Chapter 13
“I knew he had the damn painting! If only I’d been able to sneak back in at the time.” Adrian’s jaw clenches and his eyes flash righteous fire. Somehow, it only enhances his good looks.
Heat rising to my face, I fix my gaze on the relatively small painting. Though my expertise is in books, I’ve picked up some knowledge of art through the tomes we handle. At a guess, it dates from the Renaissance.
A naked young man—well, except for a tiny fig leaf—stands inside a circle divided into several parts.
He holds onto the circle with one hand, as though it’s a giant hoop he has to keep upright.
On the left side, the sun rises in a chariot drawn by lions, while on the right, the moon sets in a chariot pulled by bulls.
Grass sprouts beneath the figure’s feet, and constellations decorate the sky above him.
“The god is Aion, I think?” Adrian says. “At least the painting is called Wheel of Aion, by Bianca Giuliani.”
“I’ve never heard of either god or artist,” I admit. “What do we do now that you’ve found it?”
“I need to place a call to my employer and the police, in that order. As soon as possible.” Adrian carefully hangs the cloth back up over the painting. “Let’s see what else we can find.”
At least some good is coming out of this trip. Hopefully the police don’t think I’m involved with the theft.
Strike that—hopefully I’m not involved with the theft. Because Adrian thinks I participated in stealing the Key of Mithras, and I can’t remember one way or the other. I can’t imagine myself doing such a thing…but I can’t imagine turning my back on Forgotten Folios, either.
Damn it. What happened to me? What is still happening?
“Sterling?”
I look up and find Adrian watching me with concern on his face. The rain and mud has left us both shabby: suits rumpled and stained, hair in disarray. I haven’t seen a mirror yet, but I can picture the awful state I’m in.
I was supposed to be done with mud and death and violence. But here I am, filthy and exhausted. I’ve been shot at, chased, and almost turned into a cannibal’s dinner.
If only I could remember something, anything, that might explain why all of this is happening to me. What I could possibly have done to deserve it.
“Hey.” Adrian puts a cautious hand to my arm.
When I don’t pull away, he firms his grip.
“The last couple of days have been a lot, even for me. Without your memory, I’m sure it’s even worse.
We’ll finish looking around here, then take the first train that pulls up at the depot.
Get a sleeper car, and you can get some rest. All right? ”
His gentle tone almost undoes me. “That sounds good.”
“Just a little while longer.” He pats my shoulder and lets his hand drop. “You said the library is through here?”
All of the cases are stripped of books, and the coating of dust on the shelves suggests they’ve been gone for a while. Adrian prowls the room, frowning. “Why leave the furniture and a stolen painting, but take the entire library?”
“Hart still needed the books,” I say, then immediately wonder where that thought came from. But Adrian nods.
“That must be it. But why? Unless they were more valuable than the painting?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t have time to really look.”
“Right.” Adrian stops his prowling. “Where is the hidden room?”
“Here, I think.”
The now-empty bookcase opens at my touch. The book that was on the altar is gone, but everything else remains, including the tapestry with the strange hourglass-and-moth design. Adrian crosses to it, studies it closely, then pulls it aside. There’s nothing behind it except a blank wall.
“This is where they injected you?” he asks.
My throat tightens at the memory of the needle stabbing into flesh. Of Myers’s bulk cutting off all hope of escape, Hart leering at me from behind him. “Yes.”
He examines the tapestry again, as if memorizing it.
“I wonder if he belongs to some sort of secret society?” When I look puzzled, he adds, “Wealthy men love secret societies. Skull and Bones, the Zodiac Club, that sort of thing. They mostly gather to do favors for each other and talk about how much better they are than the rest of us.”
It does sound like the sort of thing Hart might find appealing. “Do you recognize the symbol?”
“No, but one of my contacts might.” He steps back. “Let’s take a look at Hart’s private chambers.”
“Good idea. Maybe he left some clue as to where he went. Or at least, why he wanted to drug a random bookseller.”
A little line springs up between Adrian’s brows. “It wasn’t random, though. When we first met here, Hart was surprised to see you. He was expecting your partner.”
I start for the stairs. “I know. All I can think is James must have crossed him somehow without realizing.”
Adrian follows me, and we climb to the uppermost floor. “Did he ever mention Hart before?”
“No. He received a letter, explaining Mr. Hart had a valuable collection and wished to sell some of the volumes. They arranged the particulars via telephone. Then James’s mother tripped over her dog and broke her leg. We tried to call and reschedule, but no one ever answered, so I came instead.”
Bitterness surges through me. If not for Mrs. Olden and her dog, James would be here right now instead of me. James would have lost sixteen months of his life, and I’d be safely in my apartment.
No. No, James is my friend, and I don’t truly wish this on him. Hart and his lackey Myers are the only ones to blame. If I’m going to feel bitter toward anyone, it should be them alone.
We pause at the landing, Adrian’s brow still creased with thought. “So he was expecting Olden, but made do with you. Why? Was he on some sort of schedule and had to take the bookseller he had, not the one he wanted?”
“I suppose? But why did he want either of us? What happened to my memories? The things you say I did—they don’t sound like me.”
“Hart clearly wanted someone who had ties to the rare book trade.”
“And James was the one who usually met with clients or went to auctions.” Something, at least, was starting to make sense. “He had more personal ties to people. Some buyers and sellers require that—they won’t deal with anyone they don’t know well.”
“Because they’re passing along books they’ve acquired through illicit means?” Adrian asks, giving me a measuring stare.
“Of course not!” I stiffen. “We would never deal in stolen books!”
He makes a noncommittal noise, which puts my back up even farther.
The nerve of the man to suggest Forgotten Folios would ever stoop to such a level.
Whatever Adrian thinks I did during the time of my missing memories, our shop had been perfectly respectable up to the day I stepped off the train here in Hart’s Leap.
Was that why I’d left? Had some sort of criminal alter-ego taken me over as a result of the injection Myers gave me? Perhaps I’d suggested dealing in stolen books, and James had rightfully insisted I sell my part of the business in response.
Three doors lead off the landing. Desiring to put an end to the conversation, I go to the one on the left and open it. Adrian follows without comment.
The room beyond is decorated in the same out-of-date style as the rest of the house.
Sheets drape what appears to be a couch, chairs, and dresser.
Moth-eaten carpets cover much of the wooden floor, and an enormous bed sits atop a small dais, as if the master of the house might need that extra few inches of height to feel important as he sleeps.
Scarlet curtains hang from the canopy, matching the dust-laden coverlet on the bed.
A second door stands open, revealing a tiled bathroom.
“Look through the dresser,” Adrian orders. “I’ll check elsewhere.”
As I cross to the dresser, he goes to the fireplace opposite the bed and begins to inspect the ornate marble surround. Looking for secret hiding places, I assume.
A dusty mirror hangs above the dresser, and as I approach, the movement of my own reflection brings me to a halt. My eyes focus just below it, on the few inches of brown-painted plaster between the top of the dresser and the mirror frame.
I don’t want to look up. Everything in me recoils from the thought of seeing myself in the glass. My throat constricts, and sweat breaks out across my brow. My hand trembles as I wipe it away.
What is wrong with me? Is this some new phase of my shell shock?
Swallowing hard, I force my gaze up to the mirror.
The irrational fear evaporates at the sight, replaced by a more ordinary dismay.
I look terrible.
My hair has grown out, only the tips bleached, leaving the rest its original dull brown. The cut is indifferent and uneven. My eyebrows are a shaggy thicket, unplucked and unshaped. Shadows ring my eyes, and my cheeks are hollow.
“My God!” I exclaim, touching my hair helplessly.
“Have you found something?” Adrian calls hopefully from where he’s now searching the couch.
“No, but look at me! I look like a hobo.” My barber would be in despair to see me like this. If it turns out I’ve alienated him as well as James, I might just fling myself into the East River.
Adrian sighs. “The dresser, Sterling?”
“Oh. Yes.” Putting the tragedy of my appearance aside, I pull off the sheet, revealing a dresser of golden oak that looks to have been last polished sometime around the turn of the century. The drawers squeak as I pull them out.
The only thing stored in the top three drawers is dust and a few scattered mothballs. At Adrian’s instruction, I remove them from the dresser entirely, but nothing seems to be hidden in the space behind.
As I slide free the bottom drawer, however, a pale rectangle of paper catches my eye. It’s tucked in the very back of the drawer, one corner caught in the join between the back and side panels, which is probably why it was overlooked when the dresser was emptied. I hold it up to the light.
It’s a business card, reading:
Howard Davis, Ph.G.
Licensed Pharmacist
184 Waverly Place
Manhattan
New York, New York
“Look here,” I say. Adrian leaves off his investigation of the bathroom and takes the card from me, studying it carefully.
“You were drugged, and here’s the card for a pharmacy,” he begins—then both of us freeze as the sound of a motor penetrates the closed windows.