Chapter 42
“I do—thank you!” She hurries off across the great hall, and we have to take long strides to keep up. I’m starting to wonder if she knows how to walk at a normal pace.
“So you’re familiar with the museum,” Adrian says as she opens a staff door and steps through with confidence.
“Parts of it, at least. I have three uncles and an aunt—Irene—who work in the library. She deals with the Limited Access Collection, so I thought she would be the best to ask.”
I’d ask what the Limited Access Collection is, but I’m starting to lose my breath due to our pace.
From what little I have time to see, the architecture is even odder than the mismatched outside would suggest, with halls taking abrupt turns and stairs leading up, then back down, with no apparent reason.
I can’t imagine who designed such a thing, let alone signed off on its construction.
We finally reach a pair of heavy wooden doors, which for some reason are reinforced with steel bands, as if expecting a siege.
Though the hall outside is of normal size, beyond the door is a vast space with a high ceiling, rows upon rows of stacks leading away.
My heart leaps at the sight—so many books!
—and I take a deep breath of air scented by old pages, leather bindings, and dust.
There’s a desk near the door; in front of it, waiting for us, stands a woman perhaps in her mid-forties. She has dark bronze skin, her black hair in a stylish bob. Her dress is fashionable, though the cut is slightly altered to make the most of her unfashionably plump body.
She smiles upon seeing Helen; her teeth are very white, and her eyes very dark. “Helen! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I need your help, Aunt Irene.” Helen beckons the two of us forward. “Someone is using magic on bootleg liquor, and these two gentlemen are looking into the matter, as am I. Do you know if the library has a copy of a book called Lettere Segrete?”
A small line pops up between Irene’s brows as she considers. “It’s not in the Limited Access Collection,” she says, and my spirits sink once again. “But let me check the catalog.”
A massive row of card catalogs faces the desk, and she leads the way to it. “What about the Key of Mithras?” I ask.
She stops in the midst of flicking through the cards. “Now that I have heard of.” Her voice grows noticeably cooler. “Why do you want it, Mr…?”
“Sterling Caine,” I say. “And this is Mr. Adrian Evans. He’s an insurance investigator—a copy of the Key was stolen by the same people poisoning the liquor.”
“And doing other unsavory things,” Helen adds. “What do you know about it?”
“I’ve never seen a copy myself.” Irene gives us a piercing look, then returns to her search. “Supposedly, it contains a ritual to let one see across time. As opposed to through time.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I confess.
“Neither do I, and rumor has it everyone who has tried has gone mad. Though often such rumors are wild exaggerations.” She closes the card catalog drawer. “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t look like we have a copy of the Lettere Segrete.”
“Damn.” Helen doesn’t bother to conceal her disappointment. “Thank you for checking, anyway.”
“And for the information on the Key of Mithras,” Adrian adds.
“I hope it will be of use.” Irene turns to Helen. “Tell your mother I said hello, and I’ll stop by next Friday.”
“She’ll be glad to see you.” Helen gives her aunt a kiss on the cheek, before zooming off toward the doors. We hurry to catch up with her.
She slows once we reach the steps leading down from the museum. “What do you think seeing across time instead of through time means?” I ask.
“I can’t imagine.” Helen frowns as she thinks. “It doesn’t make sense, though perhaps that’s due to an error in translation from whatever language it was originally written in. Assuming it wasn’t English, of course.”
“And do you think people go mad from reading it? Or are they…like me?”
Adrian puts a steadying hand to my elbow, and I cast him a grateful look.
“You mean, not actually mad but they sound like a lunatic when they try to tell someone else about it?” Helen asks.
“I wouldn’t say I wasn’t mad, after Emerson and everything else.” My mind tries to shy away from that time, but I force myself to recall it. “I felt disconnected from reality, but also unable to escape from memories…my thoughts were rather disordered, to put it mildly.”
“I’m sure they were, after everything.” Thankfully her tone is matter-of-fact rather than pitying.
“You might not have been hallucinating when you saw something wandering about in your friend’s corpse, but I can’t imagine that would be good for one’s mental state, even aside from the ordinary horrors of war. ”
“True enough,” I agree.
“So should we try the university library?” Helen asks. “Or go back to my apartment and see if any of my contacts have reached out yet?”
“The library, I think.” Adrian turns to me. “Is that all right, Sterling?”
I still doubt a copy of the Lettere Segrete is conveniently waiting for us, but there’s only one way to know for sure. “Of course.”
Soon enough, we once again find ourselves standing before the stone arch leading onto the university grounds.
Helen clearly knows her way around, so we follow her lead, stretching our legs to keep up with her quick pace.
The library turns out to be a gothic revival structure made from solid granite, whose soaring spires and lancet windows cause me to at first mistake it for a cathedral.
On the arch above the massive entryway are carved the words: K.W.
ABBOTT LIbrARY—Let no hand hold me back.
Just inside the entrance is a pedestal with a large glass box on top. In it, affixed upright on a frame, is a shriveled human hand.
“What the hell!” Adrian exclaims at the macabre sight.
“It’s the hand that held Kindred Abbott back,” Helen says, and continues forward with no further explanation.
Adrian looks at me, as if asking if her words make any sense. I shrug, as confused as he is.
The lancet windows let in great swathes of light, which drape over the long rows of tables that fill most of the first room. Students crowd them, bending over books and feverishly scribbling notes. One group seems to be in a heated argument, carried out in whispers and wild gestures.
Helen makes for a massive desk in the center of the room which bears a plaque reading Reference Librarians. The nearest librarian behind the desk, a thin man with skin the color of fine leather, looks up as we approach.
“Can I help you?” he asks in a quiet voice suitable for a library.
“Yes.” Helen withdraws a card from her purse. “I’m an alumni, and wanted to know if there’s a copy of the Lettere Segrete in the library.”
“It’s always a pleasure to serve one of our fine alumni,” he says after glancing at the card. I wonder if he’s hoping the interaction will lead to a donation. “If you can write down the title and author, I’ll check for you.”
He slides a paper and pencil across the desk, and Helen gestures to me.
I scribble down the information, and he bids us wait a moment before departing.
Helen fidgets impatiently and I try to distract myself by looking around the room.
Some of the windows have stained glass at the very pinnacles, set with strange symbols I don’t recognize.
This is a fool’s errand, but hopefully with Helen by our side we can get an interview with Dr. Dane. It’s far too late to pretend to be someone else, but if I can just get the chance to explain…
Someone is watching me.
The sensation—no, certainty—hits me all at once. I scan the tables filled with busy students, but none of them seem to be staring our way. Even so, it’s hard to tell—there are too many of them, the place too crowded.
Or I’m imagining things. Everything that’s happened has made me paranoid…though considering how many people seem to be out to get me, the paranoia is justified.
Before I can say anything to Adrian, the reference librarian returns, a slip of paper in his hand. “The Lettere Segrete is held in the upper gallery, row ninety-eight, stack twenty-two, shelf one.”
My jaw falls open in shock. “You actually have it?”
“Yes?” the librarian says, clearly confused.
Helen tosses me a triumphant look. “Never mind him. Thanks for your help—you’re the cat’s pajamas.”
She hastens away toward the rear wall of the room, which is pierced by an enormous archway whose old oaken doors are currently propped open. Beyond lies heaven.
Well, heaven to me, anyway. A long gallery runs ahead of us, stretching the entire length of the building.
To either side are row upon row of shelves, all stuffed with books.
Twin staircases curve gracefully up to the second level, which bears even more rows of books.
The scent of leather, paper, parchment, and ink fills the air, and something inside me loosens as I breathe deep.
Adrian grins at me. “I take it this is your kind of place?”
“You could say that.” I smile back, resisting the urge to take his hand. If only we could wander among the stacks at our leisure.
Helen is already halfway up the stairs to our left. Reluctantly banishing my pleasant thoughts, I start after her, Adrian at my side.
We walk almost the length of the room to find row ninety-eight, then plunge between the stacks.
My heart quickens at the titles I glimpse—this place is a treasure trove of old, rare tomes.
There doesn’t seem to be anyone keeping a close eye on them, either.
How on earth have they not been robbed blind by unscrupulous book runners?
“Here we are.” Helen stops at a stack with the number twenty-two neatly marked in bronze letters. She cranes her head back, looking up, up the tall bookcase. “And the shelf we want is at the very top, of course. Someone get a ladder.”
Tall ladders of black iron stand at regular intervals along the row, affixed to rails that allow them to slide left or right. Adrian rolls the nearest over.
For the first time, Helen seems uncomfortable. “I, ah, I’m not good with heights.”
It’s a mere fifteen feet to the top, but I suppose it’s less about the distance and more about being off the ground. Ever gallant, Adrian says, “Don’t worry; I’ll look.”
He climbs the ladder; the thing is perfectly solid beneath his weight, not so much as rattling against its rails.
“The title may not be on the spine,” I call up. “You might have to open the book to see the frontispiece.”
“Got it.”
Apparently it’s not the only volume with no title stamped on the side, as he begins to pull books off, check their first pages, then return them to their place. Though I’m looking up at him, I feel a familiar prickling on the back of my neck.
The watcher has returned.