“For the boys. The girls used it for skip rope.” More color in his cheeks suggested that he’d sometimes played the safer game as well.
Dawson gave Caleb an amused look, but her tone was all professional confidence. “I’ll find him.”
Kirill Barinov’s notebooks did not provide any hints of body switching that day—nor indeed of any magical mastery beyond the dilettantish. According to Dawson’s translation, he’d speculated wildly about the powers one might develop through proper study, but ultimately showed a deeper fascination for the legends of otherworldly creatures and gods. Like many at Miskatonic, his great hope appeared to have been finding secrets of physics and mathematics hidden in ancient lore, or the reverse. He seemed to take great enjoyment in the play of ideas with the rest of his crowd, whatever the topic. Certain names cropped up frequently in the English sections of his marginalia, including a few instances of “Sadler says” and “Miss Winslow made an intriguing observation.” As Dawson pointed out, the only possibility precluded by these entries was Kirill as an incompetent spy. It would have been easy enough to keep two sets of journals and leave one behind, or hide meaningful observations in some cipher that Dawson hadn’t yet detected.
The helpful librarian had left by the time we were ready to go, but her evening replacement assured us that we could continue our work when we returned.
Spector pulled me aside on the way out. “I wanted to warn you: Dawson says that Skinner is acting suspicious about you and Caleb. He’s not happy that we haven’t explained what we’re after, and he seems to have latched on to the idea that it’s something to do with”—he shrugged, looking embarrassed—“old rumors about dark arts and destructive powers that were hidden before Innsmouth was … before the raid. He seems to think you’re using us to go after … whatever he imagines you want to find. She’s trying to redirect him, but you may want to be careful.”
“That, I’d figured out.” I tried to hide my discomfort. The rumors about Innsmouth had always included fantastical stories about everything from sacrificing our neighbors’ children to hoarding artifacts that threatened all humanity. Simply for Skinner to recall those libels, discuss them with others, would be a grave danger. “Wouldn’t it be better to tell him? I know he doesn’t cooperate willingly, but he might, if he knew what danger you were really after.” And it might distract him from his worst guesses as to why Innsmouth’s survivors were involved.
But Spector shook his head. “Skinner is discreet only when his own reputation is at stake. I’m not authorized to explain the details of our mission to him, and I don’t think his inevitable curiosity is sufficient reason for headquarters to change that. I just wanted you to know—and to let me know if you see reason for greater concern.”
Dinner passed with the usual awkwardness—although thankfully without Skinner’s personal presence. Afterward, I suggested to Charlie that we find a private spot to continue our studies. Caleb declined to join us, somewhat to my relief. Trumbull surprised me by offering the use of her workroom, “provided you do not interfere with my studies there.”
We walked slowly back to the faculty row. The cane seemed to help—Spector had found a good one—but Charlie did not object too strenuously to my staying within reach of his elbow on the night-frozen sidewalks.
Trumbull’s second-floor workroom had once been an ordinary study, with built-in bookshelves and a bay window overlooking the snow and moonlit shadows of the campus.
“The knives are purified. Salt them when you’re done,” she told us before shutting the door.
Trumbull—or rather, the entity that now inhabited her body—had pushed the desk to the side and stacked it with papers handwritten in miniscule but impeccable Enochian. Another table bore, along with a rack of knives and a water-filled glass bowl, a half-built machine that looked like some obscene hybrid of a chemistry set and a home radio kit. It did not appear to be on, but the open flasks gave off a faint, noxious odor only partly masked by the remnants of incense and melted candles. A series of hand-drawn diagrams studded one wall. She’d covered the open part of the floor with a thin slate slab, now a palimpsest of old chalk.
A cushioned chair remained in concession to human comfort, and Charlie sank into it. He rubbed his knee gingerly. “I don’t know what to make of her.”
“Well.” I leaned in to examine the diagrams more closely. They seemed related to astral travel, but beyond that I could tell only that they were far beyond my expertise. “That’s probably because she isn’t human.”
“She’s not one of your people. You would have said.”
“I’m human, Mr. Day. We share the world in three parts.”
He ducked his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Marsh. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know. But remember.”
“So then she’s … is she a Yith?” He leaned back. “Of course she is. You did warn me.”
“I did. But it’s different, meeting one in person.” I settled cross-legged on the slate and looked up at him. “It’s one thing to say that humanity is ultimately unimportant in the face of the cosmos. It’s another to stand before someone who believes, deep down, that your pain is trivial.”
“I felt that. When she doesn’t care about something, she’s like a personification of the whole universe not caring.” He started to bend down, grimaced, and sat back again cautiously. “But they do important work—you’ve said so. And there were other humans there who did care, who helped me out—even if I was an ass about it.”
“You were, rather,” I told him, and was rewarded by the quirk of his lips. “Charlie—” His given name slipped out without my thinking about it, and he didn’t object. “It’s cowardly of me, but I don’t want to think about the indifference of the universe tonight. I want to go through the Inner Sea, and see what we can do to encourage your healing, and then perhaps talk a bit about summoning.”
“That all sounds fine to me.” But he hesitated and asked, “Not more dreamwalking?”
“I’d rather not. She might be asleep.”