Chapter 2 — The Journal’s Secrets

Alaric

The journal rested on the small café table between them, its embossed crest catching the dim afternoon light filtering through the fogged window. Alaric ran his fingers over its worn leather cover, his jaw tight with hesitation. Across from him, Harper sipped her tea, her sharp green eyes fixed on the journal with a kind of curiosity that felt both incisive and unsettling. The faint patter of rain against the window and the low hum of muffled conversations from nearby tables deepened the sense of quiet urgency.

“Well?” she prompted, leaning in slightly, her scarf streaked with earthy reds and browns shifting with the movement. “You said it’s important. Important how?”

Alaric hesitated. Trust was a currency he did not spend lightly, especially not with strangers. To divulge the journal’s significance now—especially to someone he’d met only hours ago on Tower Bridge—felt reckless. Yet Harper’s gaze was steady, her curiosity almost tactile, as though her artistic instincts were already rifling through the journal’s secrets. Was she truly someone who might help? Or was he simply desperate to share the weight of this burden?

“It’s a family heirloom,” he said carefully, keeping his tone measured. “It belonged to my great-great-grandfather, Edward Thornwood. He was one of the men who oversaw the construction of Tower Bridge.”

Harper raised an eyebrow, setting down her teacup. “That explains the chase, but if it’s just a family memento, why the rush to recover it? What’s inside?”

Her perceptiveness grated on him, though it shouldn’t have. An artist’s eye, always searching for hidden layers. His grip on the journal tightened, his thumb brushing its frayed edges. “It’s more than a keepsake,” he admitted, the words slipping out despite his instinct to withhold. “This isn’t just a record of his work. Edward documented more than engineering details. There are personal entries—some of which hint at a scandal involving the bridge’s construction.”

“A scandal?” Harper’s lips curved into a slight, curious smile. “Something dramatic, like buried bodies in the foundations?”

Her attempt at humor was disarming, though Alaric’s brow furrowed. “Not quite. But there are allusions to unethical practices. Forced labor, financial manipulation. And... something about an artifact.”

“An artifact?” Her interest sharpened, her wavy auburn hair catching the dim light as she tilted her head. “What kind of artifact?”

“That’s what I’m trying to determine.” He exhaled, tapping the journal lightly with his fingertips. “Several entries refer to an object of significant importance, but the specifics are vague, as if Edward was deliberately obscuring the details. There are sketches and symbols scattered throughout—some of which don’t align with anything I’ve seen in his other records.”

Harper leaned in closer, her tea momentarily forgotten. “Can I see?” Her voice carried a note of excitement, tempered by a hint of caution.

Alaric hesitated. The instinct to guard the journal warred with the faint recognition that Harper’s artistic intuition might offer insight he lacked. He could almost feel the weight of Edward’s intentions, the unspoken message of the journal. Slowly, deliberately, he opened it, revealing densely packed handwriting, faded sketches, and cryptic markings. The faint scent of aged paper and dust wafted up, grounding him in the moment.

“This sketch here,” he said, gesturing toward a rough outline of Tower Bridge with markings that didn’t align with any known blueprints. Beneath it, faint symbols were scrawled, almost invisible against the aged paper. “It suggests... something hidden. Possibly within the bridge itself.”

Harper’s sharp intake of breath surprised him. Her fingers hovered over the page, stopping just short, as if respecting the journal’s fragility. “The way these symbols are arranged,” she murmured, her tone quieter now. “They look... intentional. Almost like a map. Or…”

“Or what?” Alaric prompted, his curiosity piqued despite himself.

“Or maybe a guide to something hidden.” Her emerald eyes flicked between the symbols and the sketch, her voice taking on an edge of wonder. “Do you have a magnifying glass? There might be more detail than we can see at first glance.”

“I don’t typically carry one around,” he replied, his tone dry but faintly amused.

“Shame. Eleanor would,” Harper muttered under her breath, a note of fondness slipping into her words.

“Eleanor?”

“Never mind.” She straightened, brushing her charcoal-smudged fingers against her jeans—a gesture so natural, it struck Alaric as oddly grounding. “Let’s try something else. Hold it up to the light—certain inks fade over time but can reappear under the right conditions.”

Skepticism tugged at the corners of his mouth, but he did as she suggested, angling the journal toward the café’s fogged window. The faint winter sunlight filtered through, illuminating the page—and there it was. A barely-there scrawl beneath the markings. Harper leaned in again, her breath catching faintly as she peered at the revealed text.

“There,” she said, triumphant. “Do you see it?”

Alaric’s jaw tightened as the faint writing came into view, fragmented but unmistakable. Phrases like “southern tower” and “sealed compartment” emerged, tantalizing in their ambiguity. His mind raced, piecing together implications and possibilities. For a moment, he could almost feel Edward’s presence, a thread of connection bridging the centuries.

“It’s... a code,” he said softly, the words carrying the weight of realization.

“And a puzzle,” Harper added, her voice laced with equal parts challenge and delight. “Maybe your ancestor was trying to leave clues for someone. Or hide something. Either way, it looks like you’ll need help figuring it out.”

Alaric closed the journal abruptly, his expression guarded once more. “This isn’t a game,” he said, his words clipped. “This could be significant—not just for my family, but for the history of the bridge itself.”

Harper’s grin faltered, replaced by a flash of irritation. “I know it’s not a game. But if you’re hoping to uncover anything, you might want to appreciate having a second set of eyes. Or do historians prefer to hoard their mysteries all to themselves?”

The pointed remark stung, though he couldn’t deny its accuracy. His tendency to trust his own reasoning, his own methods, had often left him isolated. And yet, he could see the spark of insight in Harper’s gaze—the same spark that had drawn him to history in the first place. Perhaps this journey required a perspective different from his own.

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Fine,” he said at last. “If you’re so keen to help, I could use your perspective on the visual elements. But this stays between us.”

Harper’s smirk returned, a small victory lighting up her face. “Deal. Now, let’s figure out what your ancestor was trying to hide.”

Their gazes locked over the journal, an unspoken understanding forming between them. Outside, the rain intensified, muffling the world beyond the glass. For the first time in a long while, Alaric felt the faintest flicker of something unfamiliar: the possibility of trust.