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The black one, like ebony only darker. The one that’s been in our family for ages and ages. I grew up wondering what was inside, just the same as my cousins, my aunts and uncles, my mum, my granddad, his parents, and who knows how many more generations of curious children.
It’s a remarkable thing, but partly because it’s so damned dull. Maybe eight inches long, half that across, and slightly less deep. Black, all around, as pure as onyx stones. The family likes to think it contains some sort of mystery. The way Granddad tells it, generations of us have tried to look it out and under, to figure out how to open the thing. More locksmiths than you can count have tried at it and failed, and apparently a mage or two have even given it the once over (though I hardly believe that, what with the costs). No one was ever able to figure out how to get the damned thing open.
It has a keyhole on it, but no seam along the top where you’d expect it to hinge. And that makes the whole mystery easy enough to dismiss as fodder, but if you rattle the box around some you can hear there’s something inside it, tinkling a little, like metal or stone or glass. Over years and years, we all made our guesses at what made that bit of a clinking sound. “I bet it’s gold,” I guessed. “Maybe it’s fairy gems,” said Andy, because she’s always been shooting at all angles for stories with fairies. “Do you know what I’d wager it is?” said Granddad. We all looked up at him, expecting his sage wisdom to reveal some even grander story. “I’d wager it’s the key.”
Granddad hands the box to me. “What”—I’m a bit lost for words—”what exactly do you want me to do with this? Do you think I’m going to solve the grand mystery while I’m out?”
“No, Liddy, I don’t.” He laughs. “But who knows? Maybe you’ll meet someone who knows about it. I figured … it wouldn’t hurt to have you ask.”
The notion of him giving me this keepsake—to hang onto, to investigate, and to (let’s face it) in all probability lose—it’s just a little boggling. I’m left there stunned for a few moments at least.
“As for the scroll, all the work is done proper for you, Liddy,” he says, interrupting my stunned quiet. “You give it to the Councilor of Ceremony and Heritage, and he’ll direct you on anything else that’s needed. If anything at all goes wrong, you send a courier to us to tell us so. And send a courier to us once you get there. We want to know about when to expect you back. You’ve got time to explore the city, and I hope you will, but no need to get your mother losing sleep over this. Okay?”
I give half a smile. Best I can afford, knowing how much of the weight of this falls on my family and not just me. He rests his hand against my left ear, his fingers scratching the hair that’s tugged behind it, his hand pressed warm against my temple. Then my daddy and mum step out. I tuck the box and scroll into my leather satchel.
“You ready?” says Daddy.
I try my best to smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.”
And with that, he and I walk the few strides to our fence, no one saying a word more of luck or warning or farewell. Before I step through the gateway, I pause for a moment. At the least of the scale, I won’t see anyone here for nine weeks. Maybe longer. It’ll be months before I see any of them—before I see home—again.
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