Page 130 of Failure to Match

Mabel

Quite wonderful, isn’t it?

I walked over to the closest bookshelf and knelt down to study the paintings at the very bottom. The progression of Jackson’s age was clear. The farther up I moved, the more detailed and advanced the art became.

It was so, so lovely.

The big, clumsily painted flowers gradually morphed into intricate vines snaking around meticulously detailed dragons and Monarch butterflies. The oversized stars with shaky lines became vibrant patches of a starry night sky. There were mystic forests with animated trees and talking gnomes. Woodland creatures playing in moonlit waterfalls.

It was brilliant. Every inch of wood told a different story, and I lost track of how long I spent going around the room, drinking it all in.

Then I decided to pull out a random book off the shelf and open it. I gasped, my mouth falling open.

At some point in the later years, Jackson must have managed to get his hands on some real art supplies, because I didn’t think you could sketch anything with this level of detail using a normal pen or pencil. It was fuckingmagical. Castles and crows and lions and lilies and pirate ships and swordfights sketched over the words, interacting with chapter titles and depicting underlined passages.

Anything and everything he’d ever drawn or painted was probably preserved in this room, etched into an item or a piece of furniture. I’d never seen anything like it.

Molly and Mabel had been silent over the last… however long I’d been here. Not by accident, I suspected.

Which books did you need me to grab?

Mabel

Oh, darn. I can’t seem to recall the title of mine.

I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my mouth as I typed out my response. Of course she didn’t.

Do you remember anything about the cover or spine? Or an approximate location?

Mabel

I think it had a dark green cover. Try the small bookcase beside the baby piano.

What baby piano?

I definitely didn’t see one of those in here.

Mabel

It’s down the steps, dear.

What steps? I walked around the room again, checked underneath some of the bigger pieces of furniture, but nothing. And just as I was about to ask, my phonedinged.

Molly

Try rubbing the genie lamp.

Again, what genie lam—oh, never mind. It was on the bookshelf to my left, perched beside a leather-bound version of The Arabian Nights.

I rubbed it. I still don’t see any stairs.

Mabel

Try again. Make sure you give it a good scrub.

Still nothing.

Molly

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