crescent moons, tiny portraits depicting what must have been a fabulously wealthy emperor’s court. And there were old books—books that were bound in brown leather and had crinkly, tanned pages that looked so delicate you could see right through them. Books that looked devastatingly familiar.
So it was real after all. Her mind churned, drawing together thoughts that had appeared to have no connection or basis in reality. The lost discourses, the Ottoman History Museum, the stranger on the other end of the phone. The plane ticket. She didn’t see any way around it now. She would have to go. She tried to put the possibilities in order: in the best case scenario, Erol Yilmaz would be waiting for her when she got off the plane, and the museum would make her a legitimate offer and pay her legitimate cash. The worst case scenario was theft, kidnapping, or…well, she didn’t actually want to think about the worst case.
Augusta suddenly sat up straight and realized she had made a final decision. The real worst case was doing nothing. The masked man might come attack her grandmother again. Even if she convinced her grandmother to move in with her, or with her mother, the thief would eventually track down the book again. Her family wasn’t safe until they got rid of it. If she was careful, like her mother said, she should be fine. She would stay in public places until she sold the manuscript. The best thing she could do right now was get on that plane to Istanbul.
She looked again at the ticket. Erol Yilmaz had done his homework. The plane left from the nearest airport, and it was completely possible for her to be there tomorrow when it left. She needed to get home and start packing. She closed and locked the kitchen window, turned off all the lights, and locked her grandparents’ front door behind her. She would make sure her grandmother stayed at her mom’s house tonight.
As Augusta’s old car clattered down the long dirt driveway, she looked back in the rearview mirror at her grandparents’ peaceful home. The white wood clapboard was still cheerfully reflecting the hot afternoon sun, just as it had for as long as she could remember. Their home had always seemed so safe, like a place where nothing ever happened—where nothing ever could happen. Maybe she had been wrong about that. Maybe things did happen there after all, things that she had just never known about. Maybe life had never been as simple as she thought.
Well, it certainly wasn’t anymore, she reminded herself, turning her attention back to the road. And as she pulled out onto the small country lane, making a mental list of all the things she needed to pack, she had a feeling it was about to get much more complicated.