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small, strangled gasp.
    â€œWould you look at that,” Dr. Aimes said with a kind of satisfied triumph that made it clear he hadn’t noticed his daughter’s distress either. He turned the book to show us that the object wasn’t a book at all. Beneath the cover, a startlingly crisp image of a couple peered out from behind thick glass.
    I recognized who they were immediately—in the big house there were matching portraits of Roman Dutilette and his much younger French wife, Josephine. But seeing them like this, I understood Lucy’s reaction. The images were so clear, so lifelike that it seemed like the pair had been shrunken and trapped under the glass.
    â€œDid you have any record of Roman commissioning a daguerreotype?” Dr. Aimes asked Byron, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He was already moving on to the other book, which turned out to actually be a book this time.
    â€œIt appears to be a journal,” he said, holding the slim volume in his gloved hands and opening it carefully. It was covered in dark, cracked leather that looked near to disintegrating, but the edges of the pages were tipped in gold. Even I could see that at one time, it had been a rich man’s book.
    As Dr. Aimes turned the pages of the book carefully, his whole expression was rapt and almost possessive. He was looking at the book like it was some kind of buried treasure for him alone. “From my very meager French, it looks like a journal that belonged to Roman Dutilette. But much of it is written in some kind of code.”
    â€œWhy would he write in code?” Lucy asked doubtfully.
    â€œProbably to keep his thoughts private. It’s not like he would’ve been the first,” Piers explained. “William Byrd’s is probably the most famous example of a slave owner keeping a coded diary, but I doubt he was the only one.” Piers leaned forward, his brows drawn together as he looked at the book. “Can I see it?” he asked.
    Dr. Aimes frowned, like he wasn’t quite ready to give up the volume, but Piers was already pulling on a pair of the white gloves they use for handling the old stuff. Reluctantly, Dr. Aimes handed it over.
    â€œIt’s not a code,” Piers said after a few moments of studying the pages.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Dr. Aimes looked completely baffled.
    â€œIt’s a language,” Piers explained, pointing out something on the small volume’s yellowed pages. “See here, this marking is the Nsibidi symbol for woman.”
    â€œEn-sigh-what?” Byron asked, narrowing his eyes at Piers.
    â€œNsibidi. It’s a language that’s used in Western Africa by the Igbo people,” Piers said. “I did a paper on some of the ceremonial uses of it a few years back for Professor Lamont’s grad seminar. It’s still used, but there are hundreds of secret symbols that are only passed between family members or between teachers and their students.”
    â€œWhy would Dutilette be writing in some African language?” Byron asked, scowling at Piers.
    â€œOh, there could be any number of reasons,” Dr. Aimes said. “It’s possible that he didn’t write it, or it’s possible that one of his slaves taught him.”
    Byron snorted.
    Dr. Aimes didn’t acknowledge Byron’s derision. “Can you read any more of it?” he asked Piers.
    Piers shook his head. “Languages aren’t really my thing,” he said. “But if I’m right about what it is, it shouldn’t be all that hard to translate.”
    â€œLeonard, you’re going to have to put that away now.” Lucy’s mom peeked her head through the door. “Dinner is almost ready, and we have a guest.” Mrs. Aimes gave me a smile that was a welcome and apology all at once. It was a motherly smile, and it felt like a punch to the gut. “You’re staying too, Piers?”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” he