“Were you seeking me for some particular reason?”
He eyed Caleb again. Caleb turned and knelt before the altar. Sadler continued to watch his back for a moment, then forced his attention back to me. “No particular reason. I just—” He gestured at our surroundings. “Not many people actually use the temple. I come here sometimes, to think more carefully about the things I’ve been studying, to try and understand them.”
“I see. Are you planning on joining that expedition that your friends were discussing earlier?”
“Sure. If you want to come along—”
“I do not. If you will please excuse us, my brother and I were in the middle of a private conversation.” I touched Caleb’s shoulder. “Brother, dear, let’s go.”
Outside, Caleb sang out, “Sister dear!” I punched his arm, but I was shaking.
“I don’t like walking away,” I said.
He glanced behind, but Sadler had apparently stayed in the church as requested. “From what? I could tell he displeased you from the start. Did he insult you, this morning?”
“After a fashion. He was with the group of students in the bookstore, talking about magic—or what they think of as magic. They’re organizing an expedition to Innsmouth. Supposed to be haunted, you know.”
He tensed beside me. “We ought to go down there and talk to our grandparents. Give them a haunting, if that’s what they’re looking for.”
“You haven’t yet, have you? Talked with them, I mean.”
He shook his head silently.
“Caleb—Professor Trumbull.”
“Leave be! Haven’t we had enough rude mortals for the night?”
I looked up, but winter clouds obscured the stars. I would have liked to see where we stood in the cosmos. “She’s not mortal. She’s one of the Great Race. We talked last night.”
“How do you know?”
I was surprised at the doubt in his voice. “The usual ways, I suppose. I asked the right question, and she gave the right answer. She knew more about us than I expected. I think she pushed the librarian, mentally, to make him give in about our books.”
He shook his head. “She may know enough magic and lore to do those things. That doesn’t make her an ancient, all-remembering intelligence.”
I had been worried for Caleb’s well-being. Now, I worried for his sanity and his own memories. “Doubt the gods as much as you please. People do. But to start doubting things that our people have seen throughout history, and recorded in those books you want to rescue … you have to believe in us, even if you don’t believe in anything else.”
When he turned to me, I saw in his eyes both the bitter man and the frightened boy. “I haven’t forgotten our history, I promise. But trust me, it’s better for Trumbull if I think her an arrogant mortal, rather than something that might have real answers.”
I thought of my own conversation with her, and how he might react to the story of Beneer. And I let it lie.
CHAPTER 7
The next morning, Spector insisted on stopping at Dean Skinner’s house before we left for Hall. His black government car waited in the drive while Trumbull idled behind in her own older model.
“We need to borrow Miss Dawson for the day,” Spector informed the man with a cheer that bordered on malicious. Skinner blustered, and eventually disappeared into the house without inviting us in. A few minutes later the maid appeared, demure in a blue day dress and matching hat that set off her dark skin.
“This had better be worth it,” she told Spector after the door closed. “The dean doesn’t like to be reminded about my other duties.”
“We’ve got a lead,” he said. “We may need you to look at some notes.”
She looked back at the house. “Well, it’s a day off. Later’s later.”
“What’s she doing here?” asked Caleb. I glared at him—I’d been wondering the same thing, but hadn’t been about to ask.
She looked him up and down. “Vy govorite po-russki?”
He blinked, and suddenly grinned. “Cru, Vharlh nge R’lyehn. Th’dyn Zhucht.”
She said something else in the other language—I presumed Russian—and he laughed. It was astounding to see Caleb laugh at his own ignorance, though I supposed this was an easier lack to swallow than most. They continued to trade phrases as we walked back toward the cars, and I realized that we were now two seats short in the original vehicle rather than one.
“I’ll ride with Professor Trumbull,” I said, because the thought of anyone else doing so unnerved me.
“I’ll go as well,” said Charlie. “There’s no reason to be crowded in.”
The others agreed, and before I could come up with an objection, we were standing alone on the icy walk while Trumbull tapped the steering wheel in annoyance. Charlie rubbed his knee as he eased into the front passenger seat, and it occurred to me that he might have physical as well as curmudgeonly reasons to prefer some space. I joined him, taking the seat behind Trumbull.
She seemed to feel no pressing need to fill the drive with chatter. We passed quickly down the streets that had made a comfortingly long walk. The sun broke through the winter haze, and houses and yards that had been picturesque white were now pocked with slushy gray and the black residue of exhaust.
“I miss California,” said Charlie.
“So does Neko,” I said.
“You don’t?”
“I do. I miss the store. I miss the rain and the fog. I miss Mama Rei and Anna and Kevin. But I’ve missed snow, too.”
He glanced at Trumbull, clearly waiting for her to throw in some comment about the virtues of Massachusetts, or the weather. This didn’t seem like the appropriate place to explain her reticence, though holding back closed off many things we might otherwise have discussed.
We drove around the outskirts of Kingsport, a kaleidoscope of buildings from every era since the colonial, winding up toward the distant central hill with its sprawling hospital. The Hall School lay at the town’s southwestern tip: a series of low-slung brick buildings with none of Miskatonic’s flourishes. Bare-branched oaks and spreading pines lined the walkways, sheltering the girls who hurried between classes. Their semester apparently started earlier than Miskatonic’s. Black and red uniforms peeked from under heavy coats.
We pulled up in front of the library—considerably smaller than the Crowther. Trumbull stepped out with alacrity, tilting her head with the slightly-less-distant interest that she turned on most things scholarly.
“Where are the others?” I asked.
Trumbull wrinkled her nose. “Perhaps they got lost on the way. It is quite a distance.”
Charlie hugged himself; even with the sun out the day was chilly. “Shall we go inside? I’m sure that once they find the building, they can figure out the rest.”