And Spector trusted me, had brought me here because whatever our political differences, he believed I’d let him know about any true danger.
But if we had clear evidence that the Russians had gained the art, all the more cause for Barlow and his masters to desire it for themselves. Another argument for their views, at the expense of Spector’s moderate faction. Even Spector might be persuaded that the research was a necessary evil. And if the Russians truly had learned from one of my people, however apostate, it would be held against us.
Words spoken cannot be effaced, but silence can always be filled. I wanted to think this through before I said anything. I turned the page, read on of unrelated outrages.
As I read of a particularly heretical ritual performed in the wilds of New Hampshire, another bout of shivers wracked my body. This time, when I wrapped my arms around myself, I found the spot of deeper cold on my forearm.
I stilled. For the first time that day, I attended to the source of my fear rather than trying to suppress it. And found, at the other end of the link wrought by my grandfather, a mind fighting for focus and trying desperately to ignore the germ of ice growing in its depths. A flash: Barlow pacing his office while Peters stood by the window and Jesse read aloud to Mary, and I—Sally—tried to focus on taking notes from Mary’s dictation. The words faded in and out; I struggled to fill in the gaps. They already believed I was stupid and hysterical; they’d kick me out if I couldn’t be useful.
“Audrey!” I said.
She looked up and glared. “What?”
As gently as I could, I asked: “Your headache—has it changed at all?”
“I wish it had. I’m trying to concentrate.”
The others looked up, caught by my urgency. I went on: “Is it cold?”
“It feels like I’ve got frostbite on the inside of my skull.”
I put down the book and stood. My chair scraped against the floor, and Audrey winced. “We have to go back to Miskatonic. Now.”
Spector was already standing, gathering his notes. “Tell us.”
“Trumbull’s banishment wasn’t complete. There’s a piece of that creature stuck in Miss Ward’s mind—and maybe in yours too, Audrey. I’m sorry.”
Audrey swallowed visibly. “We’d better get her to finish her work, then.” She touched her head, brought her hand down to examine as if expecting it stained by frost or blood. “What will it do?”
“I don’t know.” I helped Charlie up. “But I doubt it’s just going to lie there.”
“Me too.” She took a deep breath. “I haven’t just been snapping because of the pain. Something feels … it feels like I’m supposed to be angry.”
Audrey was one of the strongest people I knew, determined in the pursuit of her goals, able to push through all manner of attempts to control her—but it was likely that her ancestor’s experimental whim had left her vulnerable in peculiar corners. If my neglect had pushed Sally and Jesse into an alliance with Barlow—had led directly to last night’s mad risks—then this contagion, too, was on my hands.
We stepped outside and found the weather grown fierce. While we huddled in Hall’s illusion of safety, storm clouds had begun to disgorge sleet; it blew into our faces on a biting wind. We traveled as swiftly as Spector dared drive.
CHAPTER 25
The gate guards looked preoccupied as we approached. At first I thought them simply inconvenienced by the storm, but as we drew closer I saw by their emphatic gestures that they were arguing with someone. Thinking of people likely to carry on arguments in the middle of a blizzard, I hoped it was Trumbull. It was urgent that we find her as swiftly as possible—and then Sally. We pulled alongside.
Spector rolled down his window and asked, “Boys, what seems to be the trouble?”
One of the guards turned, started to answer. He was interrupted by the figure in a heavy coat who pulled down his scarf to reveal himself, disappointingly, as Dean Skinner.
“Miss Dawson,” he said. “You’re back, good.” He frowned, looking perturbed by her spot in the back seat, well-surrounded. But he moved on to Spector. “You—can’t you do anything about these imbeciles?”
“They’re not my imbeciles,” said Spector. “Didn’t you invite them to campus?”
“I cooperated—same as I did with you and your…” He trailed off, barely sparing a grimace of distaste for me and Caleb. “But you haven’t fabricated reasons to shut down the library, or started interrogating everyone in my program! I want them out!”
“Entirely understandable,” said Spector. “I’ll tell my supervisors you said so—and you ought to tell the college board.”
“It doesn’t bother them—they don’t need to use the library every day, or worry about whether classes are being taught properly. And if you could stop interfering with my professors’ duties, that would help too.” His breath fogged the air in short, angry puffs, quickly dispelled.
Spector sighed, “I’ll see what I can do.” Window resealed, he said, “That’s something, anyway. Friendliest he’s been since we got here.”
Dawson’s tone was wry. “If there’s one thing the dean hates more being on a leash, it’s people who slip his leash.”
Spector took the turn into Trumbull’s drive slowly, and still we skidded a little. I helped Charlie up the walk. Snow burned cold against my skin, and I was shivering violently by the time we got inside. The others, save for Audrey, shed coats and scarves I’d never bothered to put on. She rubbed her temples and grimaced.
“I hope she’s here,” she said. “I really don’t want to go back outside.”
Trumbull wasn’t downstairs. “Maybe she’s in the math building,” I said. “But if they’re questioning people, she wouldn’t want to be there at all. Let me check the study.”
The cold washed over me again halfway up the stairs, and I leaned against the banister until the wave passed. I felt stiff, queasy. I?, Dagon, remind my body that the cold water is home.
No response. As ever. I continued upward, seeking the closest thing to a god I’d likely ever get a useful answer from.
Perhaps it was better for my opinion of the gods that they stayed distant.
I knocked on the study door. I heard no answer, and considered the relative risks of interrupting Trumbull’s work against the delay of seeking her elsewhere. For once, her preferences were not high among my concerns. I opened the door.
I stared for a moment, then threw myself to the floor—where Trumbull lay, eyes closed, head propped on a cushion.
“Charlie! Neko!” I checked for breath, found it slow and even. “Caleb!” Her pulse was regular. At my shout she rolled her head against the slate and murmured words I couldn’t make out.
Footsteps pounded the stairs, and Caleb and Neko appeared. They crowded through the doorway, Audrey and Spector and Dawson close behind. Charlie’s cane sounded behind them.