She led us back into the exhibit rooms, and I saw immediately what she meant about organization. The place was a jumbled cabinet of wonders, with detailed landscapes of the Miskatonic sharing walls with murky and disturbing abstractions, all hanging above vases and rings and statues and arrowheads: calculated to intrigue the eye, and to prove that generations of Miskatonic explorers and artists and curators had claimed the world for their own.
Eventually we came to a room that did have a theme: treasure. In the artificial dusk, spotlights focused on gold and silver, sapphire and emerald and polished lapis.
Charlie looked around with the critical eye of a collector who collects something else. “Do they keep a flock of ravens on staff?” he asked. But I’d already seen what I was looking for.
At the back of the narrow room, on a pedestal and covered by glass, lay a circlet of gold plates, each as wide as my hand. Light gleamed from the sculpted surfaces as I approached. My hand rose of its own accord to hover near the case, though I didn’t dare touch.
Charlie leaned over my shoulder. “Oh! There are thirteen of them—it’s the Litany, isn’t it?”
“Yes. One for each species.” Each panel was carefully wrought: the shoggoth seemed to writhe in the midst of changing form, and the ck’chk’ck’s chitin verged on iridescence. In the center, a half-changed human lay amid perfectly textured waves, new gills flaring as the water washed over her. “This is a masterwork. No wonder they tried for so long to get it back.”
Audrey read the label: “Donated by Malcolm Clark. Necklace: Innsmouth Massachusetts, 17th century.”
I snorted. “A lot older than that. And he sold it, after an Eliot girl stole it and ran off with him in the mid-1800s. She came back, but we never managed to retrieve the necklace.”
Audrey laughed. “Guess that sort of thing happens everywhere. But it’s gorgeous. Is this yours too?”
I followed her gaze. “Yes. It must be.” The statue of Hydra was carved from onyx, and doubtless here for that and the inset ruby eyes rather than its relation to the necklace. Tentacles spread mane-like around the goddess’s face and swept back along Her sides. I wanted to see the statue’s presence as a promise for tomorrow’s expedition, perhaps pray for guidance, but could not. In the library I felt that the books were still ours, even stolen. The museum sucked meaning from things that ought to be sacred, or bound it too tightly to sense. Looking at the image, I saw nothing but stone. Charlie moved to stand next to me, silent comfort.
I heard voices before I saw them: three boys wearing foil-covered masks with long beaks, and feathers dangling from their hair. They looked like metallic crows, perhaps the sort to gather a collection like the one before us. One of them spotted Audrey.
“Hey, sweetheart! Someone leave you here?” He waved the list of clues in what I realized was his only hand. He looked older than the usual run of college students, though it didn’t show in his demeanor. GI bill. “Have you seen a ‘blood-soaked rose’?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” She pointed at a case with a garnet pin carved in the shape of a flower. “That’s probably what you want.”
“Thanks, sweetheart!” He caught sight of me and frowned. “Hey, come over here.”
I didn’t enjoy such orders at the best of times; I gave him my best withering look. “I beg your pardon.”
He strode over, and I braced myself rather than back up against the statue’s case.
“That’s a fishface for sure! I haven’t seen one of you since I was a kid. I heard rumors you were around again, but I figured someone was pulling my leg. I thought they put you all away for bootlegging!”
Charlie looked like he was ready to deck the guy. I put a quelling hand on his arm and repeated, “I beg your pardon.”
He glanced at Charlie and backed up. “I didn’t mean any harm. Just funny to see a fishface lady visiting her things, is all. That really your tentacle god there? They always said Innsmouth folk kept some pretty creepy stuff in their churches, but that takes the cake!”
The other two were watching now, looking nervous, and one of them said, “John, don’t bother the lady. Either back off or take it outside with her boyfriend.” Charlie tensed under my hand.
Audrey stepped forward, drawing their attention. “Why don’t you boys leave now? You’re not going to look smarter if you stick around.”
John glanced at Charlie’s cane, and our would-be defender grabbed his arm and chivvied him into the next room. The third guy gave us an apologetic shrug, bent over the rose brooch, and scribbled a quick note in his pad.
“Um,” he said. “Sorry about John—he gets kind of excited but he doesn’t mean any harm. Are you really from Innsmouth?”
I was getting extremely tired of this. “Clearly not, since they killed us all for bootlegging back in ’28.”
He blanched, but said, “I’m sorry. It’s just, I’m doing my thesis on local history, and Innsmouth is this huge hole—no one really knows what happened there.”
“Of course they do. They’ve been telling me about it all week. Ask anyone.”
It was Charlie’s turn to put a hand on my arm. The history student started to say something, then shook his head, muttered an apology, and left.
“Would it be so bad to tell people?” asked Audrey. “About what happened, I mean, not the other stuff. It might shut them up.”
“I don’t like the company he keeps,” I said. And didn’t like what he’d suggested about rumors. Skinner must still be talking about us, trying to learn the reason for our presence—and reawakening old stories in the process. “Besides, people have studied us more than enough.”
As we left, I glanced back at the statue, and wanted very badly to go home.
CHAPTER 11
On Saturday morning Spector seemed distracted, more so when I mentioned the disturbing conversation at the museum, and acquiesced easily to our suggested plan. I supposed visiting Innsmouth followed logically from what he’d witnessed. He pled errands of his own, freeing me of the need to discourage him from joining us. Neko was pleased to come along: magic might only interest her in as much as it mattered to me and Caleb, but family was another matter. Audrey, when she arrived, looked as nervous as I felt, and I couldn’t blame her.
The old Innsmouth road had grown jagged and pockmarked. And yet, as we drew closer, we found crews repairing holes and sealing all with blacktop. The scent of tar mixed with the tang of salt. Gulls circled and occasionally swooped to retrieve the workmen’s abandoned crumbs, announcing our approach with harsh cries.
At last we entered the town. The old ring of dilapidated houses, long used to discourage tourists, had fallen into even greater decay. A few had been cleared entirely to make way for foreboding new foundations. Where once the true town stood within that ancient protective ring, now were broken windows and sagging porches, slumped chimneys and walls fallen away to reveal crumbled remnants of kitchens, libraries, nurseries. I knew every street. I hesitated, but did not direct Trumbull down the turns to what had once been our house. And of course, she did not ask.