The Runestone Incident (The Incident Series, #2) by Neve Maslakovic Page A
Authors: Neve Maslakovic
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no doubt a charming and trouble-making three-y ear-old . I searched the mustachioed face for similarities to Quinn, but found it difficult because of how expressionless Magnus’s face was—his grandson had never not had a grin in photos, even our wedding ones.
Like Quinn had told me, and I had in turn told Dr. Holm, Magnus had tried his hand at various things in search of that elusive fortune before marrying and fathering a child late in life, at age fifty. He never did amass a fortune, but he established a comfortable life with Ellen Olsen, who was now also gone. They had owned a magic shop in Rochester, which Quinn remembered fondly as stocking everything from whoopee cushions to gear for more serious magicians. It didn’t bode well for Magnus Olsen’s veracity that he had become a connoisseur of the art of illusion and trickery.
Which suited me just fine. I moved the mouse to delete the photo, but something prevented me from clicking. Instead, I washed up and headed to bed.
It did make for a good tale, admittedly. A party of explorers from the unknown land of wild grapes, Vinland. I imagined the Norsemen as rugged, self-sufficient types, with mud on their boots and suntanned, wind-bitten features, driven to face the dangers of exploring what was (to them) a new land. What had sent them on their journey? Economic hardship, a Europe in the grips of the Black Death…or the desire to chisel their names into history, a personality trait that Magnus and Quinn shared, although Quinn was hardly the danger-seeking type? Whatever it was, something had gone badly wrong. Those who had lived to tell the tale had done so with stone and chisel. Six hundred years would pass before an immigrant farmer would find their memorial clasped in the root of a tree.
Or not. I fluffed up my pillow and turned toward the window , where the just risen half-moon was peeking out from under the bedroom shades. I realized that I wanted the stone to be a hoax because Quinn believed in it. But it wasn’t only that. The bottom line was that if the stone was real—well, it would be that much harder to send Quinn on his way.
6
Saturday morning I got up with the realization that for Sabina’s sake I could not just sit back and wait for Quinn to lose interest in time travel and leave town. There was a simple way out of this, and that was to find proof in the present that the runestone was a fake. Because here was the thing: When Quinn called back on Monday, I wanted to be better armed. If the Vikings-in-Minnesota story was a myth, then there had to be proof of that in the present. And I wanted to be able to shove that proof under his nose.
And if the runestone was real…well, there should be proof of that, too.
I had two days to find it. Something that no one had managed to do in more than a hundred years.
I figured the best way to start would be by following one of one of time travel’s unwritten rules, Do your library research first . Wikipedia only got you so far.
After eating a quick breakfast and showering, I grabbed a light jacket and my shoulder bag and left the house, careful to close the front door quietly so as not to wake Abigail and Sabina. I decided to walk to campus—it was just a twenty-minute stroll to the Coffey Library, on the opposite side of the lake from my office. I hadn’t been to the library much since graduating with my business degree. And here I was about to ascend its steps for the second time in as many days.
It was a weekend, but like all student spaces on campus, the library hummed with activity, albeit of the quiet kind. Headphoned students sat holed up in corners, studying. The librarian at the front desk, Scott, greeted me cheerfully and asked if I needed any help. I shook my head and asked how the funding drive for the new library wing was progressing. The expansion, still in the planning stage, was meant to house our steadily increasing store of ancient texts, most of them painstakingly obtained on STEWie
Like Quinn had told me, and I had in turn told Dr. Holm, Magnus had tried his hand at various things in search of that elusive fortune before marrying and fathering a child late in life, at age fifty. He never did amass a fortune, but he established a comfortable life with Ellen Olsen, who was now also gone. They had owned a magic shop in Rochester, which Quinn remembered fondly as stocking everything from whoopee cushions to gear for more serious magicians. It didn’t bode well for Magnus Olsen’s veracity that he had become a connoisseur of the art of illusion and trickery.
Which suited me just fine. I moved the mouse to delete the photo, but something prevented me from clicking. Instead, I washed up and headed to bed.
It did make for a good tale, admittedly. A party of explorers from the unknown land of wild grapes, Vinland. I imagined the Norsemen as rugged, self-sufficient types, with mud on their boots and suntanned, wind-bitten features, driven to face the dangers of exploring what was (to them) a new land. What had sent them on their journey? Economic hardship, a Europe in the grips of the Black Death…or the desire to chisel their names into history, a personality trait that Magnus and Quinn shared, although Quinn was hardly the danger-seeking type? Whatever it was, something had gone badly wrong. Those who had lived to tell the tale had done so with stone and chisel. Six hundred years would pass before an immigrant farmer would find their memorial clasped in the root of a tree.
Or not. I fluffed up my pillow and turned toward the window , where the just risen half-moon was peeking out from under the bedroom shades. I realized that I wanted the stone to be a hoax because Quinn believed in it. But it wasn’t only that. The bottom line was that if the stone was real—well, it would be that much harder to send Quinn on his way.
6
Saturday morning I got up with the realization that for Sabina’s sake I could not just sit back and wait for Quinn to lose interest in time travel and leave town. There was a simple way out of this, and that was to find proof in the present that the runestone was a fake. Because here was the thing: When Quinn called back on Monday, I wanted to be better armed. If the Vikings-in-Minnesota story was a myth, then there had to be proof of that in the present. And I wanted to be able to shove that proof under his nose.
And if the runestone was real…well, there should be proof of that, too.
I had two days to find it. Something that no one had managed to do in more than a hundred years.
I figured the best way to start would be by following one of one of time travel’s unwritten rules, Do your library research first . Wikipedia only got you so far.
After eating a quick breakfast and showering, I grabbed a light jacket and my shoulder bag and left the house, careful to close the front door quietly so as not to wake Abigail and Sabina. I decided to walk to campus—it was just a twenty-minute stroll to the Coffey Library, on the opposite side of the lake from my office. I hadn’t been to the library much since graduating with my business degree. And here I was about to ascend its steps for the second time in as many days.
It was a weekend, but like all student spaces on campus, the library hummed with activity, albeit of the quiet kind. Headphoned students sat holed up in corners, studying. The librarian at the front desk, Scott, greeted me cheerfully and asked if I needed any help. I shook my head and asked how the funding drive for the new library wing was progressing. The expansion, still in the planning stage, was meant to house our steadily increasing store of ancient texts, most of them painstakingly obtained on STEWie
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