Chapter 31
RETURN OF THE RAKE
Maggie greets us with a look of utter bewilderment.
She’s unused to teenagers banging on her front window this early in the morning.
She’s hours away from opening, and we’ve just interrupted her favorite part of the day.
I know her well enough to know her routine.
She arrives around seven. She feeds Poe.
She sorts books that have lost their way.
She brews herself a cup of lavender tea.
Then she heads up to the second floor and drafts letters to long-dead historical figures on the typewriter in her office.
It’s her way of conversing with the past, she says, to which Walt rolls his eyes.
When she swings the door open, she clutches her planner like someone clutching their pearls. “What in the name of Amos Vandenberg do the two of you want this early in the morning?”
Poe meows in the doorway.
“I’m sorry, Maggie, but we really need to check something.”
She scowls, and while I’m ninety-five percent certain she would tell any other person to scram, she invites us in with a harrumph.
We don’t waste time. We make a beeline for the locked tome, but the key doesn’t fit. It’s too big. While I suspected as much, disappointment settles all the same. Judging by the look on Jude’s face, he feels it, too.
“Still obsessing over this book, I see,” Maggie says. “What do you think’s in there, anyway—a summoning charm for that ghost lady you’re always chasing?”
Jude lifts the tome. “Can I have this?”
Maggie harrumphs again.
“I gave you that sketch of Molly,” he says.
“In exchange for her identity,” Maggie replies, pointing her bony finger at him. “Not that tome.”
Jude tucks the book under his arm. “Okay, then. Name your price. What’ll it take to get this?”
She narrows her eyes.
“A portrait from our collection? There’s a giant one of Amos and Ida hanging in our library. It might be hard to get it up those stairs, but I’m sure we could figure something out.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I’m very serious.”
She studies him some more in that unblinking way of hers. “You’re telling me, in exchange for that book, you’d be willing to part with, say, some of those letters and journals the pair of you have been poring over these last few weeks?”
“Let us make copies first and I’ll throw in the seal stamp Amos used on the rebuild plans after the fire.”
She leans forward slowly, her eyes locked on his. “You have that stamp?”
“In our study. Top drawer of his original writing desk.”
Maggie wets her lips like a cat who’s cornered the canary. She doesn’t need anymore convincing. The two of them shake hands, and no sooner is the deal struck than Jude starts prying at the lock.
Maggie’s delight turns to horror.
She protests as Jude makes his way to the front counter in search for something that might break the book open. He tries a letter opener, but that doesn’t work any better than his hands.
“There’s a toolbox in the basement,” I say, my blood humming with anticipation. Because one way or another, we’re getting inside this book.
A moment later, we’re descending the stairs into Maggie’s dungeon as she pursues with continued protest. “What in tarnation has come over the pair of you? Destroying a book? You might as well join the censors and pitch it into the flames.”
“We want to read it, Maggie. Not destroy it,” I say, grabbing a hammer from the tool box. I hand it to Jude, who sets the book on the scarred, wooden table where Twig and I record our podcast. Maggie watches, aghast in the shadows, as he bangs on the steel lock.
Once.
Twice.
The latch finally busts open.
He drops the hammer onto the table and all three of us, even scandalized Maggie, surge forward to see what’s hiding inside.
I expect answers. I expect clarity. Finally, all the confounding puzzle pieces will come together to form a picture that makes astounding sense.
Instead, we find nothing more than a gothic children’s tale, complete with macabre illustrations.
Still, I devour it, page after page, written in old English, eager for some sliver of insight.
But it’s just a fable about two fallen angels—Dante and Seraphina—undone by their own love.
Power hungry and jealous, they drag mortals into their affairs in an attempt to wrest the upper hand.
The tragic tale ends in Dante’s eternal slumber and Seraphina’s eternal madness, trapped in a fiery rock that streaks across the night sky every 268 years.
The origin story of Dante’s comet.
While it would have been interesting under different circumstances—a treasure worth sharing on Accounts of the Uncanny—right now, it’s a giant letdown.
There’s nothing at all about the symbol.
Not one mention of Ezra or his obsession.
Not a whiff about a rift between worlds.
Nothing to suggest this book has anything to do with the portrait or Molly or me or any of the Vandenbergs at all.
All my hope and anticipation crumbles. We’re no closer to solving these riddles than we ever were.
“Why are the three of you acting so out of sorts?” Maggie asks. “What mystery are you trying to solve this time?”
Jude cocks his head. “The three of us?”
“The two of you, and that cousin of yours. Why is he so suddenly curious about family heirlooms? He showed up yesterday and—”
“Wait,” Jude interrupts. “Are you talking about Rafe?”
“Do you have another cousin?”
Jude and I exchange a look.
“He was here yesterday?” I ask Maggie.
“He showed up just before close. I was of half a mind to tell him he should go ask that preservation society he’s so fond of, but it turns out, he’s a very charming young fellow.”
Charming?
Maggie doesn’t find people charming. And even if she did, surely she’d see right through a guy like Rafe. I must admit, I’m disappointed.
“What did he want?” I ask.
“He had a necklace with him. A giant ruby necklace. He wanted to know if I knew anything about similar necklaces belonging to the Vandenbergs, only instead of a ruby, they would have been made of—”
“Onyx and pearl.”
“Why, yes. He also wanted to know if I knew where Molly Ludwig was buried.”
Molly Ludwig.
My mind spins.
Rafe is back.
When did he return, and why isn’t he making his presence known? Did he disturb Ezra’s grave? And now, is he looking to disturb Molly’s? What does he want with these gemstones?
“What are the three of you after?” Maggie asks.
Jude and I exchange another look.
If only we knew.