Page 18 of Tomb of Ancients
Dalton burst into laughter, adjusting the scrap of fabric over his eyes before it could fall. He had pushed back his hood, but it would have tumbled off his head from his sudden laughter. “No need. I brought it here. I figured it would wind up in Henry’s library eventually.”
“Did you want him to have it?”
“I did, yes.” He shrugged. “But I had no desire to deliver it in person, and besides, he’s horrible at accepting gifts. No, I knew that if his contacts stumbled upon a promising artifact, he would feel much cleverer and take it more seriously.”
I gawked at him while the others began to explore the shop. “But how did you come to have it in the first place?”
“I went there, to the First City, looking for a way to make our past misdeeds right. What I found was the journal of adead man.” Here he lowered his voice, waiting until Khent drifted out of hearing range. “There was something about it, something strange, and I pried it from his skeletal arms because I knew in my soul it was the key. Poor sod. I’d been hunting the fellow for ages, but never managed to find him because of a damn translation error. I was told to find Bennu the Writer, not Bennu theRunner. Bloody embarrassing.”
Dalton vented a laugh, but I didn’t find it funny. “When I took it, one of his bones snapped. It was like a twig breaking in a graveyard, raising the dead. Things there began to wake up, the Dark Father began to wake up, and I fled. I brought the journal where I knew Henry could find it, one last favor, one last olive branch, and then I told myself that I was done. Out. No more. I would find a quiet place to hide and let the ages chip away at me until nothing but regret and memory remained.”
“And how did that work out for you?” I sighed.
“Henry... My feelings for him have a way of bringing me back in.” He sounded decidedly not thrilled about that bit. “One day I’ll untie this invisible string from my finger, but apparently today is not that day. I can’t face him alone, but I can help you. That’s my olive branch this time.”
I nodded, trying to take in all that he was saying and align it with what I knew from Khent and Mary. “The shepherd wanted to know where the book was. Our book. The book of the Dark Fae. But Father consumed it, so there was no way to really findit, was there?” I drifted deeper into the shop, overwhelmed by all there was to look at. A counter manned by a single person lay at the opposite end from the door.
“I had no way to translate that journal,” Dalton explained. “But I had a feeling Henry would crack it. Anyway, if it really did hold the secret to where your book was hidden, I didn’t want the shepherd to get his hands on it.”
“But Henry you trust,” I murmured.
“Yes.” He sighed. “Occasionally. Well, no. But he has his moments.”
I looked at the folded parchment in my hand. Some of the charcoal from my notes had rubbed off onto my palm, and I wiped it off on my frock. “So it’s pointless to deliver this. But what do I tell Mr. Morningside, should our paths cross again?”
“Tell him the truth,” Dalton said with a wry smile. “I only hope I’m there to see it. Ah! There’s Niles.”
“One man looks after all these books?” I asked. Mary and Khent had found a corner with a selection of novels, and Mary was reading him the titles, helping him with his English. Mother had been set in her cage on top of one of the stacks.
“Not always, but it looks rather slow today,” Dalton said. “Everyone here is knowledgeable on the subject in question. There’s a reason Henry relies on them to set aside anything dangerous or arcane that drops into their shop.”
“And just anyone can come in here?”
“Certainly. Why not? They only go out of their way todiscourage... hobbyists. One has to possess a certain passion for the occult and unexplained to land here. You saw that alleyway, not many ladies stopping in for a copy ofCastle Rackrent.”
“Had I stumbled upon this place, I should never leave it,” I said.
“Indeed,” he said. “I share your fondness.”
Fathom waited for us at the counter, leaning against it as if she were a regular. She had roused the one shopkeeper from his work, and he looked to us with enormous spectacles perched on his forehead. I had expected the man to introduce himself as Cadwallader, the owner, however there was something annoyingly familiar about his face.
“Niles! How are you? How’s business?” Dalton clapped him on the shoulder, rattling the skinny older man.
“Hmph. Fine. Slow but steady. Who is this?” He collected his spectacles, observing me with eyes blown wide and blurry by the glass.
“May I present Louisa Ditton? She was until recently employed by Mr. Morningside at Coldthistle House.”
The mention of Henry or the house adjusted the man’s attitude toward me at once. He melted into a fawning smile, bowing so low he nearly hit his head on the countertop.
“What a delight,” he said. “Simply a delight. Niles St. Giles, but please, no formalities here.”
I snorted softly, my cheeks going red. “Niles St. Giles? No relation to Giles St. Giles of Derridon?”
His eyes grew bigger, if that were possible.
“Giles would be my brother, having chosen the noble profession of embalming and... whatnot.” The whatnot, of course, referring to his predilection for helping Mr. Morningside do away with the souls and bodies of those that met their end at Coldthistle. “But of course it would make perfect sense that you two would be acquainted, sharing such a singular employer.”
“What a very charitable description,” I muttered.
