“It is.” He adjusted the wire around his neck leading up to his ear.
Why guard the study? There wasn’t anyone around. I checked behind me to make sure. This particular corridor was empty. I hadn’t seen any other security guards except at major exits. The only reason Blackwell would keep someone here was to keep others out.
“Are . . . you lost, Ms. Finley?”
I fidgeted a bit at the sound of my name. I’d probably never get used to people just knowing it. “I was told to get something out of Blackwell’s study.”
“Sorry, no one’s allowed in. Not even you.”
“It’s Sect orders,” I pushed.
“Sorry,” he said again. “But . . . now that you’re here . . .” He scratched the back of his head sheepishly, trying to avoid my eyes until he reached into his pocket and pulled out a napkin. “I don’t have a pen, but . . .”
He had to be joking. “You want my autograph?” I gaped at his expectant hands.
“It’s not for me. It’s for my little sister,” he said quickly, shaking the napkin at me. “Please?”
“If I sign this, will you let me in?”
When he answered with an awkward, noncommittal shrug, I sighed and took a pen out of my bag. “Who do I make it out to?”
“Steven.”
I looked at him.
“It’s short for Stephanie.”
“Of course it is.” I signed my name, discreetly stealing a second look down the hallway to make sure it was clear. “Is this okay?” I handed it back to him.
His whole face lit up as he took it from me, holding it up as if he had to inspect the ink to make sure it was real. “This is lovely, thanks! Sorry, it’s just that I’ve never really met a celebrity before.”
“Oh, it’s no problem! Glad to do it.”
But the moment I started to move past him, he put up his hand to stop me again.
“Sorry, no one’s allowed in.”
“Are you kidding me?” I complained with a groan. Then I checked behind me one last time. “Fine, then. Plan B.”
Plan B was hitting him really hard on the back of his neck. I was fast, too fast for him to react. He went down, but I grabbed him before he could make a sound and dragged him into the study. Don’t get caught, Chae Rin had said. Well, that was out of the question now. Maybe I could bribe Crane into silence with another autograph once he woke up. At any rate, all the security guards would have to check in, which meant I didn’t have much time in here.
The study was a musty, oval-shaped delicacy of books; one long mahogany case curved around about half the structure as if it’d been built especially for this room. Beautiful nineteenth-century portraits of old people hung around the room. A lavish rug lined the wooden floor, but there were only a few sitting chairs in the room: a couple by the left sections of bookcase, one behind the large desk where the bookcase ended, and a maroon-and-brown patterned settee in front of the fireplace by the right wall. But the main piece of the study had to be the statue at the room’s center—another woman with a pearl, carved in white stone. The smooth groove representing her eyes felt somehow hollow and knowing. She was just like the other two.
No, not quite like the others. Each of the statues had been a little different, their hand positions and body poses slightly unique. This one curved her arms inward, hugging the pearl to her chest as if to protect what was hers. Blackwell sure had strange taste in décor.
Crane was out cold, but he wouldn’t be forever. I’d have to think of some excuse once he did wake up, but for now I had to find that Castor Volume. The rest I’d figure out later.
After dragging his body inside a closet of smoking jackets, I put my phone on vibrate so no sudden rings would give me away. Then I started to search the books on the shelves.
“Okay, here we go.” I scanned the bookshelf, tracing my fingers down the spines of first editions to check names. Blackwell did have the Volumes in his study. A couple of them were missing from the shelves, but thankfully, the first volume was here. The giant tome was as heavy as it looked, so big I had to carry it in the crook of my arms. The pages were thin and slippery. Hundreds of them. There was no way I’d get through all of this in time.
“Thanks, Belle.” I rubbed the back of my neck because the band was never not itchy.
I set the book down on the desk. Then, dropping my bag to the floor, I plopped into Blackwell’s chair with a heavy thump and a heavier sigh. Hard to believe Castor had originally written all this by hand. Where to start? My fingers touched the dark blue velvet binding gently before flipping through the first pages.
“Wait . . .” The red ribbon attached to the book set off where Blackwell had read last, right? Carefully, so as to not lose the exact page, I flipped pages until I reached the separation. “Okay, what’s this about?”
Egbaland, 1878.
One of the domestic servants, Omotola, the natives called her, stole a valuable jewel from one of the many properties of Madam Tinubu, the Iyalode of this land. I offered my services to the slave trader to retrieve her, but in truth, I was more interested in the other properties the girl possessed.
After hearing the stories of hurricanes tearing through fields in one moment and disappearing the next, of a girl dancing through the trees as if carried by the skies, I was sure she was one of the special girls—like the one I found in Beijing three years ago. Indeed, Tinubu surely had realized as well that there was something magical about the girl. She would never allow me to keep her. But, displaying the inscrutable countenance of the shrewd businesswoman she was, she offered me a trade instead: If I helped her to bring her servant, she would reveal to me the secret methods with which she has kept her home safe from the nightmares plaguing the outskirts of her city. A treasure she has buried somewhere deep under the earth.
“A treasure buried in the earth,” I repeated. What could she possibly bury that would keep phantoms away?