The Cartographers(27)

But it had rained all night, and when she went into the history section, she found muddy footprints on the carpet.

She and the other librarians checked and double-checked everything that day, going through the entire catalog by hand. Only that map was gone—nothing else.

Nell sighed. The more she looked into it, the fewer answers, and more questions, she had.

Ramona was her only lead. She had no choice.

She just hoped the dealer might know something more about the map than just its price—or maybe could even tell her who her father’s potential buyers for it were.

The bell on the door dinged as Nell pushed it cautiously open and stepped inside. A darkness fell over her immediately, the shop being so much dimmer than the bright morning outside. As her eyes adjusted, a small, involuntary gasp escaped her lips.

It looked as though she’d left Chinatown and stepped into a secret world.

The interior of RW Rare Maps was made of wood and painted black, giving the place an ancient, solemn feel more like a magician’s workshop than the dry, stuffy map dealers’ offices Nell was used to. Instead of typical overhead lights in the ceiling, lantern-like sconces dotted the walls, casting a soft, yellow glow over everything. And every inch of available space—the display tables, the shelves, the sales counter, even empty spots on the floor—had books and maps stacked everywhere.

As she stood there taking it all in, Nell realized what it reminded her of. The kingdom of buried treasure in the uncatalogued basement of the NYPL.

Where had Ramona gotten all of these maps? It was far, far more than any dealer had. It was more than some small archives had, even.

Her fingers itched with curiosity. She wanted to open every atlas, turn every single page, to see what treasures were hidden inside.

“We’re closed,” a voice said from behind, startling her.

Nell jumped and spun around, her heart pounding. In the shadows of the corner stood a woman, her arms crossed. She was dressed in dark colors and had been waiting with such stillness, Nell had failed to notice her when she’d entered.

“Ramona Wu?” she asked once she thought her voice would be steady.

The woman stepped forward. She was about the same age as Nell’s father, or perhaps just a little younger. Short, though not quite as short as Nell, with dark straight hair pulled into a simple bun. Everything about her was the way Nell would expect an unscrupulous dealer with possible connections to the underworld of stolen texts and art to be, a sharpness bordering on flinty—except her eyes. They looked . . . almost afraid.

“Yes,” Ramona said at last. “And you’re Daniel Young’s daughter.”

“I am,” Nell confirmed. “How did you know?”

She studied Nell for a few more moments. “You look just like him.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Nell replied. “Didn’t see him much these last few years.”

Ramona nodded faintly. Nell knew that even on the periphery of the industry, Ramona would have been told about the Junk Box Incident by some client or another.

“I heard the news of his passing. I’m sorry for your loss,” Ramona said. She turned toward the counter. “But you shouldn’t be here.”

“Wait, please,” Nell said, surprised. She had expected Ramona to be happy, eager—not cagey. “Did the Cartographers contact you?”

Ramona looked up at her slowly, as if she’d been struck. She withdrew even further, shrinking in on herself, the effect so unsettling that Nell was afraid she was about to disappear into thin air. “How do you know about the Cartographers?” she asked.

“They’re . . . collectors?” Nell faltered.

In truth, she didn’t really know what they were. The internet seemed to think the group was either a bogeyman or a joke, academic literature made no mention of them at all, and Swann recalled having heard of them somewhere a long time ago, but believed they were more fiction than fact. A manufactured scapegoat over the years for frustrated collectors or lazy researchers to blame for losing a bid or a source. Nell herself wasn’t sure what she believed yet. But their name came up too many times in connection with her map—and in too sinister a way—to ignore.

“I thought perhaps you were selling something for my father,” she said, trying a different approach.

She could see in the dealer’s expression that of all the possibilities Nell could have guessed for how the two things were connected, that was the wrong one. The woman took another step back and crossed her arms.

“I don’t have any dealings with them,” Ramona replied. “I can’t help you.”

“Just tell me wh—” Nell began, but Ramona cut her off.

“I’m very sorry about your father. But you need to leave now.”

“But he must have had your card hidden in his portfolio for a reason,” Nell pressed, ignoring her.

“Please leave,” Ramona said.

Nell frowned, confused. If Ramona was indeed her father’s dealer, she must have been disappointed that he’d died before a sale went through. Why wasn’t she now thrilled that she still potentially had a shot at the commission? Had the Cartographers, if they were even real, threatened her? But if they were buyers, why would they do that, if she was trying to sell them the map anyway?

“I’m not going to ask again,” Ramona said, her voice growing sharper.