But it wasn’t an article, but rather another map, Nell saw as it came free of its folder. An old one, judging from the scuff marks and condition of the ink, and also clearly mass produced, she could tell at once from the style of the print and quality of pulp.
Why had her father been seeking yet another insignificant commercial map?
She studied it quickly, trying to figure out its relevance. It wasn’t a highway map this time, like the Junk Box map, but rather a block plan of a single street’s buildings—interiors drawn from an engineering or industrial perspective—from the early 1900s.
Sanborn Insurance Map from Manhattan, New York: Sanborn Map Company, 1903–1919, Vol. 4, 1910.
It’s a construction diagram of the NYPL, she realized just as she caught sight of the faded stamp at the bottom of the page.
“Sanborn Insurance map?” Nell read the words softly out loud, confused.
Why on earth would her father need an outdated floor plan of the library he worked in? And what did this map have to do with the first one?
The back side of the folder the Sanborn map had come in answered her question.
On the brown cardboard, in a hastily scribbled hand, was the same symbol that she’d found on the gas station map.
An eight-point compass rose, with the letter C in the center.
IX
The reception was more crowded than Nell had been expecting. Someone had poured her a drink from Swann’s private Scotch, and she cradled the crystal tumbler in her hands as she wandered through his home. Around her, the entire staff of the library, members of its board, and other distinguished friends and colleagues of her father talked quietly in scattered groups. The periodic clink of glass filled the air as toasts were made. They’d all been gathered there after the funeral since the late afternoon, clustered throughout the historic brownstone building.
It had been so long since Nell had been to Swann’s, but it hadn’t changed—it was exactly how one would imagine an old bookish type’s place to be. Big windows with wooden shutters that did very little to stop the dust-swirled light from leaking in, a pipe on the desk, and books everywhere.
She’d missed it here so much.
“That was a lovely service.” A soft thump on her back made her jump, then smile. Humphrey squeezed her shoulder sympathetically. “Didn’t you think?”
“It was, actually,” Nell had to agree. Despite the metaphorical trampled bones Dr. Young had left in his wake, there had been no theatrics. No ruined researchers sneakily distributing letters to show how mercilessly competitive he had been, no museum directors appearing to demand apologies. And Nell had managed to keep her mouth shut as well. Not a single scoff or bitter eye roll as others sang his praises from the pulpit. Not even when she’d gone up to his coffin to say goodbye.
He had looked so much older than she remembered. So much smaller, and lonelier. She had tried to take his hand for a moment before she realized it.
But it was too late now—and always would be.
“Nell, there you are,” Swann called, and Nell spotted his tall, thin form as he appeared from the crowd.
“Swann.” She waved him over. “This is my boss, Humphrey Turan. This is Swann, the director of the NYPL’s Map Division.”
“Why hello,” Humphrey replied, returning Swann’s handshake.
“Good to meet you. I’ve heard so much about Classic,” Swann said politely.
Humphrey chuckled. “Well, Nell must have been being charitable. Our shop’s little maps aren’t quite as fancy as the ones in your library.”
Nell tried not to grimace as they talked. She was touched that Humphrey had insisted on coming to the funeral for her, but also embarrassed that he had—and ashamed of that embarrassment. But there he was, joking to the head of the NYPL’s Map Division about how the more weathered you could make a map seem, the more customers would like it, and which antique-looking doodles—skeleton keys, made-up languages, fake fading—made sales jump.