Page 13 of Tomb of Ancients
“Hundreds of trapped souls? Does that sound like an army to you? Because that sounds like an army to me.” Fathom whistled and nudged Dalton.
“That’s Henry all the way down, always thinking of himself and never what consequences might hurt everyone else. No bloody wonder the shepherd is desperate for followers.” Dalton pushed away from the table and wordlessly retrieved a small decanter from a nearby shelf. It had been sitting next to a jar filled with what looked like pickled pig’s feet. Whatever was in the decanter was added generously to his tea.
“I just want to stay out of all of this,” I said, impatient for... something. Answers. Anything. Even if the answers were hard to hear. “Henry. The shepherd. It’s their fight, not mine. All I want is to get thismonsterout of my head.”
Dalton nodded, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the side of his teacup. “That would be quite beyond me, but I know who might be able to help.”
“Please do not say Henry.”
He cleared his throat. “It’s Henry.”
“Of course it is.”I motioned to the decanter, and Daltonhesitated before shrugging and pushing it across the table toward me.
“Louisa...” Mary looked sleepy, but she rubbed the tiredness from her eyes and sat up in her chair. “We intended to write Chijioke soon, aye? Is this really so different?”
“I had hoped to keep Mr. Morningside out of this,” I said shortly. “You know I am not eager to return to Coldthistle.”
In fact, I had hoped never to return. I’d told myself that if our new life in London proved impossible, then I would try any number of places before journeying back to Yorkshire. Even the First City, with all its ancient ghosts, appealed to me more. But now I watched Mary, noticing a small twitch in her arm. My eyes darted below the table, and I saw that she had taken the little carved fish Chijioke had made for her and was worrying it with her thumb.
“What makes you so sure Henry can assist me?” I asked Dalton, who stood yet again and went to rummage among the overstuffed bookshelves. If I was going to relent and return to Coldthistle, potentially walking headlong into a conflict between Henry and the shepherd, then I wanted a very good reason do it. I glanced at Mary, and while I could not be certain, of course, I could swear she looked the tiniest bit hopeful, a bright glint in her eyes.
“I keep reminding you to organize all that rubbish,” Fathom muttered, stealing a nip from the decanter for herself.
“You might do it yourself,poet.”
“Poetess, thanks very much.”
“Ah! Here we are...” Something about Dalton’s posture and mannerisms reminded me sharply of Mr. Morningside. I wondered just how close they had been, considering they appeared to stand and gesture in much the same way. They were even similar in build and height, though opposites in the hues of their eyes and hair. It was natural to imagine them as a pair, contrasting but compellingly similar.
Dalton returned to us with a handwritten diary, and I cringed, memories of a cramped wrist surfacing as I thought of furiously translating Bennu’s journal for Mr. Morningside. Well, perhaps I did not have so much secret nostalgia for the library after all. This diary, however, appeared to be in English, and Dalton handed it to me carefully, as if it were made of spun sugar and not sturdy parchment. It was covered with dust, a musty scent rising from the well-worn and well-loved pages. The embossed leather cover was tied ’round with a bit of yarn, and it simply read:1248–1247 BC.
“You seem a bookish sort, so I doubt I need warn you that this is the only copy,” Dalton said, his face tense as I took the diary in both hands and studied the cover. “When Henry and I traveled together, we discovered some remarkable things about where we had come from.” He paused and swept his palm toward me, then Mary, and then back to himself. “Where all of us come from. Henry was obsessed with the Black Elbion—with all thebooks. He wanted to know how they had come to be. It was... a fixation. He searched tirelessly for the answers.”
“And?” I prompted, admittedly excited about potentially learning more about the mysterious, godlike books. My own experience had found me bound to Coldthistle House after merely touching the Black Elbion, and my friend, Lee, was tied to it still by the housekeeper’s dark will. She had used shadows and spells to return him to life, but it was only a shadow life, sustained by the book itself.
“Not one for surprises?” he teased.
“Mm. I’d love to hear your story in full, but I am somewhat anxious to be rid of the vicious god creature twisting my every thought and feeling,” I said with equal tartness.
“Right. Well, I only mean to say that the beings who made the books of power can surely help you, if anyone can. Henry is convinced he knows where those beings are and how to infiltrate the place, but to my knowledge he refuses to do so. Or can’t. It’s all in there,” Dalton explained, nodding toward the diary. “Maybe you can make more sense of what happened to us than I could. You said that your father somehow consumed the book for the Dark Fae, yes? The bindery where it came from could be of interest, then.”
“And Henry knows where it is,” I murmured. “He never told you?”
Dalton smiled, but it never touched his eyes. He turned his head away from me, resting for a long moment on the diary. Itwas dim in the cellar, but I could swear a sheen of tears filled his eyes. “You know him, don’t you, Louisa? He’s a man who covets his secrets. Even from...” Sighing, he wiped at his mouth and reached for the decanter. “Well. It doesn’t matter. The diary is yours now. Read it closely. Still, I fear the solution to your problem resides in Coldthistle House.”
Chapter Seven
Mary settled down to sleep not long after Dalton produced the diary. The cellar contained a labyrinthine series of narrow corridors, an improbable number of doors leading to storage, pantries, a toilet, and several cozy chambers with bunks and bedrolls. I had followed Fathom and Mary through this snaking tunnel, but Ifound when we reached the bunks that I had no desire to sleep. I was wide awake, the diary tucked under my arm too tempting to be abandoned for dreams.
I told Mary good night and waited briefly while she nestled down into a fluffy bedroll. Fathom was good enough to find me some old clothes to wear, as my gown was a tangle of threads and dried blood. The frock she gave me was oversize, but it would keep me warm enough, its velvety maroon sleeves fringed with expensive lace that had yellowed with age. Mary fell asleep almost at once, curled on her side, Chijioke’s fish hidden in the palm she tucked under her cheek.
Fathom and Dalton had disappeared into one of the other rooms. As I crept back toward the main den, I listened to their muted voices and stopped outside their door.
“I need a bit of air,” I told them through the door.
“Right. Tap on the cellar lid to be allowed back in. Be careful, Louisa. More than your shapeshifting friend is prowling London tonight.”
That did not dissuade me. I traced my steps back through the safe house, then climbed the stairs up and up, shouldering open the heavy door and letting it back down with a quiet thump. At once, the predawn chill enveloped me, but I welcomed the shock of the air. The cellar felt suffocating, or perhaps that was something inside me, a growing fear that hourly intensified as my return to Coldthistle became certain.
