The first official meeting of the “Material Anomalies Working Group” was held in the smallest conference room on the third floor.
Leona had insisted on a space “away from the public flow,” which Isla privately translated as “a room where no donors can overhear us saying ‘curse.’”
The attendees list read like the setup to a very niche joke.
One dragon-touched conservator.
One anomaly specialist.
One cranky curator.
One security officer with a hero complex.
One cathedral representative (Sister Agnès, Benedictine, mid-sixties, blue eyes like drill bits).
One physics professor from the local university (Dr. Malik, forties, harried, sweater with chalk dust).
And, because the board insisted on “oversight,” the deputy director, a man who spoke fluent budget and very little else.
Isla took a seat midway down the table, notebook open, pen poised.
She was not, officially, leading this group.
Leona had that honor.
But Halpern had looked at her that morning and said, “You’ll steer it anyway, Reyes. You always do.”
She wasn’t sure if that had been a compliment.
Leona stood at the head of the table, tablet in hand.
“Thank you all for coming,” she said. “Our goal is simple: to understand and mitigate the patterns of anomalous activity intersecting with this institution and its neighbors.”
“Simple,” Dr. Malik muttered. “Right.”
Sister Agnès folded her hands calmly.
“The devil loves simple goals,” she said.
The deputy director winced.
“We agreed to avoid theological language,” he said. “For messaging purposes.”
Sister Agnès smiled sweetly.
“I’m speaking as a private citizen,” she said. “Not as the cathedral.”
“Of course,” Leona said smoothly. “For our purposes, we’ll refer to the phenomena as ‘anomalies.’ Whether you see those as demonic, energetic, or quantum foam is your own business.”
Dr. Malik perked up.
“Quantum foam is a perfectly respectable—” he began.
“Later, Malik,” Leona said.
He subsided.
Isla suppressed a smile.
“Dr. Reyes,” Leona went on, “has provided us with a comprehensive overview of the Schmiedler collection’s provenance issues and their correlation with reported anomalies.”
Eight eyes swung to Isla.
She swallowed.
“ ‘Comprehensive’ is generous,” she said. “Hopefully not libelous.”
A faint ripple of amusement went around the table.
She tapped the stack of printouts in front of her.
“We know Schmiedler acquired a significant portion of his medieval collection through… less-than-ethical channels,” she said. “We know several of those pieces are associated in the historical record with unusual phenomena—visions, ‘miracles,’ fatalities. We know objects from his bequest at the Hammond were targeted in the recent theft, and that similar signatures have been detected around our own Schmiedler holdings.”
She glanced at Sister Agnès.
“The cathedral’s records mention disturbances in the crypt in the 1950s,” she said. “Coinciding with a loan of certain relics to a private collector whose name is redacted in the copy I saw.”
Sister Agnès’s mouth twitched.
“Redacted for modesty,” she said. “The donor’s family prefers not to be associated publicly with… unpleasantness.”
“Privately?” Leona asked.
Sister Agnès’s gaze sharpened.
“Privately, the donor’s great-grandson is apologetic and very willing to cooperate,” she said. “He’s old enough now not to care what his grandfather did in 1953. He has agreed, in principle, to the return of certain items.”
“Items Schmiedler purchased,” Isla said quietly.
“Items that never should have left the crypt,” Sister Agnès corrected.
Dr. Malik cleared his throat.
“So we’re talking about… repatriation as containment,” he said. “Putting objects back where they ‘belong,’ energetically speaking, to calm whatever’s humming.”
“Partly,” Leona said. “We’re also talking about acknowledging that some sites are… nodes. Thin places. Fault lines. And that piling additional charged material on them without understanding the consequences is… unwise.”
“Understatement,” Tim murmured from his spot near the door.
Leona flicked him a look that held the ghost of a smile.
Isla jotted notes.
Her pen didn’t capture half of what needed saying.
“We can’t put everything back,” she said. “Some houses are gone. Some orders dissolved. Some communities… scattered. We can’t undo three hundred years of theft with a few shipments and a press release.”
“No,” Sister Agnès agreed. “But we can… apologize. Publicly. We can tell the truth. We can ask forgiveness. And sometimes the ground… listens.”
Leona’s brows rose.
“You’ve seen that,” she said.
Sister Agnès’s mouth creased into something like a smile.
“You think priests and nuns don’t know when the floor is about to drop?” she said. “We’ve been praying in buildings older than your country for centuries. When an apology is sincere, the stones sigh. When it’s not, they crack.”
Dr. Malik blinked.
“That’s… metaphor,” he said.
Sister Agnès tilted her head.
“Is it?” she asked.
Isla liked her immediately.
Leona turned back to the tablet.
“Parallel to repatriation, we need to map the anomalies more precisely,” she said. “Malik, your department has access to regional seismic and EM data going back decades. I want overlays on known sacred sites, Schmiedler acquisitions, and recent thefts.”
Dr. Malik brightened.
“Finally,” he said. “Something fun. I’ve got grad students desperate for theses.”
“Be careful what you feed them,” Sister Agnès murmured.
Leona looked at Tim.
“Security,” she said. “You’re our front line. Your people are the ones who feel these shifts first. We need them reporting. Honestly. Without fear of being laughed at or disciplined.”
Tim nodded.
“I’ve already told my team to log anything weird,” he said. “Headaches. Cold spots. Flickering lights. I’ll anonymize where I can so they don’t feel like they’re putting targets on their backs.”
The deputy director cleared his throat.
“Let’s be careful with… terminology,” he said. “We don’t want to create panic. Or liability.”
Leona’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“Liability is what happens when you fail to prepare,” she said. “Not when you name things.”
Isla fought the urge to clap.
“Dr. Reyes,” Leona said. “You and I will continue examining the Schmiedler oddities. Your… decoy sample is proving very… enlightening.”
Isla’s stomach flipped.
“Enlightening how?” she asked, keeping her voice even.
Leona’s gaze slid to her thumb.
“It behaves like a key that’s been… filed,” she said. “It scratches at certain bindings. Doesn’t open them. But irritates them. I suspect the original—” a meaningful look “—was more potent. Schmiedler either didn’t realize what he had, or he did and used it badly.”
“Mostly likely both,” Isla muttered.
Leona’s lips twitched.
“Most likely,” she agreed.
The conversation shifted to budgets, timelines, institutional reputation.
Isla’s mind drifted.
She imagined the working group as a series of circles.
One at this table.
One underground.
One in the city, unseeing.
Circles within circles.
“What say you, Dr. Reyes?” the deputy director asked suddenly.
She blinked.
“About what?” she asked, mortified.
“The public messaging,” he said. “If we start talking about… anomalies… in connection with our medieval collection, donors may get… nervous. Attendance might suffer.”
“Or spike,” Dr. Malik said under his breath. “ ‘Come see our haunted chalices.’”
The deputy director glared.
Isla exhaled.
“We don’t lead with ‘haunted,’” she said. “We lead with… honesty. Context. ‘These objects have complex histories. They’ve been the focus of intense belief. Of conflict. Of harm. Of healing. We’re working with community partners to tell those stories fully.’”
“And if someone asks if the museum is cursed?” he pressed.
She smiled thinly.
“We say, ‘Like every institution built on colonialism, we are working through the consequences of our past,’” she said. “And we make sure our alarms work.”
Tim snorted.
Leona’s eyes glinted with approval.
The deputy director sighed.
“I suppose that’s… better than ‘no comment,’” he said.
“Yes,” Leona murmured. “It is.”
***
After the meeting, Sister Agnès cornered Isla in the hallway.
“Dr. Reyes,” she said. “May I have a moment?”
“Of course,” Isla said, pulse ticking up.
The nun studied her for a long, unnervingly direct beat.
“You have a scar that glows,” she said.
The words were so blunt that Isla almost laughed.
“Subtle,” she said.
Sister Agnès’s mouth twitched.
“Subtlety is for the unobservant,” she said. “I felt it across the table when you flexed your hand. Like a candle under a blanket.”
Isla curled her fingers unconsciously.
“You… see… a lot,” she said.
Sister Agnès inclined her head.
“Old buildings teach you to pay attention,” she said. “So do vows. So does Grief. She puts sharp eyes in people who need them.”
Capitals clung to the word.
“You’re not… alarmed?” Isla asked.
“Oh, I’m very alarmed,” Sister Agnès said cheerfully. “But not by you. By what’s tugging on you.”
“The crack,” Isla said.
“The hunger,” Sister Agnès corrected. “It doesn’t understand… being. Only… filling. People like you are… complicated for it. You’re both vessel and dam.”
“Great,” Isla said faintly. “Who doesn’t want to be plumbing.”
Sister Agnès’s eyes crinkled.
“I like you,” she said.
“Thanks,” Isla managed.
The nun’s expression softened.
“You are not the first,” she said. “To be bound to something old in this city. There was a woman, once, in the 1800s. A laundress. She saw things in the steam. She kept the parish from collapsing—literally—by praying in the cracks. We don’t… tell her story often. She wasn’t… socially acceptable. But she was… vital.”
“Is she in your records?” Isla asked, heart thudding.
Sister Agnès nodded.
“I’ll send you her file,” she said. “Maybe it will help to know you’re not the first fool to stand in a fault line.”
Tears pricked Isla’s eyes.
“Thank you,” she said, voice rough.
“And if you ever need… confession,” Sister Agnès added dryly, “I won’t make you say three Hail Marys for saying ‘fuck’ too many times in the sub-basement.”
A startled laugh burst out of Isla.
“That’s very generous,” she said.
“We live in interesting times,” Sister Agnès said. “Generosity seems… prudent.”
She patted Isla’s shoulder like a grandmother and swept away, habits swaying.
Isla stood in the hallway, clutching her notebook, feeling the world tilt.
Again.
Again.
Always.
“Hey,” Tim said, appearing at her elbow. “You look like you just saw God.”
“Nun,” she said. “Close enough.”
He grinned.
“How’d it go?” he asked. “On a scale of ‘we’re all doomed’ to ‘maybe don’t buy beachfront property over a hellmouth’.”
“Somewhere in the middle,” she said. “We’re… not doomed yet. We have… allies.”
He glanced down the hall where Sister Agnès had vanished.
“Scary nun,” he said. “Good ally.”
“And Leona,” Isla added reluctantly.
“Scary witch,” Tim said. “Questionable ally.”
“And you,” she said softly.
He snorted.
“Scary security guard,” he said. “Underpaid ally.”
“And Cael,” she finished in her head.
Scary dragon.
Unexpected ally.
Dangerous almost-more.
Her heart thudded.
She exhaled.
“Dumplings tonight?” Tim asked. “Maya texted me. Said if we don’t show up, she’s making a Ouija board and summoning you.”
She laughed.
“Yeah,” she said. “Dumplings. Normal. Human. No cracks.”
He arched a brow.
“You sure you don’t want to invite Dragon Drama?” he asked.
Her cheeks warmed.
“Not yet,” she said. “I need one meal where no one talks about tethers.”
“Fair,” he said.
He bumped her shoulder lightly.
“C’mon,” he said. “I’ll walk you out before Leona finds another excuse to monologue about flux.”
She smiled.
Let him steer her toward the staff exit.
The floor under her feet still hummed.
But the vibration didn’t feel quite as sharp.
Maybe it was the knowledge that somewhere under the cathedral, a nun was cussing at the cracks in three languages.
Maybe it was the image of a laundress in the 1800s folding sheets and whispering prayers into the steam.
Maybe it was the memory of Cael’s forehead resting against hers for that brief, stolen second.
Whatever it was, it was enough.
For now.
***
End of Chapter 22.
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