Chapter 6 - THE PROFESSOR WHO CALLED ME A FRAUD
The scholarly assessment began badly.
Dr. Adrian Bellamy, a historical linguist from Columbia University, arrived at the independent conservation laboratory carrying a laptop and an expression of professional irritation.
He was the same professor who had admitted defeat at the Meridian Room.
Now he stood across from me studying a manuscript he'd publicly suggested was impossible.
“This isn't a lost language,” he announced.
I folded my arms.
“Then what is it?”
“A private scholarly invention. Perhaps a family code dressed up as antiquity.”
I looked at him.
“Those aren't mutually exclusive possibilities. But you're making a conclusion before examining the evidence.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Miss Bennett, I have a doctorate.”
“And I have the manuscript.”
The conservation specialist beside us coughed to hide a laugh.
Adrian's expression hardened.
“Do you know how many supposed ancient texts turn out to be modern fabrications?”
“Yes.”
That surprised him.
I continued.
“Which is why I asked for independent dating, materials analysis, handwriting comparison, and a review of the provenance. I haven't claimed this physical copy is centuries old.”
He stared.
Then asked, “Where did you study?”
“At my grandfather's kitchen table.”
His mouth tightened.
“That's not an institution.”
“No,” I said. “It's where I learned.”
The next six weeks changed everything.
The conservation team established that the Register itself was a late twentieth-century compilation, incorporating copies of older documents and annotations by multiple hands.
That wasn't a disappointment.
It was an important distinction.
Some source passages appeared to derive from much earlier traditions.
Others were clearly modern.
No evidence established the sensational claim that a complete ancient language had miraculously survived unchanged for centuries.
But the manuscript preserved an unusual mixed register that scholars had not adequately documented.
My grandfather hadn't taught me a fairy tale.
He had taught me a living scholarly tradition built around fragments, pronunciations, and generations of interpretation.
The distinction mattered.
And so did the names recorded in the Register.
As I worked, Adrian's attitude slowly changed.
At first, he corrected every word I used.
Then he began asking questions.
One afternoon, he found me comparing two passages.
“Why are you reading the marginal mark as a witness designation?”
I pointed toward another page.
“Because the same hand used it beside three other testimonies. And look at the grammatical ending.”
He leaned closer.
I explained the pattern.
He remained quiet.
Then opened his notebook.
“Could you show me again?”
I smiled.
“Of course.”
It was the first time he'd asked me to teach him something.
Meanwhile, Khalid began spending more time at the laboratory.
He didn't interrupt.
Sometimes he sat quietly reviewing legal documents.
Sometimes he brought coffee.
Once, he arrived with an expensive bouquet of white roses.
I looked at the flowers.
“Who died?”
He stared.
“No one.”
“Then why the funeral arrangement?”
He laughed.
“I thought you'd like flowers.”
“I do. But this is an archive, not a wedding.”
He looked around.
Then smiled.
“Noted.”
The next morning, he brought a single yellow daisy in a small glass jar.
I laughed.
“Much better.”
One evening, Adrian uncovered a disturbing discrepancy.
Several pages of the Register matched catalog descriptions from the Al-Masri Foundation's private archive.
But the foundation's copies were incomplete.
The missing sections included names of families who had disputed the foundation's acquisition of manuscript collections.
Adrian looked toward me.
“If these records are authentic, they could be relevant to present-day ownership claims.”
I nodded.
“That's what Grandpa thought.”
Khalid entered as we spoke.
Adrian showed him the pages.
Khalid read them.
His expression darkened.
“These documents were supposed to have been destroyed.”
I looked up.
“Who told you that?”
He hesitated.
“Dr. Farouk.”
The room fell silent.
Then Khalid looked toward the manuscript.
“My sister accused him of altering the foundation catalog.”
My pulse quickened.
“And?”
Khalid swallowed.
“My father believed him instead of her.”
That night, I returned home to find my apartment door open.
The lock had been damaged.
Drawers were pulled out.
Books lay scattered across the floor.
The bed had been overturned.
But the trunk wasn't there.
It was safe in the conservation facility.
I stood in the doorway, frozen.
Then called the police.
While I waited, I noticed something on my kitchen table.
A white envelope.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
The message had been written in the Keeper script.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
It was my grandfather's.
If they come looking for the seventh door, tell Khalid to ask who arranged Maryam's last journey.
May you like
Underneath, in a different hand, someone had written:
HE ALREADY KNOWS.
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