The walk back to our room was quiet. I felt the weight of the history we carried with us now, and I expected Beattie did too. When we were safely behind closed doors, we slipped the book into the fake dictionary we’d picked up during our last trip to Edinburgh and locked it up tight. We’d decided we’d carry it with us everywhere, given the trouble we’d had on our last buying excursion. It wasn’t ideal, given the weight of the book safe and the book, but hopefully, we wouldn’t be hauling around a unique historical artifact for long.
We had just enough time to grab a snack before we met with the language scholars, so we headed to a bubble tea place just up the road from the museum where we were to meet. Our hometown, Charlottesville, was just moving, finally, into the bubble tea craze, and I was missing my lavender tea. Fortunately, Cha Time was a wonderful café, and both of us got huge bubble teas to go.
As we wandered down the street, I enjoyed the contrast of this rather contemporary Taiwanese drink with the quaint European buildings around us. I was quickly learning that one of the great things about international traveling was that you could go deep into the culture of the place you were visiting and also enjoy some of the world’s best delights, like tapioca balls in milk tea. Globalization certainly had its drawbacks, but it also had its delights.
The museum where our contacts, Inga Sigurðardóttir and Gunnar Annasson, were going to meet us was a few blocks away, so we enjoyed our mid-day stroll through the downtown area. Many of the buildings were big, like those in major American cities, but they also reminded me of small towns I’d visited in the Hudson River Valley of New York or even the ski towns of Colorado. There was just something quaint and accessible about the stores we passed and the gentle kindness of the residents’ faces.
And the museum itself was a treat in many ways, including the fact that it the Saga Museum that Ms. Jondanson had recommended. We hadn’t made the connection because, well, our Icelandic was terrible, but as soon as we were welcomed by the docent in English, we smiled at each other. Once again, the twists of our experience were bringing us to just the right place.
The building reminded me of an old American high school building with a flair of something maybe Danish. It was far more beautiful than most high schools in the States, with its intricate brickwork and ornate windows, but the symmetrical layout and block construction of the building made me think of the old schools that were being turned into community centers and art galleries back home. I loved it immediately for that reason.
Inside, the central stairwell was marble and far more utilitarian than I had expected, but as soon as we turned into the first exhibit room, where the guide told us we’d meet our contacts, I gasped. The room was dark, with soft yellow lights shining down on some of the oldest books I had ever seen. As I moved slowly to the nearest tome, the guide explained that this was an exhibit of Norse sagas that described the founding of Iceland in the ninth century.
The book before me was handwritten, much like the one secured in my tote bag. A portion of the text had been translated into both Icelandic and English, and as I read the translation, I was swept up in the great story of sea travel and storms. I had never been someone inclined to great adventure except on the page, but these words made me long for the days when travel wasn’t quite as easy as boarding a plane.
That travel had often been as deadly as it was successful, so I realized I was being far too romantic in my thoughts about Norse history, especially given the plundering and pillaging Ms. Jondanson had mentioned earlier. But I couldn’t help myself. I was swept up in the moment.
My attention was pulled away from the books, however, when I felt a warm hand on my arm and turned to see a familiar face beside me. “Adaire Anderson, what are you doing here?” I said a bit too loudly and then listened as my voice echoed around the room. I could feel myself blushing as I looked at him.
He blushed, too, and then said, far more quietly, “Your uncle was kind enough to tell me you had come to Iceland on the hunt for his next acquisition, and we thought we might come over and surprise you.”
“We?” I said just as my eyes found the locked lips of Beattie and Adaire’s brother Aaran. “Oh, you both came.”
Adaire leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Is that okay?” he asked, and I could see the nervousness in the small lines around his eyes.
“Of course, it’s okay. What do you know about Norse sagas?” I said with a laugh.
“Quite a bit, actually,” another man’s voice said behind me. “Adaire, it’s good to see you.”
I looked from the tall, blond man who had stepped forward to shake Adaire’s hand to the face of the man I had been on two dates with back in Edinburgh and just stared.
The blond man caught my gaze and put his hand out to me. “Gunnar Annasson. You must be Poe Baxter?” His accent was definitively Icelandic, but I detected a bit of a roll in his Rs that sounded familiar.
“Nice to meet you,” I said as I shook his hand. “You and Adaire know each other, I presume?”
“Went to University together,” Annasson said. “The world of books is small, as I imagine you know, Ms. Baxter.”
Just then, Beattie and Aaran joined us, as did a dark-haired woman with the whitest skin I had ever seen. She looked like a doll, she was so fine-featured, and when I shook her hand, I had to fight the impulse to be overly gentle lest I break her bones.
“Inga Sigurðardóttir,” she said as she applied more than the necessary amount of pressure to my hand. I wondered if she had to compensate for her diminutive stature with brute force and tried to be casual as I stretched my fingers to relieve the bit of pain she had caused.
“Nice to meet you,” Beattie said as she introduced herself and Aaran to the group. Then, introductions all made, Inga—I was already beginning to call her Inga in my head because I had no confidence in my ability to pronounce her last name correctly—led us down a small hallway to a meeting room with a circular table and beautiful landscape paintings on the wall.
There, we found a carafe of coffee and some more of those pastries that Beattie and I had wolfed down the day before, but this time, they were cut into more personally-sized pieces. I was glad I wasn’t being introduced to them for the first time today because I knew I wouldn’t have been able to be polite and eat only one piece if I hadn’t prepared mentally.
Now, though, my belly full of bubble tea and my mind completely aware of where I could get—what I learned just then—Vínarbrauð, I was able to pass on the pastry and instead help myself to a cup of delicious, perfectly hot coffee.
As we sat down, Adaire held out my chair, and I blushed again. He just smiled at me and then took a seat to my left. Beattie sat on my other side with Aaran next to her, and then Gunnar and Inga.
Never one to start a conversation smoothly or with any form of decorum, I said, “Please, everyone, call me Poe. And if you don’t mind, I’ll call you Inga and Gunnar because I really don’t want to mispronounce your beautiful last names with my horrible Icelandic.”
“Poe, it is,” Gunnar said with a smile.
Inga, however, glowered at me. But she didn’t say anything, and I took that as acquiescence to my very American and very limited facility with languages. “Thank you,” I replied. “We’re so excited to be here.”
As I spoke, Beattie reached into her bag and pulled out the third member of our traveling party, Butterball, the hamster, and set him on the table in his transparent plastic carry bag. Inside the bag, he had a tiny toy shaped like sushi, and he had his head propped on it like a pillow.
In an instant, Inga was up and cooing over the little rodent. She talked to him in the sweetest voice, and somehow, I knew she was telling him how handsome he was, even though she was speaking Icelandic. BB, for his part, simply lay there, pretending to be asleep—I had seen him peek as Beattie lifted him from the bag—and letting himself be admired. He was probably scheming about how he could get a pastry or perhaps climb into the sugar bowl.
Not everyone was as keen on the pet Beattie and I shared as Inga was. We had learned, for example, that Americans did not like his presence in restaurants, a fact at which he took great offense, and my dentist had made it very clear that I was not to bring BB back for my next cleaning, no matter how much her hygienist begged me to do so.
Inga, however, asked if she could hold him, and although Beattie suggested she keep him in the bag, she let the historian carry the bag to her side of the table, where she gave the little guy some of the best pets of his life. I wondered if BB would like to move to Iceland because he sure seemed to be enjoying himself.
As Inga continued to love on our hamster, Gunnar said, “Thank you for inviting us to consult with you about the book you have acquired. It is, indeed, an honor.”
Beattie smiled. “No, we are thrilled to meet with you. Thank you.”
I grinned. “Yes, thank you. It’s hard for us to evaluate the worth of a book we cannot even read.” I reached into my bag and took out the dictionary safe, setting it on the table, and then discreetly entered the combination on the front.
When I pulled out the volume, gasps passed around the table, and while I wanted to hand the book to Adaire first—out of some sort of loyalty, I supposed—I passed it to Gunnar. He held the book gently and opened a few pages, his mouth slightly open the whole time.
After he and Inga had both looked at the book casually, they asked permission to do a more formal investigation. “To determine the date,” he said.
I looked over at Beattie to be sure she didn’t have a hesitation, and when she nodded, I said, “Sure. We do not want to damage the book, but we do need to authenticate it, of course.”
Inga nodded and then carefully trimmed a minuscule piece off one of the middle pages before dropping it into a test tube. “We’ll take this back to our lab and analyze it for you. It will take one to two days.”
I nodded. “Thank you.” I watched them study the vellum with their magnifying glasses. They peered closely at each page, and each of them made notes in separate notebooks. About fifteen minutes after they began, they switched notebooks and compared.
“We believe, based on our visual examination, that the book is authentic, but the analysis will be largely definitive,” Inga said. “If it is authentic, we would be interested in making the purchase as soon as possible.”
“Oh,” I said. “You want to buy it?” I glanced over at Beattie, who looked just as surprised as I was. “I wasn’t aware.”
Gunnar nodded. “We prefer to see items before we make the interest of the government known.”
“The government?” Beattie said. “The Icelandic government wants to buy the book.”
“If it is what we all believe it to be,” Adaire said, “it is a national treasure. I suspect you’d display it at the national museum.”
“Yes,” Inga said. “You saw the other books of sagas as you came in?”
We all nodded. “This would be another item for that collection.” She met my gaze and held it. “The president would like to ask you a personal favor.”
I cleared my throat. “The president? Of the country?”
A small smile crept onto her lips. “Yes. He asks that you not look for other buyers until we have had the, what do you call it, the right of first refusal. Is that acceptable?”
This time I didn’t have to get confirmation from Beattie. It was always Uncle Fitz’s desire to keep books in their place of origin. Plus, if the president of a country asked for something, it seemed wise to comply if at all possible. “Of course,” I said.
“We also need to ask that you please not tell anyone about the book beyond those who must know,” Beattie said. “You can imagine how difficult the conversation might be for us if people inquired and we were not at liberty to discuss the book’s current status.”
Inga and Gunnar nodded. “Agreed. We will be in touch as soon as we have our results,” she said. “I trust you will come with purchase figures in mind.”
I nodded again. “Of course.” Apparently, this was the only phrase I could pull forth from the word vaults of my shocked brain. I slid my card across the table to our new colleagues, and Beattie did the same.
“Now, please enjoy the rest of the Culture House. We have arranged to have a private tour for the four of you,” Gunnar said as he stood. “We will be in touch.”
For a few moments after they left, I just sat there, staring at the book in my hands. If that alone wasn’t wonderful enough, I was now, apparently, just one degree of separation from the president of Iceland. “That just happened, right?” I said quietly.
Beattie took the book out of my hands and tucked it back into its dictionary safe. “Yes, Poe. That just happened.”
“You really didn’t know who you were meeting when you came, did you?” Adaire said.
“You did?” I asked as I stared at him.
“Inga and Gunnar are the heads of the collections department of the national library here. They work directly for the president himself.” Adaire smiled. “Maybe I should have mentioned that?”
I shook my head. “Maybe?” I stowed the fake dictionary back in my bag and gently picked up Butterball’s bag, noting that he was, again, sound asleep. It must be nice not to be fazed by momentous things or any things, really.
The next two hours were delightful as the four of us wandered the collections in the Culture House with our personal guide. She gave us the history of the building and how it had been the original national museum but was now used more for exhibitions, community meetings, and performances. As we finished the tour, she said, “The president has provided four tickets for tonight’s private concert with Björk if you’d like to attend.”
I nearly dropped my bag and came close to collapsing on the floor. “We are invited to a private concert with Björk,” I whispered.
Fortunately, Beattie maintained her sanity and took the tickets from the woman’s hand. “Thank you very much. Please thank Mr. President for us as well.” She paused as if considering something. “Will he be in attendance tonight? I only ask because I want to be sure to follow proper protocol.”
I had no idea what the proper protocol for meeting a president was, but I was pretty sure it involved a new outfit and a massive pep talk for my brain so that I wouldn’t look like I had the vocabulary of a two-year-old.
“He will not be here this evening, so no need to worry,” she said before thanking us for taking time at the Culture House and walking with us to the front door.
As we walked down the street back toward our rooms, I was torn between wanting to spend a little bit of time with Adaire and feeling the need, even though the president wouldn’t be there, to buy a special outfit for tonight. Fortunately, Beattie made the decision for me when she asked the men, “Did you happen to bring suits?”
Aaran and Adaire looked at each other, and Adaire said, “Why no, we didn’t. Looks like we all need to go shopping.”
Aaran grumbled, “Really, a suit?”
“I’ll help you pick one out, handsome. You’re going to look great,” Beattie said as she tucked her arm into Aaran’s. “Meet at the guesthouse in two hours.”
I glanced down at my watch. “Will that give us time for dinner?”
“Definitely,” Beattie said as she peeked at the tickets she’d tucked into her bag. “The concert isn’t until eight.”
“But the guys need to go change.” I turned to Adaire. “Does that give you enough time?”
“Well, we’re staying where you are, so if it’s enough time for you, I suppose it will be enough for us.” He winked at me.
“You knew they were coming?” I said as I turned to my best friend.
“I may have gotten a text from Aaran yesterday,” she said with a smirk. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“Actually,” Adaire said as he took my hand. “I asked her not to tell you. You said you love surprises.”
I grinned. I did love surprises. “Okay, see you all in two hours,” I said as I pulled Adaire up the street and into a small alley, where I gave him the welcome kiss he deserved.
“That was a nice surprise,” he said.
“I take it you like surprises, too,” I said with my own wink. “Help me pick a dress?” I tugged him back onto the street and toward a boutique I’d seen the day before when we were buying more utilitarian clothes.
“Of course. What color are we looking for?” he asked as we stepped inside a veritable rainbow of fabric. “Might I suggest a teal?” He pulled out the skirt of a chiffon, empire-waisted dress that would flatter my figure well.
“I’ll definitely try it out,” I said as I lifted a red cocktail dress from another rack.
We made our way around the shop, and when it was time for me to go to the dressing room, he followed me back “to help.” As I tried on the first dress, I wondered how Beattie was faring. Given that she was quite tall, finding clothes could sometimes be hard . . . and then I wondered if Aaran had volunteered to help her as Adaire had me. Suddenly, I had a pressing question.
“Adaire, how does your brother feel about Beattie?” I asked.
He looked at me in surprise, but then I supposed he saw the concern on my face and sobered a bit. “He really cares about her,” he said.
I stepped out of the dressing room in the red cocktail dress and turned so Adaire could zip the back. “That’s good.” I stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself before turning to face Adaire.
Adaire’s face changed as he put the pieces together for my question and my concern. “Aaran knows she is trans. She told him a while back. He told me he doesn’t care about what’s under her clothes if that’s what you’re worried about. He just cares about her.”
A wave of relief washed over me. “Okay, good. We hadn’t really talked about it, she and I, and then when you showed up today . . .”
“Right, that part of the surprise probably wasn’t ideal,” he pulled me into a quick hug. “But you don’t have to worry. I don’t know the details, but Aaran made sure I knew he knew and that he didn’t care.”
I smiled. “Excellent. Now, let’s talk about this dress. I do care, and I don’t like it.”
“You look beautiful,” he said, “but I don’t think this is the one.”
I smiled and went back into the dressing room. I tried on everything I’d picked out, and none of them were right. But when I slipped into the teal chiffon Adaire had picked, I knew immediately just by the feel that the dress was perfect.
And Adaire’s expression when I stepped out confirmed it. His eyes got wide, and a flush spread up his cheeks. “Wow,” he said, “Oh, Poe, this one is bonnie.” His brogue got a little deeper as he spoke.
I looked down with embarrassment, but when I finally turned and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I couldn’t disagree. The dress hung lightly against my hips, and it made my collarbone look like Kiera Knightley’s. It was the perfect blend of Jane Austen meets Met Gala, and I loved it. “This is the one,” I said and felt—almost—like those brides on that show where they pick their wedding gowns.
As soon as that thought crossed my mind, though, I forced it out. This wasn’t a wedding gown, and Adaire and I weren’t even really dating. I was getting way ahead of myself—no, not just ahead of myself, into a new lane that hadn’t even been marked yet. I took a long, deep breath.
“It is the one,” Adaire said as he stepped so close behind me that I could feel his breath on my neck. “You are beautiful.” He placed a soft kiss on my neck, and my breath caught.
No lane yet, Poe. No lane, I thought. “I’m going to get it,” I said as I stepped forward and away from him before I lost myself completely.
“No, I am,” he said as he carefully removed the safety-pinned tag and headed to the counter.
I stared after him, not sure what to do since I was in a gorgeous gown that I had been planning to charge and pay off over, say, the next five years. But then I heard Beattie’s voice in my head, “Take the gift, Poe. Let him have this.”
I took a deep breath, went back into the dressing room, and decided I needed to make my own lane, starting tonight.
Fortunately, Adaire was a decisive man, and he was able to quickly pick a charcoal-gray suit with a thin cream stripe, a lovely cream shirt, and a gorgeous paisley tie with just a bit of the same teal color as my dress. Then we hustled back to our rooms to get changed.
When I burst in, I almost ran right into Beattie, who was standing in front of the mirror in a long, satin sheath that fit her perfectly. The simple lines of silver cloth accentuated her height but in a way that highlighted her willowy figure and graceful movements. She’d found some silver ballet flats, which seemed wise because she and Aaran were matched in height if she didn’t wear heels. Her hair was swept up in a chignon. She looked just a bit edgy and altogether gorgeous.
Without a word, I stripped and then stepped into my dress, and when Beattie turned to look at me, she gasped. “Poe, that dress is perfect.”
“Adaire picked it,” I said and blushed. “Actually, he bought it for me.”
“Those Anderson men. Aaran bought these for me,” she pointed to a graceful chain-link necklace and matching earrings that were so perfectly my best friend’s style that I could have cried. They were six parts rock ’n’ roll and four parts elegance, just like her.
“Okay, now you need shoes,” Beattie said. “These will be perfect.” She tugged a pair of silver pumps out of my bag. “But they need something.” Then from out of her “bag of magic,” as I called the small clutch she kept with beauty odds and ends, she tugged two silver ribbons. “Put your legs up on the bed.”
I had long ago learned not to challenge my friend and smoothed my dress below me as I followed her direction. She wrapped the ribbons around my ankles and tucked the ends into the backs of my shoes. “There,” she said. “Now, your makeup and hair.”
Ten minutes later, my hair was held back by a thin circlet of silver that Beattie had acquired for me while she shopped, and my makeup was shimmering and romantic. In contrast to her dark eyeliner and bright lips, I looked demure, which I actually liked for the night. I felt not only demure but beautiful, and for once, I was okay with playing that up.
When the men met us in the foyer of the guesthouse, both of them whistled, and I stopped dead on the steps when I saw Adaire in his suit. His dark curls were styled with something that made them more noticeable, and he’d left a carefully groomed line of shadow on his jaw. The tie brought out the flecks of gold in his eyes, and when I finally forced myself to move over and hug him, I breathed in the rich scent of a cologne that felt both nautical and woodsy. He was so swoon-worthy that I could hardly stand it.
Our host had recommended a little restaurant around the corner to the men, so we walked that way after donning cloaks she let us borrow. When we entered, I sighed. The whole place was lit by candlelight, and we were taken to a small table for four by the front window that looked out on the quiet street. This night just kept getting more and more perfect.
Our food was delicious, but I couldn’t tell you much about it because I was so distracted by Adaire and the fact that he kept his ankle pressed against mine for the entire meal. Between that bit of flirting and the very good Icelandic wine we had, I was giddy by the time we stood to leave for the concert, and I took Adaire’s arm, both to be close to him and to steady myself.
The concert hall was a beautiful room that was hung completely in deep blue velvet drapes, and the room was small, with perhaps seating for twenty. Our seats were up front, in the second row, and beside us sat Inga and Gunnar, holding hands. “You two are a couple,” I said before I could stop myself.
Inga smiled. “We are. It’s good to see you again,” she said as I sat down next to her. “And you two are a couple as well, I see?” She looked at where I had set my hand on Adaire’s knee without thinking.
I blushed and nodded, not sure what to say.
“We are,” Adaire answered as he leaned over me, then Inga to shake Gunnar’s hand.
I caught his eye, and he winked before leaning close to me. “If that’s okay with you,” he said.
“Of course,” I said and kissed his cheek. “But we may need to talk logistics.”
“I have a plan,” he said and put his hand over mine on his leg. “Don’t you worry, lass.”
Oh, I wasn’t worrying. I was very busy swooning.
The music was gorgeous, and Björk was stunning in her simple dress and tall boots. I didn’t know her music well, but it left me feeling haunted in the best way, as if I’d just spent the evening with fairies and elves and was carrying the aura of their magic with me.
The whole night was spectacularly beautiful, and when Inga and Gunnar invited us to meet Björk after the show, we couldn’t resist. I didn’t want the night to end. And while I was a bit too shy to actually say anything to the superstar singer, I did shake her hand and listened as she and Beattie discussed a group called Iona that they both loved.
As the seven of us talked, I noticed a stocky, long-haired woman with a sallow complexion waiting by the door. She was bouncing from foot to foot, and I wondered if she had to go to the bathroom or was waiting to say hi to Björk herself.
When we thanked the singer for her performance one last time and headed for the door, the woman who had been lingering stepped in front of me. “Poe Baxter,” she said. “I’m Erika Weber, and I’d like to talk to you about the collection of sagas you are selling.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Inga and Gunnar pass a look between them, and I felt my guard go up just a bit. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Weber. But I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” I didn’t want to lie to the woman, so I didn’t say anything further. The book was not currently for sale after all.
She tilted her head and smiled at me in a way that made me want to scrub my skin with a hard-bristled brush. “We both know that is not true.”
I felt Adaire take my arm, and on my other side, Beattie stepped forward. But their gestures were acts of solidarity, not actions of distrust in my ability to handle the situation. “Ms. Weber, we have just met, and you have already accused me of lying. I wish you a good evening, but I am going now.” I moved to step around the woman, who blocked most of the doorway, but she stepped into my path.
“I’m afraid I must insist, Ms. Baxter.” She smiled again, and this time, her look made my teeth hurt.
Aaran stepped forward and physically moved the woman aside. From my perspective, it looked like he had to put a considerable amount of his fisherman’s muscle into his actions, but she did move over a couple of feet. Then Aaran turned his body sideways and motioned for us to walk by.
Once we were past her, Ms. Weber followed us down the stairs into the foyer. “I don’t think we understand each other,” she said. “My employer must have that manuscript, and he would like it this evening.”
At that moment, I finally registered her accent. It was the phrase this evening that made the association for me because it called up an image of Dracula. She must be Romanian, I thought. “That is not going to happen,” I said with as much finality as I could. “If your employer wishes to discuss books, he can call Fitzhugh Simmons at Demetrius Books in the States. Good night.”
I turned to go and felt everyone else turn as well, but then Beattie yelped beside me and said, “What in the world?”
“Let her go,” Aaran shouted.
Ms. Weber had Beattie by the arm and was pulling her back into the foyer. “As I’ve said, we will complete this transaction this evening.”
Just then, a large man in a black suit came down the stairs, took Ms. Weber by the arms, and pulled her backward. “Björk wishes you a good evening,” he said as he continued to drag the woman away.
If the whole situation hadn’t been very scary, I might have laughed at the sight of Ms. Weber trying to fight against a man who was almost double her size. Somehow, though, I didn’t think this would be the last we saw of her, and instead of laughing, I collapsed against Adaire once we were outside.
“Perhaps,” Inga said, “you will allow us to call you a taxi. The walk to your lodgings is not advisable, it seems.”
Adaire nodded. “Thank you. We will wait there”—he pointed to a coffee shop on the corner—“for the ride.”
“Most recent events aside,” Gunnar said, “I hope you enjoyed your evening.”
All of us nodded, and I said, “It was lovely. Please thank the president for us.” I wasn’t sure that was something appropriate or fitting to say, but I meant it. The whole night had felt like an honor.
Gunnar and Inga waved as they walked up the street, and Gunnar put his phone to his ear to call us a cab. The four of us checked traffic and then jogged across the street and sat in the back of the coffee shop while we waited for our ride.