The Scholar Council. There are names you can leave behind without forgetting them. The Council is one of those. The last time one of their representatives came to our house in Lagos, I was twelve. My mother shut the door so hard a framed photograph fell from the wall. She picked it up, returned it to the hook and told me to finish my homework. We never discussed the visit. Now Saoirse is standing in front of me with their seal on an envelope.
“What do they want?”
“You should read it.”
She holds it out. I take it, but my phone vibrates before I can break the seal. Three messages from the office. The last one says the client is already there.
“I have to go.”
Saoirse steps aside without trying to stop me. I put the envelope in my bag.
“Thank you.”
“For finding you?”
“For not making a speech.”
That brings out a quick smile.
“You’re welcome.”
I walk away. Halfway down the street I look back. She is not watching me. She is staring at the building I just left. By the time I reach the office, Mr Campbell has entered the stage of irritation where a man keeps his coat on to make sure everyone understands his time is valuable.
“Emre.”
“Mr Campbell. Sorry I’m late.”
He looks at his watch anyway. We spend the next hour discussing costs, lighting and a staircase he approved two weeks ago and now claims he has never seen. It is exactly the kind of meeting that normally leaves me wondering why anyone voluntarily works with people. Today, I’m grateful for it. Nobody mentions stars. Nobody knows there is a cream envelope in my bag. At eleven-thirty Campbell leaves convinced that the compromises he resisted were his ideas. James, one of the architects in my team, waits until the door closes.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“Lunch?”
“It’s not noon.”
He points at the clock. It is.
“Later.”
James shrugs and leaves. I stay in the conference room. The envelope has run out of places to hide. The seal is the same one I remember from childhood: seven stars arranged around an empty centre. I break it. The first paragraph is formal enough to make me impatient. The second makes me sit straighter. On 14 August, at approximately 16:42 GMT, a disturbance was recorded across nine celestial charts in Edinburgh. The nine people involved had no known relationship. Different families. Different ages. Different designations. One shared location. 41 High Street, Edinburgh. I read the address twice. The Royal Mile project. My project. For six minutes, according to the letter, all nine charts recorded something called cross-alignment. I have never heard the term, and the next sentence suggests the Council hasn’t either.
The final paragraph is shorter. Our review has identified a possible connection to your original celestial record. We request your presence in Lagos at the earliest possible opportunity. Request. They always liked that word. At seven, they requested another calculation. At nine, they requested more observation. At eleven, they requested access to records my mother had already refused to give them. By twelve, my mother had developed her own method of responding to requests. I read the letter again. Nine people. One building. A building I designed. There is a knock on the glass. James points at his watch from the corridor. I hold up one finger. He shakes his head and keeps walking. I take out my phone. Saoirse gave me her number before we separated. I stare at it for a moment before pressing call. She answers on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“It’s Emre.”
“I know.”
I let that go.
“I read the letter.”
A pause.
“What exactly happened to those nine people?”
Her voice changes. Less uncertain than it was on the street.
“They walked into your building with nine different designations.”
“And?”
“They came out connected to each other.”
I look through the glass wall of the conference room. Outside, the office carries on as if that sentence means nothing. I wish I could do the same.