The web page says this library has a local history room with all kinds of old books.”
“Did you look that up on the internet?”
The kid nodded, proving that he was smarter than the average kid.
“You know I promised your mother not to let you read any more of those letters,” Topher said.
“Yeah, I guess. But we don’t have to read letters. Maybe they have some old books. I still need a topic for my Heritage Day project.”
The kid had a point. “I’ll think about it.”
They got on the elevator, and the kid looked up at him again. “There’s one other thing.”
“Yeah.”
“The cap’n wants me to visit that library and see what’s there.”
The elevator doors opened with a ding. They exited and strolled down the hallway in silence until they got to the doctor’s office.
Topher stopped right outside the door. “So, are you planning to tell the doctor about this?”
“No,” the kid said, rolling his eyes. “Dr. Robinson freaks out every time I mention the cap’n’s name. I figured that out the first week. So now I come here and tell him I don’t ever talk to the cap’n anymore.”
“You lie to the doctor?”
The kid shrugged. “Yeah. I guess. Don’t tell Mom. She’ll kill me if she ever finds out.”
“I won’t tell your mom. And if you want, we can go to the library and see what kind of books they have on local history. But…no letters. Is that clear?”
An hour later, Topher found himself in the reading room at the public library, bent over an old “commonplace” book that had once belonged to Rose Howland.
And since it wasn’t technically one of Rose’s letters, he and Jackie were safe. Of course, there was no way to explain how Jackie knew this diary was in the Howland collection—unless you believed in a ghost.
The boy had waltzed right up to the librarian’s desk and asked to see Rose Howland’s books. And the librarian had asked to see his library card. And that was that.
Kind of creepy. Or supernatural. Or something.
“What does it say?” the boy asked.
Topher studied the pages, which were dark with age, the brown ink fading in spots. But the handwriting, though cramped in places, was familiar.
The book had more than a hundred pages, so they didn’t have time to read it from cover to cover. He scanned the pages, many of which seemed to contain copies of several of Shakespeare’s sonnets. All of them about love.
Rose was clearly a romantic.
Interspersed with the poetry were notations about her efforts to secure daffodil bulbs. “There’s a lot of stuff about daffodils in here,” he said aloud. “You could probably do a whole report on that alone.” He glanced at Jackie.
The kid wrinkled his nose and shook his head.
Topher turned several more pages containing recipes for rabbit and squirrel stew. Then back to more poetry that he didn’t recognize. Followed by a notation about where Henri St. Pierre was planting the daffodils in the autumn of 1720.
And then, on a page dated November 1720, was this notation: Abimael arrived today in the early morning.
The words were set apart on a new page. Which was odd, because Rose clearly regarded the paper in this book as precious.
“Do you know anything about a person named Abimael?” Topher asked Jackie.
The boy shook his head. “That’s a funny name.”
“I think it’s Biblical. But I don’t remember anyone in the history of Jonquil Island with that name.”
“Maybe Abimael was one of Henri St. Pierre’s pirate friends. I mean, Abimael kind of sounds like a pirate name, doesn’t it?”
“It sounds more like the opening line of Moby Dick.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” Topher said. “One day some English teacher will make you read that book and you’ll understand. Anyway, I guess we don’t want to waste time researching this Abimael character, do we?”
The kid shook his head.
Topher went back to turning pages, skimming endless lines of poetry, recipes, and notations on tides and daffodil planting. And then, a few pages before the writing stopped altogether, there was a hastily scrawled note.
You will find what you are looking for in the usual place, five paces west of the marker. Take care of what belongs to Abimael.
Topher read the passage out loud, his heart suddenly racing. “Holy sh—” He caught himself before laying an s-bomb within hearing of tender ears.
“That’s it,” the boy said, leaning forward to look at the words scrawled across the yellowing paper. “That’s like a treasure map, right?”
“It certainly reads like one.” Topher took out his cell phone and took