Chapter Eleven


In the library, Maud and Agnes were hunched over a large book. Its cover was a battered ring binder, and the pages were a mishmash of handwritten pages, photocopies, and typed sheets. Agnes had pulled the book from a drawer in the nearby desk, and Maud had watched with fascination as her friend carefully transferred the tome to the desk, the cover moving as though the pages were alive. Agnes was barely able to keep the contents secured within the binding.

“Giddy goodness, Agnes, that book doesn’t seem to want to come to our aid without a fight,” Maud said.

“Happen so,” Agnes chuckled. “Maybe I should split the pages into a few volumes, but it just doesn’t seem right separating them. History belongs in one place.”

“So what’s the story in these here pages?’ Maud said as Agnes turned the sheets, the act creating thick crinkling sounds about them.

Agnes rubbed at her nose.

“I can’t lay any kind of claim to it,” she said. “I put the book together, added to it over time,
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