The Unwritten Chronicle

Previously

…Ms. Albright peered at the sketch through her bifocals, her expression unreadable. She took the paper gingerly, as if it might crumble to dust beneath her touch. She turned it this way and that, her lips pursed. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant rustle of pages and the soft ticking of a grandfather clock in the main hall. “Hmm,” she finally said, her voice dry as old parchment. “It’s not immediately familiar. It has a certain… tribal feel to it, perhaps? But not one I can place. Celtic? Indigenous American? It’s too stylized for a common runic alphabet.” She handed the sketch back, her gaze lingering