Secrets of the Lost Ledgers (The Glass Library #5)

Chapter 1

London, Summer 1920

I ’d spent a lifetime studying the faces of men I passed in the street, looking for any resemblance to my own. Although I had my mother’s gray eyes and small stature, my fair coloring must have come from my father. I’d pay close attention to the noses, hoping to find a matching pattern of freckles to mine.

I employed the same scrutiny as I studied the photograph of the late Mr. Peterson, Walter and Evaline’s father. I saw no similarities to myself. The photograph had been taken when he was middle-aged, his two teenaged children standing either side of him. He was short and boxy like Walter, with brown hair, and not a freckle in sight. That particular paper magician was most likely not my father.

A few weeks ago, after learning that I’d just discovered my paper magic, a long-time employee of the Petersons’ paper factory accused me of making it all up. He suspected I was going to pass myself off as the half-sister of Walter and Evaline to gain a portion of their inheritance. He watched me now from the doorway to Walter’s office, as if he was worried I’d steal the valuables.

“You look nothing like him,” he said.

I returned the photograph to the table by the window, where it was flanked by two more—one of Walter’s wife and children, and another of Walter and Evaline on the front steps of the factory’s administrative building in which I now stood, waiting for them.

The employee glanced over his shoulder before taking a step into the office. “Mr. Peterson might seem foolish, but he’s smarter than he looks. And Miss Peterson is as sharp as a tack. Neither will fall for any tricks.”

I looked past him to my escape route. I almost took a step in that direction. I wanted to. But I dug in, settled my feet apart, and remained put.

Once upon a time, I would have fled from such an antagonistic man, but I’d gained confidence in the last few months. Nothing would happen to me here. This man was no threat, merely protective of his employers. Even so, it took effort to hide my apprehension.

“I have no tricks, sir.” There was more I could have said, more I wanted to say, but it was none of his business.

Evaline’s arrival put an end to our conversation. He acknowledged her politely, if a little curtly, handed her the report he’d come to deliver, and went on his way.

She placed it on the desk and gave me her full attention. “This is a pleasant surprise, Sylvia. Are you here to speak to Walter or me?”

“Both. Either.” I laughed nervously.

Evaline’s employee was right when he called her sharp as a tack. She missed nothing. She picked up the photograph I’d been studying and handed it to me. “Take a closer look. I want you to be sure, one way or another.”

She knew . We’d never discussed the possibility that her father and mine were the same man, but it had clearly crossed her mind.

“I’m not after anything,” I said on a rush of breath. “I don’t want any part of this.” I indicated the office. “But…tell me honestly. You and Walter knew him best…do you see a resemblance?”

She shook her head without hesitation. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I glanced over the photograph of the late Mr. Peterson one last time before returning it to her.

She studied it, too, then with a sigh, placed it back on the table. It must pain her to know that her father had kept mistresses. It must be even more painful knowing that everyone else knew, too. No matter how much she may have adored him, his memory would always be tarnished.

Evaline invited me to sit at the desk, then poured tea from the fine silver teapot the assistant must have brought in shortly before my arrival. She’d just finished filling both cups when Walter walked in.

He greeted me heartily, a genuine smile making his cheeks as round and red as ripe apples. “Don’t get up,” he said to his sister, who’d taken the chair behind the desk. He sat in a guest chair alongside me. “You look well, Sylvia. Clearly the heat doesn’t affect you as much as it does me.” He removed a folded handkerchief from his pocket and patted his sweating forehead. “I don’t know how you ladies always manage to look so cool and composed.”

“We can’t give away all our secrets to you men,” Evaline teased. “Tea?”

“Please.” Walter pocketed the handkerchief. “Have you been practicing your spell, Sylvia?”

Walter had taught me the paper-strengthening spell, the only one he and his sister knew. The magic from the spell gave the paper they manufactured a superior quality, and it was this quality that had made their father wealthy. They didn’t speak the spell into every batch of paper—it had to be specially ordered—but even their ordinary paper was better than the paper made by an artless manufacturer.

The magic didn’t last, of course. No magician’s magic lasted forever, although my friend Gabe’s mother could extend the magic of another magician, as I’d recently learned. My magic, however, had so far lasted for the three weeks since I’d first used the spell.

I removed two pieces of paper from my bag. “I have, every day. I’m conducting an experiment, as it happens. One that will help me discover how strong my magic is. These pages came from the same notebook. This one has my magic, and this one doesn’t.”

Walter accepted the pages from me. “Oh, yes, I can feel it.” He waved the one that held my magic. “Very strong indeed, Sylvia! Did you place the spell only this morning?” He handed the page to Evaline, swapping it for a cup of tea.

Evaline tried to tear the page but couldn’t. “It’s still very warm.”

I was so thrilled that I couldn’t contain my excitement any longer. “I placed the magic in that page three weeks ago.”

Walter choked on his tea, then began to cough.

Evaline tried to tear the paper again. When she couldn’t, she handed it back to me. “That is impressive.”

“Is it?” I asked. “I thought your paper didn’t tear for months after you placed a spell on it.”

“That’s true, but ours doesn’t feel this warm after three weeks. If your magic still feels like this, then it’s strong. You are strong, Sylvia.”

“Stronger than either of us.” Walter sounded proud.

“Oh,” I murmured, not quite sure what to say. It was overwhelming, yet so satisfying. So much about casting the spell felt satisfying. Now that I’d discovered magic and actively used it, it was like finding a missing piece of myself.

There were more pieces to find, however. One of them being the identity of my father.

I placed the papers back in my bag and closed the clasp. “This isn’t why I came. I wanted to ask you both about invisible writing.”

“A curious and rather fun thing,” Walter said, smiling.

“I’m helping an ink magician with a new business venture where he creates secret messages for clients using his invisible ink on paper infused with my spell.”

Walter looked intrigued by the idea. I suspect the childish wonder in him was piqued.

His sister, however, had a less whimsical view of the world. “Does he know he’ll have to write and read the secret messages? Unless the recipient is an ink magician or can find one, he or she will only see a blank page. It’s inefficient and I suspect it’s why invisible writing never became a viable method of passing secrets.”

“Or did it?” Walter teased.

“Coded messages would work better. It requires no magician or any particular skill.”

“My ink magician friend is aware of the drawbacks,” I said.

“Then how can we help?” Walter asked.

“We hoped you knew how long invisible writing lasted, and whether it’s dependent on the strength of the paper magic, ink magic, or both.”

Walter and Evaline exchanged glances. Walter shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not an area we’re familiar with.”

“I suspect the strength of both types of magic matters,” Evaline added.

“Didn’t a graphite magician decipher an old invisible message for you?” Walter asked.

I nodded. “It was decades old, but, so far, my friend and I haven’t managed to make his invisible ink last more than two weeks. He suggested the magic may not be strong enough.”

“ His magic,” Walter pointed out. “Yours is certainly strong.”

Evaline frowned in thought. “Perhaps there’s a word or two missing from his spell.”

“Why not ask the graphite magician who helped you decipher that message?” Walter said. “He or she may know more about it.”

I would have gone to Petra Conway, if Huon Barratt hadn’t forbidden me from speaking to her about his new venture. The traditional rivalry of ink versus graphite meant they were naturally disinclined to get along, but I suspected their antagonism towards each other went deeper. I wouldn’t be surprised to find that long-suppressed desire coupled with stubbornness fueled their fiery encounters.

I thanked the Petersons and accepted Walter’s invitation to join them for dinner the following week. I’d met his wife and children and found them to be delightful company. It would be easier to enjoy myself now that I was sure I wasn’t the illicit offspring of one of the late Mr. Peterson’s transgressions. While a part of me would have liked to belong to the kind-hearted Peterson family, there would always have been that shadow between us. This way, we could be friends and fellow paper magicians without the awkwardness.

Thanks to its narrowness and the tall buildings on either side, Crooked Lane was shady for all but a brief window in the middle of the day. On a hot day in summer, the shade should have provided some relief, however the small entrance and lack of a breeze trapped the heat inside. Despite my loose-fitting dress, I was sweating in unmentionable places by the time I opened the library door. I regretted not taking a parasol with me. My friend Daisy had told me that fashionable women were dispensing with the accessory this summer, but I still sometimes used one on sunny days. Today, I’d left home without it.

I found Professor Nash chatting with a patron, seated on the brown leather sofa in the ground floor reading nook. A brass fan on the side table whirred noisily and did little to cool the air. Both men greeted me amiably before resuming their discussion about magic in ancient South American tribes.

I ate a wedge of egg and bacon pie my landlady, Mrs. Parry, had packed for me that morning. It was rare for there to be any leftovers, but one of the other lodgers hadn’t dined with us the previous night, so Mrs. Parry had graciously given me her portion this morning. I suspected I was her favorite lodger, although I was under no illusion that I was her favorite because she liked me best. I was her favorite because I’d introduced her to Gabe and Gabe’s cook, Mrs. Ling. The two women had struck up a friendship that involved swapping recipes and exchanging ideas and sample dishes. I didn’t care why I was the favorite, as long as I received the benefits in the form of delicious leftovers.

I ate as I worked at the front desk, cataloging a stack of books we planned to add to the library shelves. The books had been stored in the attic for years. One of my main tasks since starting work here in March had been to create a list of uncatalogued titles for the professor. Sometimes, that had meant translating the titles and subject matter from the original language into English. Other times, I merely had to peruse the contents. More than once, I’d found myself reading the entire text, simply because it intrigued me.

I still had more than half of the attic’s contents to go through, but the professor wanted to begin cataloging those I’d already listed. Together we determined which ones to add to the shelves, and which to set aside for repair or further study. It was now my job to create card files and assign unique codes according to the professor’s system.

The task would be dull for most, or so Daisy and Willie had blithely informed me on separate occasions. But I liked it. It wasn’t just the magician in me that liked handling paper; the knowledge contained within the pages appealed to me, too. It was a heady feeling, knowing I was among the first to read the texts in years and rediscover knowledge that had been thought lost. Besides, many were quite fascinating.

Yet it wasn’t the text of the thin volume titled The Dung Beetle in Ancient Egyptian Culture as a Representation of the Concept of Transformation and Rebirth that made me take a closer look at the book’s blank first page. It was the lack of it. There was nothing written or typed there, just a small brown stain at the edge, yet I could feel magic on the page. Paper magic, but something else, too.

I must have first handled the book before I became aware that I was a magician. Back then, I didn’t know what a page infused with a spell felt like. I did now, and I could definitely feel the paper magic on the blank page, but more than that, I could feel the sensation of paper magic combined with another kind. I’d felt the linked spells before, when I’d discovered invisible writing.

I contained my enthusiasm until the patron left and Professor Nash was alone, then I joined him in the reading nook. He sat on the sofa, head bent over a book that rested on a portable writing desk on his lap. The light from the floor lamp shone unflatteringly on the bare patch on the top of his head, but he needed it even during the day as the smaller of the library’s two reading nooks received little natural light. Not that he cared about his own appearance. He wore a brown tie to work each day, the same thick-rimmed spectacles, and often forgot to comb the strands of hair that still clung to his head.

He was also kind and agreeable. I’d never heard him raise his voice or begin an argument, although his calm, factual responses sometimes ended them. Despite his thoroughly agreeable nature, he had few friends. His entire life centered around the library.

Most would say that was just his way, and how he preferred it, but I wasn’t so sure. Now that I’d got to know him better, I detected a deep sadness within him. He hid it well, and it was possible he didn’t even know it existed himself, but it was there in his quiet stillness, his distant gazes. Sometimes, he seemed far away, and perhaps in another time, too. A time when he and his friend Oscar Barratt traveled the world retrieving many of the books the library now housed. He sometimes recounted their adventures to me. It was clear that the professor missed Oscar, that his death had affected him immensely. There was a part of me that suspected Professor Nash had loved Oscar, but he showed no sign of being inclined towards men, so I assumed his love was more brotherly, platonic. On the other hand, he showed no sign of being interested in women, either, so perhaps I was wrong.

“Professor, do you recall where you acquired this book?”

He studied the title page, frowning. “It’s not familiar, so we didn’t obtain it on one of our overseas adventures. It was most likely donated to the library and placed in the attic. I don’t recall putting it there, but it might have arrived here while I was away.” He closed the book and read the spine. “Does ancient Egyptian mythology interest you?”

“Not especially. It’s the very first page that interests me. I think I feel invisible writing on it.”

His brows shot up his forehead. “Indeed?” He reopened the book and inspected the blank page under the light of the lamp. “How intriguing. I wonder what it says.”

“Probably nothing exciting, but I’ll take it to Petra Conway to see if she can read it for me.”

I waited until the end of the working day, then walked to Petra’s stationery shop, once again regretting the exertion in stifling weather. I found her preparing to close. The smile she gave me was as wilted as I felt.

“Long day?” I asked.

“Immeasurably. This heat is unbearable.” She picked up a hand fan painted with a scene of blossoming trees and flapped it at her face. “When will this heat end?”

“You should get an electric desk fan and train it on yourself. It helps a little.”

She arched her finely shaped brows at me then swept the fan in an arc to indicate the shop’s contents. “With all this loose paper? It’ll wreak more havoc than a cyclone.”

I couldn’t help smiling at my silly mistake. “Have you at least taken a break today?”

“My mother relieved me for a little while and I sat in the shade at Hanover Square with my eyes closed. There’s no need for us both to be in lately. Business has been so quiet, which is to be expected at this time of year. Many of our clients have gone on holiday to the seaside, or the country. Getting out of the city in summer seems to be a national pastime for most.”

“Lucky devils.”

Her pretty dark eyes flashed with mischief. “I’d wager Gabe Glass has a lovely family estate somewhere nice, perhaps with a lake for swimming, or a stream.” She leaned an elbow on the counter and her chin on her fist and gave me a suggestive smile.

“His family does have an estate, as it happens, but I don’t know if it has a lake or stream.” I spoke with as much blandness as I could, feigning disinterest in all things Gabriel Glass.

Petra was too clever to fall for my pretense. Her smile widened. “If he invites you, I volunteer to be chaperone.”

“And who will chaperone you?”

“Willie.”

We both laughed.

“So…” she said, straightening. “How are things between you and Gabe?”

“The same.” I didn’t want to talk about Gabe, nor my feelings for him. I liked him a great deal, but his feelings for me were less clear. While sometimes I was quite sure he liked me, too, he’d just ended a serious relationship that had been forged in the powerful, intense days of wartime. He was still untangling his own emotions from its ending, as well as coming to terms with his magic and its role in his miraculous wartime survival.

Or so I told myself. As time went on, I was no longer sure if anything would build between Gabe and me beyond friendship.

I didn’t want to discuss any of that with Petra, or with anybody. It was easier to focus on the matter at hand. I showed her the book, opening it to the blank page with the invisible writing. “Can you read that?”

She looked at the page, looked at me, then looked at the page again. “Read what? There’s nothing there.”

“But I can feel the magic from the paper. It contains a paper spell and something else. It isn’t invisible writing?”

“Not from graphite magic.” She handed the book back. “It could be ink.”

“But ink magicians don’t know how to create invisible writing.”

“That’s what Huon said, but perhaps he’s wrong. He’s not the keeper of all ink magician knowledge. In fact, I guarantee he’s wrong. He is an idiot, after all.”

I chuckled. “He isn’t, and you know it. He’s merely…” I tried to think of the right word to describe the man with more facets to him than a diamond.

Petra offered several possibilities. “Foolhardy. Arrogant. Lazy. Rude. Crude. Slovenly.”

“I have to stop you there. He’s no longer slovenly. Last time I saw him, he’d shaved and cut his hair. He even wore shoes and a clean shirt with all its buttons.” I tucked the book back into my bag. “I’ll take this to him now.”

“May I come with you? I’d like to see this miraculous change for myself.”

Huon Barratt presented quite the handsome figure as he greeted us in the drawing room of his Marylebone house. Gone was the unkempt and unwashed hair, the bags under bloodshot eyes, and the housecoat opened to the waist. The tattoo on his chest was covered by a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a light gray waistcoat with silver buttons monogrammed with his initials.

The son of a successful magician who manufactured fine quality ink, he’d lived in his father’s townhouse since before the war. According to Professor Nash, Huon clashed terribly with his father, but had idolized his uncle, Oscar. Losing him when war broke out, then heading off to the Front to fight shortly afterwards had changed him from a carefree youth to a deeply scarred man drowning in his own vices. The professor gave him leeway for his transgressions on account of his profound losses, but his own father wasn’t so understanding. Isaac Barratt continued to allow his son to live in the house, but the two rarely spoke and when they did it was only to argue.

Perhaps it was time for Isaac to see Huon in person again. He would be relieved to see the change in his son. It remained to be seen if the change was in appearance only, or whether it extended to Huon’s attitude.

Before she sat on the sofa beside me, Petra made a show of studying him. “Congratulations on looking like a human again. Sylvia tried to tell me, but I didn’t believe her. I’m glad to see you remember how buttons work.”

Huon asked his butler to bring in refreshments, then smiled at Petra. It was as lopsided and mischievous as ever. “Glad, eh? Glad enough to go to Rector’s with me tonight?”

“Don’t be absurd. I wouldn’t be caught dancing with you even if you were the only man in the club.”

“Don’t get on your high horse. I was only asking you out of pity. You obviously don’t have too many offers or you wouldn’t be here flirting with me.”

“If this is your idea of flirting then it’s no wonder you’re still single despite the scarcity of young men. Is that what brought about this change in your appearance? A desperate attempt to appeal to women who care more about the way a man looks than his character?”

Huon gave her a smug smile. “Find me handsome, do you? I thought so.”

For once, Petra didn’t have an answer. Her only response was to blush.

Huon settled further into the chair, not sprawled as he used to, but there was still an air of arrogance about the way he sat, as if he was comfortable with this version of himself. “Women adore me no matter my appearance. The suit is because I now have clients.”

Petra sparked up again. “Yes, it does help one’s business when the owner looks professional and not as though he just crawled out of bed after a night drinking and womanizing.”

I thought it best to intervene before their banter escalated and one or both said something they regretted. I removed the small book from my bag and handed it to Huon. “I came across this in the library. I can feel what I think is invisible writing on the first page. Petra says she can’t see it, so it isn’t written with pencil. Can you see it?”

He opened the book and his lips parted with a gasp.

I sat forward. “You can . What does it say?”

“It’s addressed to my uncle.”

“Oscar? Who is it from?”

“A relative of mine, named Daniel Barratt. I never met him, but I’ve heard the name.” He flipped the page and studied the reverse side. “Bloody hell,” he murmured.

“Stop with the dramatics, and just tell us,” Petra snapped. “What does it say?”

“The message to Uncle Oscar is begging him for help. Daniel got entangled in a scheme and at the time he wrote this, he was afraid for his life.” Huon flipped the page to the reverse again. “On this side is a diagram, or map as Daniel refers to it, with some sort of code written alongside it.” He looked at me, and a chill slithered down my spine. I’d never seen Huon look so grave. “Daniel writes that if Oscar receives this book, then it was sent after his death.”