He spotted some hand-written script on the first blank page of La Galanta, a Spanish novel. His breath caught in his throat. It read, in James’s handwriting, I’m Sorry.
He flipped through the rest of the book but found no other inscription. He pulled out the book beside it and looked to its first page as well. Nothing. Another and another. He was being silly. He pulled out a copy of Locke’s Leviathan. And there was another inscription, written by James: Visited Eleanor Guthrie today. She is on board with our plans. Sorry I couldn’t stay.
Another inscription after a longer search: See you tonight. Leave a light on for me?
Intrigued and moved, Thomas madly went through the bookcase, laying open the books with James’s messages inside them and haphazardly shoving the rest back on the shelf. Then he stumbled across a message that made him gasp: Mr. Gates knows where the Maria Aleyne is. We’ll talk in the morning.
He knew well the name of the ship his late father had been on when he had died.
And then: I’m sorry. Have me for dinner?
And finally: I’m sorry. I love you. I just miss him.
Thomas laid the last book down amongst its brothers with an unsteady hand. He swallowed the lump in this throat, closing his eyes against the sudden onslaught of tears. Well. He had wanted some kind of proof. Here it was.
Meg's Mumbles 