Page 25 of House of Furies
“No, the master is never wrong,” Chijioke replied solemnly. “Never.”
I thought of Lee, of his hand grazing mine as he rescued my fallen spoon. “We shall see.”
Mary reached us in a swirl of clean skirts that smelled of freshbread. Her hands and wrists were dusted with flour, a smudge of it on her nose and cheek, too. “There you are! Chi, shame on you for tarrying with her here. There’s but five of us to see to this great beast of a house!” She took a deep breath, leaning back and putting her hands on her waist. Chijioke slinked away, sheepish, giving me a helpless shrug and a grin as he went.
“Mrs. Haylam wants you in the library,” she said. “It needs dusting. I was going to do it but it’s one of the easier tasks, and I thought you mightn’t be ready for anything more daunting.”
She was having trouble meeting my eye, and it was no secret why.
“I don’t know if I want to dust the library,” I said. My fingers and head still crackled occasionally with the pain of having pushed beyond the borders of the property. “I’m really not keen to stay here.”
Mary nodded, wiping her floury hands on her apron. “Was fretting, worried you might say as much. Do as you will, then, Louisa. I’m just the messenger. But if you’re going to stay, you’ll have to work like the rest of us.” She clapped a hand over her mouth and hurried to add, “Not the...thatkind of work, oh, bugger it!”
The curse sounded ridiculous coming from her. She seemed the type to blush after eventhinkingsuch a word. The wind changed directions, coming now from behind me, from where the sheep grazed out farther in the pasture. I smelled the sweet grass and the scent of bread from her aprons and drank deeplyof the air. I knew now that the master was not lying. He or that infernal book did have some power over me.
I needed more time. And the library might have a few rare books. Books that would see me out of this place and on a boat to America.
“I’ll see to the library,” I said, holding back a sigh. “Lead on.”
Chapter Fifteen
It was less a library and more snowdrifts of books and dust heaped against sagging shelves, cramped and labyrinthine. I had to wonder at Lee’s inability to find anything worth reading when I had never in my life seen so many books piled in one place.
On a better day, the room might have enjoyed clean, pure sunlight through its third-floor windows, but a troubling layer of grime darkened the place.
I stood dumbfounded and overwhelmed in the doorway, while Mary fidgeted like a guilty thief behind me. I felt that if anyone should be twitching, it ought to be me.
“The easier task,” I murmured.
“I... may have forgotten the state of things in here,” she said. “I can stay to help if you like, but only until Mrs. Haylam needs me again.”
“No, that’s all right.” The time alone would be welcome. Crucial. There were no shadow creatures in here to notice whether anything went missing. “It’s straightforward enough, I think.”
“Don’t put yourself out tidying the books. Mr. Morningside just keeps chucking them in here despite Mrs. Haylam’s protests. Once, she sent a few of the dog-eared copies to a school for charity and Mr. Morningside was furious with her. Heraisedhisvoice. It was terrible stuff, just awful.”
“He raised his voice?” I said. She looked horrified all over again by the memory. “One shudders to imagine it.”
“But you must not judge him because of that. It really was not her place to dispose of his property that way.” Mary began wringing her hands, puffing out her cheeks as she surveyed the messy room ahead of me. “Icanstay....”
I ignored the offer. “Does Mr. Morningside often leave the cellar?”
Her eyes flamed wide. “Oh. Oh no, no, that’s very rare indeed. I haven’t seen it with my own eyes, in fact. He says the air up here bothers him. The pollen, or some such.”
“I see.” I didn’t, of course, but it was just another little puzzle piece to file away. I would need information and luck to get away from Coldthistle permanently. “Well, I had best get started. Idle hands, and all that.”
God, now I was quotinghim. But Mary was soothed, and she averted her green eyes just for a second, then glanced at me again from under her lashes. “If you do fancy help, please come and fetch me. It... You must be in such a state! So confused, I mean. Only... don’t think too harshly on me, on us, before you know all, please.”
I looked away from her, feeling ill. The way she spoke, her mannerisms, it was exactly like my imaginary friend, and it was too affecting. “I haven’t decided what I’m going to do.”
“You should stay,” Mary said quietly, backing away. “I wantyou to, but only ifyouwant to. What I mean is, I’m hoping real hard that you stay.”
She was gone, flitting down the corridor, leaving me in the dense silence of the dust and gloom. Eerie shafts of light pierced the dirty windows in places, those rare spears of silver and yellow mottled with dust motes. I almost had to laugh at the idea that I could clean all of this with just a feather duster and a washcloth. Within moments of wiping the cloth across the floor and rinsing it out in the bucket, the water turned murky brown. I pressed on, trying to scrub and dust without ruining the splint on my wrist.
The library room was situated in the east wing of the house, positioned in the turretlike corner of the building. It was subsequently round and fairly large, and some mischievous carpenter had fashioned the bookcases so that they spiraled toward the back of the room, almost like spokes on a wheel. This created a series of private reading nooks, each furnished with a divan upholstered in heavy brocade. In its cleaner, better days, the library had probably been a lovely place, a peaceful retreat, but now, with books piled and spilling and going to ruin, it felt more like a refuse heap.
And it proved impossible to tidy around all these piles of encyclopedias, novels, and histories. I made short stacks at the end of each bookcase, then cleaned what I found underneath. It was time to see what hidden treasures Coldthistle House had to offer. If I could find a way to get beyond the barrier made bythe book, then I would need a few valuable items for trading. Most of the books I recognized from the library at Pitney. They were common enough collections of poetry, history, and popular stories. At last I came across a compact book of Cowper’s poetry. It was in good condition despite the general neglect of the library, and when I peered inside the cover I found a faded signature on the title page.
This would fetch a pretty penny. My luck had changed for the better, at least a little; the collection was small enough to hide easily under the waist of my skirts and the apron that covered them.
