She nodded. “Although it’s going to weigh me down while I climb. You all should thank me for sacrificing myself.”
“Oh, stop whining,” said Chae Rin as Lake pouted.
“All right.” After silently staring up at the scaffold, Belle cracked her neck side to side. “Let’s go.”
The director of the museum confirmed through James that he’d disabled the security and left a window open, but only for the time being. We wouldn’t have too much time. Grabbing the metal bars, I began hoisting myself up, finding footing wherever there were metal surfaces to stand on. Chae Rin was the best at this, unsurprisingly, her circus-trained equilibrium and deftness helping her zip and flip up the scaffold. It was all I could do to keep pace.
Once we squeezed ourselves deeper into the labyrinth of metal poles, we came to a section of the scaffold blocked off by a wall of netting. The net, at least, made it harder for us to be seen, though I doubted at this point that anyone could even see us. Maybe Rhys was somewhere below, out of sight, watching for trouble. Looking out for us like I’d asked him to.
It got colder the higher we climbed, but I shook it off with a shiver. Looking over the edge of the metal poles, we could see the entirety of Wenceslas Square, the streets lit up gold, the white blinding lights of cars scuttling up and down their length. It was a breathtaking sight. But soon we found the old square window the museum’s director had told us about. Third one on the west end. Belle pounded it open with a fist, and it swung with a labored creak. One by one, the four of us dropped into a room of paintings—paintings of clowns.
“Why clowns?” Lake cringed as she scanned the oil and colors etching out, in an exaggerated, avant-garde style, a rather pessimistic portrayal of their work endlessly entertaining insatiable crowds of ravenous spectators. Creepy. Depressing.
“Brings back memories,” Chae Rin said with a wistful sigh. “Anyway, we’ve got to get down to the first floor. Let’s go.”
Shadows of this place remained in my memories from the time I’d watched Natalya in my dreams. Down the flight of stairs, slipping through the golden arched doorways, I scanned the black marble walls and columns, white streaks scribbling beautiful patterns across their length. It was because of Natalya’s memories that I knew right away where I needed to go—the shadowed archway in the forgotten corner of the building still, maybe always, blocked off by yellow tape. We rushed through the long, dark hallway until we reached the security pad at the end of the path.
“Wait,” Lake said, “the code—”
“I know it.” Indeed, I did. My fingers were quick, pressing in each key. The metal door next to it shuddered and slid open with a groan.
The Little Room, Baldric had called it. Well, it was certainly higher than it was wide. I remembered these bookshelves spanning the two semicircular stories. Tomes of texts. Unhung portraits on the floor, propped up against the walls. We were in. This was as far as the director could help us. Now I’d have to rely on Natalya. If she was up for it.
We spread out. It was dark. I had to search around for the light switches, but when I found them, strange lamps ahead snapped on. Lamps of different shapes, dangling from thin wires, cast an orange, red, and yellow wash over the marble floor, like glowing pendants.
“Who the hell designed this place?” Chae Rin shielded her eyes from one pendant directly above her.
“Maia, what do we do?” Lake asked.
She weaved between two globes that have been knocked off their stands and stopped at a display blocked off by chains. The fossilized phantom. Yes, I remembered this all too well. Natalya had been mesmerized by this too, this phantom crystallized—no, “petrified” was the official term, though it certainly glittered like crystal. The phantom was like a dragon about to take flight, its wings spread out, its jaw gaping as if prepared to swallow any of us whole.
“This is all well and good,” Lake said, “but how do we find the volume? There’re two stories of wall-to-wall books here.”
Belle was staring up at the portrait hanging above the fireplace at the west end of the room. Bartholom?us Blackwell II: 1849–1910. Blackwell’s ancestor. He had the same wild, long, dark curls and the same ridiculous, elaborate sense of fashion. The moment I saw him, something stirred inside me. Natalya.
I pressed a hand against my forehead. There was something there. Something I was missing.
“You okay?” Chae Rin walked up to me and shook my shoulder.
I’d seen the memory through Natalya’s eyes. It wasn’t the right way of scrying. It left you vulnerable to someone else’s emotions and feelings . . . but at the same time, the chaotic nature of intertwining your mind too tightly with someone else’s made the process unwieldly, untrustworthy. I may have felt emotions that were wrong, or not felt emotions I should have. The thoughts I’d heard could have been heard incorrectly. I had to think back to it. Back to that dream.
I closed my eyes. It was months ago, so I knew I wouldn’t be able to remember it completely, but shadows of old feelings crept back inside me. Natalya’s fear and urgency as she walked through the room to leave her message for Belle. She’d walked over to the shelves on the first floor to get to the Castor Volumes, the first ever printed, preserved in this secret space. But there were only twelve of them, each bound in velvet. What was I missing? And why did my eyes keep slipping back to the portrait?
Natalya had stared at the portrait too for a moment before moving on.
It doesn’t matter.
That’s what she’d thought to herself. Natalya was being chased. She’d only had a moment’s worth of time, but the portrait had still managed to capture her attention.
It doesn’t matter. . . . It doesn’t matter now. . . . It doesn’t matter anymore.
But it did matter. Something in me screamed it.
“Help me take this down,” I told Belle.
Belle had to raise me above her head so I could reach the portrait and bring it back down. The black letters written in cursive on the wall behind it were so tiny I had to squint to read them. But I recognized the Latin immediately.
“Et in tenebris invenies,” I finished slowly. “And among the shadows, you will find them.”
“What does that mean?” asked Lake as I hopped down from Belle’s shoulders.
“Among the shadows.” I remembered the paintings of phantoms all along Pastor Charles’s church: shadows dancing across the walls, bathing only in the light of the stained glass windows. “The shadows are phantoms.”
I pivoted on my feet, my focus on the petrified phantom at the center of the room. “I think this is it.”
I joined Lake by the phantom. She eyed me as I hopped over the chains and began sweeping my hands across the hard crystal. “What exactly are you looking for?” she asked.