Reginald's scar ran from the left temple down along the hairline, disappearing into the collar like a sentence cut short. Eleanor had known it all her life—the pale ridge of tissue, raised and smooth as a river delta on a map. It was not a dramatic wound. It did not weep or bleed or demand attention. It simply existed, a quiet rebellion against the perfection of the skin around it, a distance...
Thomas Ashworth-Cross had been dead for eleven months when Edmund first opened the golden manuscript.
The reading room at the Bodleian was always cold, even in summer. The ancient timbered ceiling absorbed what little light managed through the tall arched windows, leaving the long oak tables in perpetual twilight. Edmund liked it this way—the dimness made it easier to pretend he was not alone....
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