“What does it say in English?” Poppy asks.
Tolliver’s eyes flick to me and he clears his throat. “Nothing.”
“It’s possible it’s shorthand,” Rook concedes.
Tolliver shrugs, then holds his hand out.
“Good job,” I say, giving him back the Switch.
After a little bit of analysis, we find that Tolliver is correct and the translation does in fact correspond with sounds. We’re able to come up with something of a cipher based on how much Alice was able to translate before the hellhound showed up.
Then we run into our second problem.
It turns out the codex won’t even let you copy it in another language. Each time we try to write out our translations, our hands freeze up, just like Poppy’s did at the museum. After some trial and error, we find we can get around this by translating in the margins of the codex itself, which, strangely, it allows. As long as we’re using some of the special ink from CJ’s bookbinding kit.
We end up in a sort of assembly line. Poppy and I are good at translating from what we’ve dubbed Voynish into sounds, and then Rook and CJ are best at making sense of the sounds into Latin words. Tolliver is oddly good at translating the Latin into English with the help of an old Latin dictionary of Rook’s. We tried using Google Translate, but we couldn’t even type phrases from the codex into the computer, as I guess that counts as copying the manuscript and is against whatever spell protects it. Ezra is keeping a spreadsheet that summarizes what we translate—when he’s not incessantly asking us when his magic is going to kick in, like it’s cold medicine.
Crowlene turns pages.
We translate just enough of each section to figure out if it’s the resurrection spell and then move on. It’s a pretty good system, but it still takes us longer than I’d like.
It’s not until the fifth day that we find what we’re looking for.
“This is…” Tolliver says slowly as he writes out his latest translation, sitting cross-legged and barefoot at the far end of the coffee table. “The sacred…rite…of resurrection…‘He who aspires’—”
“What?” Poppy squeals.
“Read that again,” I demand.
We all crowd around Tolliver. Even Crowlene looks interested, until her good eye pops out and I have to put it back in.
“It’s going to be a while, my dudes,” Tolliver says, not looking up from the codex.
We spend the next few hours playingMario Kart, stress eating, and sneaking peeks over Tolliver’s shoulder.
Finally, he sits back, lays the pen down, and gives us all a wide grin. “Done!”
It’s a mad dash for the codex. Poppy gets there first and stands smugly, cradling the manuscript. She clears her throat.
“Please sit for a dramatic reading of…” She glances down at the page. “ ‘The Whisper of Bones.’ ”
“That’s a good name,” I say. Tolliver nods.
Poppy takes center stage in front of the fireplace. A few years ago, she decided that spot has the best acoustics in the house because of the high ceiling and stone backdrop. She squares her shoulders, clears her throat, and then begins her recitation in her most theatrical voice. “ ‘This is the sacred rite of resurrection. He’—or she, or they—‘who aspires to raise the dead should know this rite is not for the fainthearted.’ ”
She looks at each of us in turn in with a faux warning glare.
“ ‘One soul, blessed with a mysterious gift that flows through the marrow, first must gather the due elements’—Jesus, that’s wordy, isn’t it?”
“Less commentary, Pop,” I say.
She gives me a real warning glare this time before continuing. “ ‘First gather the due elements: fresh leaves gathered under a waxing moon’—”
“Easy,” Tolliver says.
“—‘the essence of petrichor taken at midnight’—”
“Someone check their weather app,” Tolliver says. I shush him.