Page 11 of Sunsets & Other Dangerous Things

“Besides this conversation?” Esther hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but she was terrible at filtering her thoughts before speaking.

He rolled his eyes. “Just help me out, Esther.”

“Fine.” She stood and adjusted her bag. “I will look for a weird, old cookbook. Anything else?”

He sat a moment longer, a finger tapping at his knee like he was debating adding something more. But he shook his head, so she went upstairs to the collection—as usual.

4

Esther

Esther pressed the spring-tensed button at the top of the stairs, illuminating the space in a stale yellow.

The third floor had held the Platt family’s staff quarters back in the house’s heyday then was leased out as rooms when the house could no longer support staff, and finally—after gathering the requisite layer of dust—the inner walls were torn away one by one for the sake of storage. Now, overflowing shelves of earthy browns and fading jewel-toned manuscripts lined the sloping walls, while boxes of loose-leaf piled into a maze across the worn floorboards. An old, wooden desk was crammed under the window at one end, nearly hidden under the stacks of acid-free tissue, Mylar sleeves, and piles of moldy paper Esther still needed to dry wash before labeling, recording, and fitting safely in their sleeves.

She tossed her bag by the desk and dropped into the old wooden chair. The chair listed backward, wooden wheels finding the undetectable tilt to the floorboards, and forcing Esther to grab the desk before it carried her across the room.

“Not today, Trouble.”

Its rusty springs groaned a reply as she pulled back into place. She couldn’t be sure if the sound was reluctant acquiescence or a threat of future mischief. Probably both. But Esther couldn’t complain. This was her ideal environment—quiet solitude and the control over her work that came with no one watching.

She’d underestimated the level of conservation this project needed, and part of her worried she wouldn’t finish by the time her nine months were up. She still hoped to digitize the bound books for her final report.

When she’d first moved to Plattsburgh for her LIS degree, the fight for internships was competitive and some people were doubling up to pad their resumes. Through luck or timing or both, Esther had stumbled on one of the few paid openings in town through a fellowship program with the Plattsburgh Historical Society. When her year was up, they would box up the documents and continue whatever conservation and cataloging she hadn’t finished. That plus the free housing she snagged in her uncle’s spare bedroom and the GA position with Professor Jenkins meant she was able to cover the cost of food and even pay upfront some of the tuition her scholarship didn’t cover.

She placed her hand fondly on the stack of yellowed paper awaiting her attention. Loose pages should be addressed first and save the easier, bound books for last. But with August’s request to find this missing book, her plans had to change. She scooped up the papers from the desk, placed them lovingly into an acid-free box in the corner, and covered them in fresh silica gel packets, assuring them she would return soon.

Most of the sorting was done. Bound books in one spot, journals in another. Loose-leaf had its own space and odds and ends like photographs, portraits, and maps in another. There were labels and rules and procedures, simple steps so whoevertook up this project next could continue with ease. Rules cut back on recommendations. If she messed up, it was because she missed a step or a rule was faulty. Not because her recommendation was a bad one. Not because her suggestion had impacted someone’s life.

She pulled out her laptop and fired up the catalog system, letting that load while she grabbed a small stack of books from the shelf. Here in this attic, she lost herself in the easy movement of checking off lists and following the natural and well-researched order of archival work.

First up, and probably all she’d have time for today, was a small, handwritten journal. The leather cover remained soft but cracked near the spine, its edges hardened from the touch of decades of curious fingertips. She slid on her cotton gloves, cradling it in her palm as she turned the tissue-thin pages, yellowed with age and filled with tight but neat cursive. There was only a couple dozen pages. If she was diligent, she could finish transcribing by the end of the week.

Her transcription slowed as the journal drew her into a manifesto. Or maybe the making of a gothic romance. The nameless author spoke of duty handed down for generations, a secret society with the task of “containing the contagion of the night.” With another flip of a flimsy page, she reached the end, only to realize she’d read the whole thing and only transcribed the first page. She checked again for an author but found no clue. Maybe August knew more, or she could ask a family member familiar with the collection. She would love to interview an elder Platt on some of the obscure things she’d found, but that wasn’t part of her internship. She shouldn’t be stepping outside the tasks outlined to her.

The clock downstairs chimed, breaking her focus. That couldn’t be right. Six already? Esther pulled out her phone and confirmed the number of chimes matched what the modernworld was touting as the current hour. She finished transcribing the sentence she was on, left enough notes in her notebook to remember where she’d left off, and packed up her bag to leave. Chair with a capital Trouble took its final opportunity for mayhem and shot out the second she stood, leaving Esther to chase it across the room and back into place.

“And stay there!” she commanded, stuffing a fistful of acid-free tissue under one of its wheels, pinning it under the desk where it belonged. It was a waste of resources but worth it if that damn chair would behave. “I’ll see you next week.”

“Well, that’s no bigger than a womp rat,” came Uther’s voice.

Oh, Uther. Midway down the stairs, she cringed in the secondhand embarrassment wafting up from the floor below. She’d completely forgotten her promise to him until now. And that wasn’t even a sexy movie quote.

She raced down the last flight, the creaking wood covering any further conversation until she joined them. “All right, I’m ready to go.”

Uther turned to her, his face somehow conveying both relief and disappointment.

“No luck today,” she said to August, “but I’ll continue on the books next week. Do you know if it’s a bound book or more of a journal?”

“No worries,” August said. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

Not helpful, but the one joy of hourly minimum wage was dropping everything at the end of the day and not thinking about it again until clocking back in.

Esther adjusted the strap on her bag and headed for the door when Uther coughed pointedly. She spun to see what she’d forgotten. Uther’s eyes widened in a silent plea as he nodded toward August.

Right. She was supposed to be a supportive friend and get her bestie laid. Or at least a coffee date. Though she wasn’t sure how salvageable that prospect was at this point.

She scrunched half her mouth and tilted her head, silently asking Uther if he was sure because they could bail now and save face.

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