“I remember.” Caleb was a Hallows child, born while the last brown leaves clung to their branches. As tradition bade, he’d received a fine new journal and pen for his sixth birthday. I remembered him holding them proudly, sitting poised with nib above paper for minutes on end as he considered what words might be worthy. I looked again at the shelf, but didn’t see that small leather-bound volume, nor any others of mine, near the empty spot I’d made.
Dawson tapped her watch. “I’m sorry, but the longer we stay, the more risk of being caught. Let’s do a quick scan for any unusual security, and then get out of here.”
I hesitated over the diary. Wasn’t it mine? And the journals were so obviously untracked, uncatalogued. But Dawson shook her head, and Audrey said, “It’s not just the risk of them noticing it missing; someone might find it in your room. We’ll come back for everything.” She took a last look around, eyes wide and bright, as I reluctantly returned my younger self to her place on the dusty shelf.
The building felt no less alive, no less malignant, as we made our way out. I heard it breathe around me, every creaking pipe a sign of pursuit and discovery.
These convictions may have been simple fatigue—for we were well out of the building and a couple hundred yards down the path when the alarm went off.
It shrieked through the night: an old foghorn of a siren, intended to waken and summon all possible aid within a vast reach. I froze, but when no blades materialized in the first second, I began sprinting.
Behind me, other footsteps. Then Caleb, shouting under the clangor: “Vhr’ch! Cru Phlyr ich nafhgrich yp! Aphra, cru linghn yzhuv th’rtil!”
The reminder of the others’ vulnerability broke through my panicked flight. I stopped, and turned to wait. Audrey gestured that I should return, and reluctantly I did so.
“Innocent people will be running toward the alarm,” she hissed.
“Oh. Oh.” It was obvious once she said it. She ran her hands through her hair, took out bobby pins, mussed locks too obviously un-slept-in.
We hung back from the path, not wanting to be the first spectators. But soon enough, students and faculty arrived bearing flashlights or stumbling on the darkened walks. Many wore coats hastily thrown over nightshirts, but others were still dressed, especially as the crowd expanded. We joined in, but did not push to the front.
A police car braked hard on the nearest street, its own siren masked by the library’s. The whirling red and blue lights made me turn away abruptly; the constant noise already sent spears of pain through my ears. When I forced my head up I saw that the police had been joined by a university guard and two people I suspected were librarians. A taller man arrived, white-haired and gaunt and angry. Two policemen and a librarian went in through the front door, and a couple of minutes later the alarm silenced its wailing. I nearly fell to my knees in gratitude, though the police car still cried over the chaotic babble of the crowd.
George Barlow and three of his men strode toward the other investigators. They moved with grim dignity, but their faces were flushed and their breath hit the air in quick puffs of steam.
The police car raised its voice once more, then wound down into silence. Barlow spoke, voice pitched to carry. “We need to ask all of you to remain here for a few minutes. We want to hear about anything you may have seen—once we’ve spoken with you, you can get back to your warm beds.” Both police and guard looked irritated but didn’t gainsay his assertion of control. The gaunt man announced officiously that everyone ought to wait and remain calm, and Dawson identified him as the college president.
“Miss Marsh!” Spector’s voice from behind, out of breath. He came around and nodded to the others. Charlie hobbled after. “Did you see anything?”
“No one but this crowd,” said Dawson. “And I didn’t hear anything over the alarm.” Audrey nodded agreement. Charlie kept his face impassive.
Peters went inside, and Barlow and the others spread out to begin their interrogation. I fretted silently—invisibly, I hoped—over footprints and fingerprints, a door left unlatched, a brilliant Holmesian sleuth concealed among their team. Students and faculty murmured to each other: some excited, others cold and irritable, few noticeably worried. I focused, trying to stay calm. My blood is a tide.
Barlow made us wait just long enough to prove he could. He smiled easily. “Ron. I see you’ve been adding to your irregulars.”
Before Spector could respond, Audrey offered a dazzling smile and held out her hand. “Audrey Winslow—I’m delighted to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
He took her hand and started to bend over it before settling on a businesslike shake. “George Barlow. Charmed, of course.” He released her hand, slightly belatedly. “I’m certain Ron’s picked out an observant team. I hope you caught something useful?”
Audrey shook her head, managing a blush and a rueful duck of her head. “We only saw the people in the crowd, and the alarm made it impossible to hear anything. I’m afraid we can’t tell you anything helpful.”
“That’s a shame. How quickly did you get here?”
“Before we heard the alarm, we were up late talking at Professor Trumbull’s place. We didn’t have much getting ready to do, but when we arrived there was nothing to see.”
“Hm. And the rest of you?” Barlow tinted his voice with the faintest trace of doubt. We shook our heads dumbly. “Ah, well. One can’t expect everything, I suppose.”
“It’s a large library,” suggested Spector. “Whatever—whoever set off the alarm might still be inside. Best if we work together on the search.”
Barlow made a show of considering it. “No, I think we’d better handle this one ourselves. But do let me know if you—or your ladies—notice anything that might be relevant. Why don’t you get back to your beds; it’s a cold night.” He tipped his hat. “Good night, Miss Winslow. A pleasure to meet you.”
Spector started after the other agent, his face a mask of control. Audrey put a hand on his elbow. “Wait. Is he likely to listen to anything you have to say right now?” Spector shook his head. “Can he make more trouble than he has?”
“She’s right, sir,” said Dawson. She kept her gaze low. “It might be better to take this somewhere a bit less chilly.”
“No,” said Spector. “I want to know if they find anything.”
“You think they’ll tell us?” she asked.
“This is my assignment, damn it. I was first on campus; they can’t just run around me. Excuse my language, I’m sorry.”
I waved off the apology, but said, “Actually, Miss Dawson was the first of your people here. And they don’t seem inclined to keep her informed.”
Spector worked his mouth around a grimace, but then sighed. “So she was. My apologies. Still. One of us might overhear something.”