Semele’s mouth dropped open in a silent “Oh.”
She had been translating for the past two hours on the train to New Haven when she recognized the name Filippo Maria Visconti. He had been the duke of Milan and had commissioned the Visconti Tarot Decks, the oldest-known tarot decks in existence. They were even named after him. Semele knew this because the Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library housed one of the decks—her father, Joseph Cavnow, had been a curator there. On several occasions she had seen the library’s Visconti Tarot Deck, also called the Cary-Yale Tarot Deck after the collector who donated them. Were Ionna’s cards tarot cards?
Here she was heading right toward the Visconti Deck, and she was beginning to sense that it wasn’t an accident.
When the train arrived, she decided not to tell her mother she was in town just yet. First she needed to stop by the library to see the duke’s cards.
* * *
The Beinecke Library’s unusual architecture gave the illusion that it hovered in the air. Strategically placed pyramid columns raised the building off the ground, and instead of windows, opaque marble shielded the sunlight, changing colors throughout the day. The effect always made the library seem alive. Growing up, Semele had called it “the magic square.”
When she walked inside, the marble was glowing like citrine clouds. The towering walls of books rose six stories like a benevolent giant, greeting her like an old friend.
A rush of emotions hit her and tears prickled her eyes. She hadn’t been in this building for years, and still it felt like home. Of all the libraries she visited through the years—and she had been to many—Beinecke remained the most special. Her childhood was wrapped around this building. One of her first memories was of playing with her mother in the courtyard while they waited for her father to be done for the day.
She couldn’t help noticing the parallels between her life and Ionna’s. They were both daughters of librarians, men deeply read in history, literature, and philosophy, who oversaw the largest ancient manuscript libraries in the world. Librarians had served as guardians of the written word throughout the ages, and Semele grew up witnessing her father’s devotion. To her, he was as noble as a knight. Like Ionna’s, her childhood was filled with countless hours in the library, where she would look at the exhibits while her father worked. She had gotten her undergraduate degree in Classics at Yale and she had spent many an hour researching papers in the Beinecke’s reading room. Ionna and her story had brought her back.
Semele approached the information desk, hoping Thomas was in today. She needed a favor. Thomas was the head conservator and the only staff member she could ask. He had worked with her father for years and been a pallbearer at his funeral.
The person behind the desk called his office, and Semele was relieved to learn that he was there. A guard directed her to the lockers and coatracks, where she checked her personal belongings. No bags were allowed.
When Thomas arrived, the sight of him without her father brought a lump to her throat.
“Well, well. If this isn’t the best surprise.” He greeted her with a hug. “You in town to see your mom?”
Semele nodded, although she had yet to tell her mother she was in New Haven. “I need to ask a favor. A client has some really old tarot cards we’re handling, and I was hoping to take a look at the deck.” She didn’t need to tell Thomas what deck she was talking about.
He glanced at his watch; he was most likely busy, but she could tell he didn’t want to say no. “Sure, sure. Let me see if I can have it brought to a meeting room.”
Semele understood the enormous favor she was asking. Usually visiting conservators had to book an appointment with a curator several days in advance to study items from the archives. Mini-microscopes, UV lamps, and other tools were often brought out to assist them.
“Do you need any equipment?” he asked her, ushering her downstairs to the first lower level, the “court level,” where a periphery of meeting rooms and classrooms were located.
“No, just a visual. I only need a few minutes.”
They stopped at the Reader Services desk right outside the reading room. Thomas spoke with the staff member on duty. “I need to request the Cary cards, call number ITA one-oh-nine.”
Thomas led Semele to one of the meeting rooms while Reader Services paged someone to have the item brought from storage.
“I was actually planning to give you a call soon,” he told her. “We’ve been waiting for your mother to come clear out Joe’s office. I’ve called her a few times, left some messages.…”
“I’m so sorry.” Semele couldn’t believe her mother had been such a flake. “I thought she took care of that months ago.”
But she hadn’t. Her mother needed her help to do it, and Semele had abandoned her. She was flooded with guilt.
“I started putting things in boxes,” Thomas said. “Maybe after you’re done taking a look at the deck you can pack up a bit more.”
“Of course,” she quickly agreed, embarrassed. If her father were still alive he’d sit her and her mother down and lecture them both. “I died and you forgot about my office?” She could just hear him. His beloved office. He had two, one at the Beinecke and one at home, and not a day passed when he hadn’t been in either.
But Semele understood why her mother hadn’t come yet—she’d been avoiding the office for the same reason. Neither of them was ready to say good-bye.
* * *
When Thomas showed her the Visconti Deck it felt as if Ionna was standing beside her, whispering Rinalto’s story into her ear. A shiver flowed through her.
Her eyes went to The Lovers card, which showed a couple reaching out to embrace. The woman had blond hair and was wearing a red-sleeved gown. She had a little dog at her feet, exactly as Ionna had described.
Semele took a step back from the table. There was no doubt that the duke of Milan had modeled his cards after Rinalto’s deck. If the duke’s cards had survived, then Rinalto’s original cards—the ones that contained Ionna’s twenty-two—may have survived as well. They could still be out there somewhere sitting on a collector’s shelf. And if they were, perhaps she could find them.
“How many other decks are there as old as this one?” she asked Thomas.
“This old? Only a handful. The Morgan has another Visconti Deck, which you must have seen.”
Semele nodded. She had seen their deck when she had interned at the Morgan Library one summer during college. How was it that she had such intimate ties to two of the places that housed the oldest tarot decks in the world? Somehow they were connected.
* * *
Thomas led her out of the meeting room to her father’s office, and they both grew quiet. He understood how hard this must be. When he unlocked the office door and turned on the lights, Semele felt her father’s presence for a moment. But, just as quickly, the feeling was gone.
“Well, I’ll give you some privacy,” Thomas said. He was already backing away. “Take your time.”
Semele walked farther into the room and heard Thomas shut the door behind him. She had not been expecting to face her father’s memory today—at least not like this. She sat down at his desk and stared at all his things.
He’s been waiting for me to come. She could feel him all around her.
Remnants of him were everywhere … remnants she did not want to lose. She looked at the family photos he had framed and knew she couldn’t pack them away yet. She couldn’t pack anything away.
She ignored the empty boxes on the floor and instead turned on her father’s computer. After seeing the Visconti Deck, she knew Ionna’s cards were out there.
Her father’s password was still active. She logged in to his databases and spent the next hour cross-checking collectors’ information, news sources, and international auction listings. Nothing remotely resembling the cards turned up.
Frustrated, she leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, spinning around, much like she had when she was a child.
If Thomas walked in on her now, he’d think she was worse than her mother. She hadn’t boxed up a thing, she’d hacked into her father’s computer, and she was twirling in his chair like a six-year-old. The thought made her smile.
Then she stopped and opened her eyes.
The chair was turned away from the desk, facing the back table, where her father’s appointment book rested in the center. She picked up the leather-bound notebook and flipped it open.
Her chest tightened when she saw his handwriting. Her father’s penmanship had always been graceful with its forward and upward slant, his t’s crossed high and long, and open end-marks—traits of a high achiever who loved his work and the people around him. “A scholar and a gentleman” is how he had been described at the service.
The week he died, his writing looked robust and healthy, and this made Semele frown. When someone was sick, usually the illness showed in their writing. Graphologists believed writing revealed every aspect of a person—their mental and emotional states, their physical well-being, even their level of intelligence—and Semele had done enough analysis to agree. Studying someone’s handwriting was like reading their diary.
She checked all the entries in her father’s calendar, looking for clues that pointed toward a looming stroke, but she could find no abnormalities. Her father had died in April. Nothing he wrote that month, or in the months before, indicated he was near the end of his life.
She flipped forward to May. What she saw made her stop.
There, in the first week, her father had marked an appointment:
Marcel Bossard, 1 P.M.
Semele couldn’t stop staring at the entry. The way her father had scribbled the words seemed rushed and agitated, unlike the others. She struggled to grasp the implications. Why had her father made an appointment with Marcel Bossard? How long had they known each other?
Did Theo know?
The questions consumed her. Part of her wanted to call Theo right then and ask if he knew about the meeting. Was this what he had been holding back from her?
She wasn’t sure if she could trust him. She wasn’t sure about anything at this point except that she needed to finish Ionna’s story.