Donovan returned from the city Wednesday evening as promised. Jax heard him coming down the stairs to workroom and turned to greet him.
“All three books are finished. I haven’t looked at the rest of your collection to see what else needs some repairing.”
“Put that on hold for a while,” Donovan replied, setting a badly battered leather-bound book on the worktable. “What do you think?”
“That if you paid more than twenty dollars for that you need your head examined?”
“Look again.”
Jax opened it and whistled softly. Despite the disrepair to the cover, the atlas itself appeared to be in pristine condition—and over a hundred and fifty years old from the date on the copyright page. He slowly paged through it, checking for any damages, missing pages, or the possibility that one or more of the
