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Notes in the margin. Yes, medieval manuscripts were littered with them.
The possibility hadn’t occurred to her. Georgina had arrived at an interpretation that she’d neglected to consider.
The tops of her ears began to burn.
“Earth-child I was, skulking in ground,” Georgina read the first riddle aloud, “Till smelt-flames offered a new name and price: No longer earth, I can purchase the earth.”
“That’s a translation of a famous riddle, by Symphosius.” Elfreda paused, pulse leaping. “The answer is gold.”
“That’s what I thought.” Georgina looked at her, and the vindication in their face was mixed with wonder. “It is a clue, isn’t it? Imagine. The nuns lived in fear of the Northmen, for decades, for lifetimes. The hoard had to stay hidden, its location a secret, so they passed these riddles down for generations. Do nuns have generations? Regardless. They passed the riddles down in the hopes that they’d be solved, and the hoard found, when the time was right.”
Imagine. She’d begged Papa to imagine too. Silliness. That was his word for imagination—hers at least.
“The first riddle supplies the what,” said Georgina. “The second supplies the where.”
Silly. To race from speculation to speculation. Giddy making. A tickle in her chest threatened to burst into a howl. Clues. She could imagine it.
“The second riddle.” She swallowed. “It’s not Symphosius. Or Aldhelm. I’ve never seen it in another text.”
“Within my depths, the shadows play. And yet there is light at my mouth and water that brings life.” Georgina read it aloud, in a quiet voice that somehow carried to every corner of the room. “What’s the answer?”
Their eyes were the color of the winter sky. The Northmen might have watched smoke from their fires on the bluff spiral toward exactly that shade of blue.
“I don’t know.” She slid the papers over, gathered them to herself. “I’d have to think.”
“I’m first-rate at charades, but these olden-day riddles are a different beast entirely.” Georgina drummed their fingers on the table. “I should practice. Are there any books of them in your library?”
“They are all in Latin, or Saxon.”
“That’s terrifically inconvenient.” They frowned. “None in English? Or very bad French?”
“No.” She fought a smile, unsuccessfully.
“Pity.” A smile tugged at the corners of their mouth too. “We must at least solve the riddle. We owe it to the nuns. And, of course, to your grandmother.”
I know what you’re doing, she wanted to say to them. It’s obvious. Invoking Grandmama, tugging on her heartstrings. Georgina had figured out her formula, as well as Papa’s.
“I can translate a riddle, if you want to practice.” She tipped back her head, studied the ceiling until she had it. “All right.” She felt oddly nervous as she recited. “I create hungry sparks that must be fed, like rubbed against like, warm and then bright.”
She turned her gaze on Georgina. Georgina was giving her a very strange look in return.
“What’s the answer?” she asked.
“You want me to answer.” Georgina seemed vaguely incredulous. “That riddle.”
What wasn’t she understanding?
“You can take your time,” she offered.
“I’ll answer.” They ran a hand through their hair. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” My God, this was baffling. “You might not be sure.”
“I’m sure.” A slow smile spread across their face, then faded as they leaned closer.
“The answer is…”
Their eyes darkened as their lashes swept down, and then their mouth was on hers. The soft heat of it stopped her breath. Everything stopped. The contact was so light she almost made a noise of frustration, tilted her head to increase the pressure, but she couldn’t move a muscle. Sensation tingled over every inch of her skin. The need for touch became an ache. Her lips were burning. They had to do something more, something to quench this spreading fire.
