I had done almost all I could about cleaning the library and searching it for treasures, so I abandoned the rag and did my best to straighten more of the toppled piles of books. Lee would be on the lookout for himself, and for his uncle, and maybe even for me, and his uncle would be warned, and it felt like maybe I had done a bit of good. For now, I could do nothing but plot the details of my escape, foremost being the destruction or disruption of that book in the attic and then the careful sale of the rare books I had found.
The corner farthest from the door remained to be cleaned, and I wiped at the dusty sweat that had sprung up on my brow from the effort of rearranging so many giant, heavy books. Kneeling, I spread out the books from one messy pile, tutting at the bad treatment of so many old bindings. This was a fortune in paper and leather treated like garbage. Most of the spines were still in good condition, however, and I picked the sturdiest book of the lot to use as the base of the pyramid. If my new luck held, perhaps there would be a book in this library that acted as some kind of antidote to the book in the attic. After all, if one book caused the problem, then another might be the solution. Now was the time to keep a weather eye out for any strange or arcane-looking tomes.
I swept up the last book from the heap, the littlest one, and was about to put it on top when the title, obscured by a thick layer of dust, caught my eye.
No, not the title, the author. With my sleeve, I wiped away the dirt, feeling a pang of fear and a spike of excitement war painfully in my throat. This tiny, forgotten thing, more like a journal than a proper book, had been hiding in this far corner of the library, just waiting for me to find it.
Was it fortune or something else? Something like luck but sinister. . . . And it could be, now that I knew such things as doors and men and books had the power to lure and trap. But I picked it up all the same and held it close to me, hoping against hope that it would tell me what I needed to know.
That it would be my salvation.
“Rare Myths and Legends,” I whispered aloud. Well, that sounded both arcane and strange. “The Collected Findings of H. I. Morningside.”
Chapter Seventeen
As soon as I stepped foot outside the library, I saw it. Watching. Waiting for me.
It moved like an ink spill suspended in the air, slithering back and forth, bobbing side to side as it observed me. The shadow creature took a step toward me, unnaturally long legs blurred at the edges, as if its body were somehow always on the periphery of my vision. I could see it but not see it, its boundaries constantly shifting and rearranging even as we stared at one another.
What it had for eyes were tiny, just pinpricks of light, a stark contrast to its enormous mouth, the shape of which looked permanently fixed in a delighted grin.
Closer. Prowling. The creature looked far more menacing in the daylight because it so obviously did not belong in this world. I had sincerely hoped that these monsters couldn’t operate outside the darkness. I had hoped in vain. I felt its strength, its odd fluctuating temperature, as it moved around to trap me in the doorway. Had it listened in while Lee and I spoke? Did it know what lay hidden in the folds of my apron?
The shadow, still smiling that awful smile, drew up its too-long arms, tapping its fingers together thoughtfully as it looked me over. Yes, it was looking for something, searching me. . . . It must have known that I had not one, not two, but three books hiding under my apron. Closer it came, until I felt its icy breath on my face. I shivered and drew back, the cold so intense, so concentrated, it might burn my skin.
“Do not hide from me,” it growled, each word drawn out like the creak of a rusty door hinge, setting my teeth on edge.
The cold was unbearable. My wrist began to throb, pulsing as if in response to the creature that had nearly broken it. The spindly fingers on one hand reached for me, and I cringed, shaking, silent, managing one tiny whimper of protest as I prepared for it to shake out my skirts and find the hidden book. If I ran, it would catch me; if I tried to dodge around it, its arms would be too long to avoid.
I closed my eyes tightly, and the searing cold descended on me.
And then, in a flash, it was gone. I heard the heavy footfalls in the same moment I felt the creature vanish. Peeling one eye open, I found myself staring at nothing. But I could not be alone; someone or something had frightened it away. That someone was barreling down the hall toward me, a stout man in his later years, a bushy, bristly mustachio covering half his face, as if two doves had settled in to roost on his upper lip. In my fright I could not recall his name, though Mrs. Haylam had mentioned this guest briefly. A military man of some kind; it had to be him, for he was wearing a uniform-like coat that may have looked smart before he’d grown too large for it. A navy-blue turban slid down his forehead, and he jammed it back into place as he hurried toward me.
Mrs. Eames followed, emerging like a bride all in black, her hands floating gracefully to her sides. She wore a fashionable day dress with an empire waist and sleeves as puffed and beautiful as paper lanterns. That same giant green emerald glittered on her hand, a single spot of color, a winking eye of envy on an otherwise austere body.
Whoever the man in front was, I was more than glad to see him.
“I say, is this place utterly abandoned? It’s a disgrace. I must have rung that bloody bell for a quarter of an hour, and now I find you loitering out here, dirty and agape. I am not, young miss, paying good English coin to be ignored!” He bustled his way down the corridor, red-faced and furious, stopping in the exact, unnervingly close place the shadow creature had just been.
His breath, however, was hot, and laced with pipe tobacco.
“Hello? Hello there! Are you listening?” He threw up his hands in frustration. “Pudding-headed yahoos, the lot of them,” he muttered, not nearly under his breath enough. Then he rounded on me again and I felt my breathless dread of a moment ago turn hastily into disgust. A towering shadow creature had just vanished before my eyes, and now this. Insults. I felt my fingers curling into hard, uncaring fists around the dusting rag and bucket handle.
“Do not berate the girl,” Mrs. Eames said, floating toward us and then pausing, looking down her nose at me. I stared back impertinently, wondering if these were the eyes of a scheming killer. She lifted one gloved hand and plucked at her lower lip in thought. “A servant never takes a slap without spitting in your wine,” she added. Her eyes, already chilly, seemed to look through me.
And when the veneer of warmth and beauty faded, how similar she looked to the shadow beasts, I thought.
“George Bremerton’s boy said something . . . Something about you being new here, child; is that correct?”
I nodded.
Mrs. Eames folded her hands together and smiled, but it was a withering look. A string of rosary beads hung around her wrist, tinkling softly. “Pray you last long enough to learn the true reward of obedience. ‘Before destruction the heart of man is haughty, and before honor is humility.’”