chapter 8

Now, taking note of this current lapse, I held my breath, grasped the manuscript with both hands, and placed it in one of the wedge-shaped cradles the library provided to protect its rare books. I had made my decision: to behave as a serious scholar and treat Ashmole 782 like an ordinary manuscript. I'd ignore my burning fingertips, the book's strange smel , and simply describe its contents.

Then I'd decide-with professional detachment-whether it was promising enough for a longer look. My fingers trembled when I loosened the smal brass clasps nevertheless.

The manuscript let out a soft sigh.

A quick glance over my shoulder assured me that the room was stil empty. The only other sound was the loud ticking of the reading room's clock.

Deciding not to record "Book sighed," I turned to my laptop and opened up a new file. This familiar task-one that I'd done hundreds if not thousands of times before- was as comforting as my list's neat checkmarks. I typed the manuscript name and number and copied the title from the catalog description. I eyed its size and binding, describing both in detail.

The only thing left to do was open the manuscript.

It was difficult to lift the cover, despite the loosened clasps, as if it were stuck to the pages below. I swore under my breath and rested my hand flat on the leather for a moment, hoping that Ashmole 782 simply needed a chance to know me. It wasn't magic, exactly, to put your hand on top of a book. My palm tingled, much as my skin tingled when a witch looked at me, and the tension left the manuscript.

After that, it was easy to lift the cover.

The first page was rough paper. On the second sheet, which was parchment, were the words "Anthropologia, or a treatis containing a short description of Man," in Ashmole's handwriting. The neat, round curves were almost as familiar to me as my own cursive script. The second part of the title-"in two parts: the first Anatomical, the second Psychological" -was written in a later hand, in pencil. It was familiar, too, but I couldn't place it. Touching the writing might give me some clue, but it was against the library's rules and it would be impossible to document the information that my fingers might gather. Instead I made notes in the computer file regarding the use of ink and pencil, the two different hands, and the possible dates of the inscriptions.

As I turned the first page, the parchment felt abnormal y heavy and revealed itself as the source of the manuscript's strange smel . It wasn't simply ancient. It was something more-a combination of must and musk that had no name.

And I noticed immediately that three leaves had been cut neatly out of the binding.

Here, at last, was something easy to describe. My fingers flew over the keys: "At least three folios removed, by straightedge or razor." I peered into the val ey of the manuscript's spine but couldn't tel whether any other pages were missing. The closer the parchment to my nose, the more the manuscript's power and odd smel distracted me.

I turned my attention to the il ustration that faced the gap where the missing pages should be. It showed a tiny baby girl floating in a clear glass vessel. The baby held a silver rose in one hand, a golden rose in the other. On its feet were tiny wings, and drops of red liquid showered down on the baby's long black hair. Underneath the image was a label written in thick black ink indicating that it was a depiction of the philosophical child-an al egorical representation of a crucial step in creating the philosopher's stone, the chemical substance that promised to make