“I love margins,” I said, and for the first time in a long time, the sentence came out with a genuine smile, without any ulterior motives. “That’s where the things that really matter usually go.”
“Exactly,” he agreed, placing his cup on a coaster. “Take your time. There’s no rush. Work at your own pace. If you need more light, the brass lamp has a dimmer. I’ll leave you alone so you can concentrate.”
The man withdrew into an adjoining room, closing the door behind him and leaving me in absolute silence, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of a pendulum clock hanging on the wall.
I spent the next three hours immersed in the year 1864. My fingers, covered by thin cotton gloves that Mr. Aslan had provided to protect the paper, turned the pages with an almost maternal gentleness. The Veneti
