for my needs.
I turned back to the chest. If he kept it locked, it made sense that something valuable lay within.
I scanned the table and actually found a few keys, but they were either too large or too small for the keyhole in the chest.
I turned around in the space, peering onto shelves, even glancing along the floor. I didn’t see any sign of a key or a good hiding spot for a key. It was entirely possible he had kept the key on his person. I didn’t recall receiving anything of the like when his body was returned. That didn’t mean it hadn’t been lost or even taken. I didn’t think it likely, though.
I looked around some more, and when I was about to give up, I noticed a particular book on a nearby shelf. It stood out from the others, not by how it looked, but by its title. It was the only book of the collection that didn’t reference some magical history or collection of spells.
A Tale of Two Cities.
It had a brown leather binding with the title in faded gold lettering. An easy thing to miss if you just scanned the bookshelf. And unless you were looking for something particular or unusual, even seeing the title wouldn’t raise any flags. At least not for anybody who didn’t know my dad.
But I knew him well. I happened to know that he hated Charles Dickens. My mom might have given Dickens a try. But, honestly, I had seldom seen either of them reading anything besides books related to the arcane. They simply didn’t have time for pleasure reading.
I had to stand on my tip toes to reach the book. It was on a tall bookcase that nearly reached the ceiling. The book case was old pressboard and had started to crumble on a bottom corner from apparent water damage. I took the book down. I could tell by the heft alone that something was wrong. It didn’t weigh near as much as it looked like it should.
Sure enough, the book was hollowed out. And in the hollowed space? A bunch of dust and a single key that looked just the right size for the chest.
I took out the key, set the book aside, and tried the key in the chest’s lock.
Perfect fit. It turned easily and emitted a single, solid click .
“Bingo.”
I didn’t know exactly what I’d find inside, but I knew I hit the jackpot the moment I cracked open the chest’s lid. I could feel the magical energy pour out. Warmth and a tingling sensation flowed through me as I opened the chest the rest of the way. The hinges only gave a short squeak. Otherwise it opened smoothly, as if the hinges had been recently oiled. Somehow the dust of the years had not corrupted them.
While nothing inside glowed bright and shiny right in my face, I trembled at the pent up power emanating from within the velvet-lined box.
Only a few items sat within. One was a huge stack of hundred dollar bills. They looked crisp, freshly printed. I eyeballed and made an estimate on the amount. Ten thousand. Maybe twenty.
Dad had been holding out. Or keeping it aside for an emergency.
I also found a stack of passports rubber banded together. I removed the rubber band and flipped through the passports. Six in total, three with pictures of my father, three with my mother, none of them under their real names. There were drivers’ licenses matching the false IDs on the passports. It was like something out of a spy movie.
But the oddity of this find didn’t surprise me as much as the last item in the chest. I immediately recognized the silver case with the black enamel decoration. The gilt floral pattern.
It was my father’s Longines pocket watch.
He had kept it on him at all times. I remember him constantly drawing it out, flipping it open, and checking the time. I also remembered the small conjurations he used to make with it to entertain me. He would put on these ghostly puppet shows by creating illusions in the air, like three dimensional holograms. He would narrate the stories, the watch always clutched in his free hand, the chain occasionally clinking as he gestured grandiosely and made
I turned back to the chest. If he kept it locked, it made sense that something valuable lay within.
I scanned the table and actually found a few keys, but they were either too large or too small for the keyhole in the chest.
I turned around in the space, peering onto shelves, even glancing along the floor. I didn’t see any sign of a key or a good hiding spot for a key. It was entirely possible he had kept the key on his person. I didn’t recall receiving anything of the like when his body was returned. That didn’t mean it hadn’t been lost or even taken. I didn’t think it likely, though.
I looked around some more, and when I was about to give up, I noticed a particular book on a nearby shelf. It stood out from the others, not by how it looked, but by its title. It was the only book of the collection that didn’t reference some magical history or collection of spells.
A Tale of Two Cities.
It had a brown leather binding with the title in faded gold lettering. An easy thing to miss if you just scanned the bookshelf. And unless you were looking for something particular or unusual, even seeing the title wouldn’t raise any flags. At least not for anybody who didn’t know my dad.
But I knew him well. I happened to know that he hated Charles Dickens. My mom might have given Dickens a try. But, honestly, I had seldom seen either of them reading anything besides books related to the arcane. They simply didn’t have time for pleasure reading.
I had to stand on my tip toes to reach the book. It was on a tall bookcase that nearly reached the ceiling. The book case was old pressboard and had started to crumble on a bottom corner from apparent water damage. I took the book down. I could tell by the heft alone that something was wrong. It didn’t weigh near as much as it looked like it should.
Sure enough, the book was hollowed out. And in the hollowed space? A bunch of dust and a single key that looked just the right size for the chest.
I took out the key, set the book aside, and tried the key in the chest’s lock.
Perfect fit. It turned easily and emitted a single, solid click .
“Bingo.”
I didn’t know exactly what I’d find inside, but I knew I hit the jackpot the moment I cracked open the chest’s lid. I could feel the magical energy pour out. Warmth and a tingling sensation flowed through me as I opened the chest the rest of the way. The hinges only gave a short squeak. Otherwise it opened smoothly, as if the hinges had been recently oiled. Somehow the dust of the years had not corrupted them.
While nothing inside glowed bright and shiny right in my face, I trembled at the pent up power emanating from within the velvet-lined box.
Only a few items sat within. One was a huge stack of hundred dollar bills. They looked crisp, freshly printed. I eyeballed and made an estimate on the amount. Ten thousand. Maybe twenty.
Dad had been holding out. Or keeping it aside for an emergency.
I also found a stack of passports rubber banded together. I removed the rubber band and flipped through the passports. Six in total, three with pictures of my father, three with my mother, none of them under their real names. There were drivers’ licenses matching the false IDs on the passports. It was like something out of a spy movie.
But the oddity of this find didn’t surprise me as much as the last item in the chest. I immediately recognized the silver case with the black enamel decoration. The gilt floral pattern.
It was my father’s Longines pocket watch.
He had kept it on him at all times. I remember him constantly drawing it out, flipping it open, and checking the time. I also remembered the small conjurations he used to make with it to entertain me. He would put on these ghostly puppet shows by creating illusions in the air, like three dimensional holograms. He would narrate the stories, the watch always clutched in his free hand, the chain occasionally clinking as he gestured grandiosely and made
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