by Nancy Warren
There was a thud behind me, and I jumped and turned around. Another book had fallen to the floor. Villette was the title on the leather cover. I put my hands on my hips as though I were talking to a real person. I imagined it being a teenager. Hester, maybe, who was acting out. “Are you going to throw all of Charlotte Brontë’s books on the ground? Do you think that’s very respectful to the author? She put a lot of time and trouble into writing those books.” I had no idea what I was talking about, but it gave me a measure of control to stand there and scold a ghost.
Perhaps the ghost sensed that I had powers of my own. Or needed a display so it would see I meant business. I loved the tidying-up spell. It was the only one I practiced regularly. I said, “Books on the floor should never be. Get back to your places and show me your spines. I want to see you in orderly lines. So I will, so mote it be.” The two books rose magically and slotted themselves back into their proper places. I resisted the urge to rub my hands in triumph, though in truth I felt like Mary Poppins.
“Now,” I said, trying to ignore the feeling of cold that was rising up. As though I were standing on thick ice, I felt the chill in my feet, then creeping up my legs. My heart was beating a little too fast, but I was determined to remain calm. This ghost had scared too many people away from this library. I was not going to be one of them.
Before my horrified gaze, the bookshelves began to tremble. I’d been in California once during an earth tremor, and that’s what this reminded me of. An earthquake. And then the shelves began to swing and the books began to fall. One hit me on the shoulder, and I cried out and ran from the alcove into the main hall. Okay, so standing my ground and remaining calm hadn’t completely worked out.
I ran.
On the way past the Victorian crafts alcove, I glanced at my bag but didn’t stop. Then I was out of the library and running down the hall toward Amelia Cartwright’s office as though the hounds of hell were after me. I’d left the door open behind me but heard it bang shut with a temper-tantrum crash.
I hadn’t gone ten steps when I slammed into Rafe running toward me. He grabbed my shoulders and looked into my face. “Lucy. I heard you cry out. What happened?”
I couldn’t even speak. I just put my arms around him and rested my cheek against his chest. After the poltergeist had turned that reading alcove into a walk-in freezer, even Rafe’s cooler-than-human chest seemed warm and comfortable. He stood quietly, holding me until I was calm. Then I stepped back and told him what had happened.
He was instantly furious. “I never should’ve let you go in there alone. I was so sure the poltergeist wasn’t harmful. I allowed my judgment to be swayed by my fond memories of Georgiana Quales. We don’t even know that the poltergeist has anything to do with Georgiana Quales. For all we know, it killed her as well. You’re not going back, Lucy. I’m sorry.”
But I, on the other hand, was determined. “No. That freaked me out, I’ll admit. But just because the poltergeist won this round doesn’t mean the game is over. I am going back in there, Rafe. I just need to figure out how to do it and keep myself safe.” Margaret Twigg was going to have to come up with a super-strength protection spell.
“You’re trembling,” he said. Not a big surprise considering what I’d just been through.
“I don’t even have my stuff. Will you come back in with me and get it?”
Violet had told us the poltergeist wouldn’t appear to a vampire. I wondered if it would act up if I was with him. I decided to find out. I felt skittish but a lot braver going in with Rafe. Once again, the library felt eerily silent. The lights were all out except the one where I’d been working. I held Rafe’s hand tightly, and we walked slowly forward. I didn’t feel cold. No books came flying out of shelves. I peeked into where I’d been studying and nothing seemed disturbed. My belongings were exactly where I left them. I said, “Wait till you see the mess she made of the Brontë collection.” I peeked into the alcove, almost expecting to see the bookcases tumbled down on top of all the books.
It was in perfect order. Every book was aligned so perfectly it could’ve been done with a ruler. My jaw dropped so my mouth hung open like a fool. “I don’t believe it. Honestly, Rafe, I’m not making it up. All the books came flying out of the shelves onto the floor. It was like being in an earthquake. I was sure the shelves themselves were going to come down on top of me.”
“Well, at least your poltergeist likes to tidy up after itself.”
“Seriously? We’re making jokes about this already?”
There was nothing on the floor but a call slip. It was an old-fashioned system where each book had a card with ruled lines, and whoever had taken out the book had written their names and the date they’d taken out the item. I picked the slip of paper up off the floor. The book was titled, The Brontës: Landscapes of the Mind. Fiona McAdam had most recently had the book out and returned it.
I looked at the back and front of the card. The Brontës: Landscapes of the Mind hadn’t exactly been a big draw. Fiona McAdam wrote it, but only a couple of people had taken it out. I turned the card over and scanned the names back to the beginning. I was brave now that Rafe was with me. This alcove didn’t scare me at all. “It was only purchased eleven years ago. Someone named AF Knight took it out three times in a row. Then nothing for two years until it was borrowed by someone with an unpronounceable name. Another year went by and Rosalie Gonzalez braved Landscapes of the Mind. Then it sat in obscurity.” I read on. “Ha. Look at that, Wilfred Eels’ daughter, Judith Morgan. She must have been sucking up to Fiona. She’s her tutor, you know.” I glanced around me. “I couldn’t begin to figure out which book this goes in.” I put the card on the librarian’s desk and then, making sure Rafe was always right beside me, headed to the bound manuscripts I’d placed on the table earlier. We each took a stack, then Rafe switched off the lights, and with only the dim night lighting to guide us, we made it to the door unscathed.
As we drove back to my place, I asked, “Did you have any luck in Amelia Cartwright’s office?”
“Apart from discovering that the woman is extremely well organized, no. There is no evidence Georgiana Quales ever inhabited that office.”
“You didn’t find anything odd or out of the ordinary?”
He gave my question deep thought. I really liked that he wasn’t one to give flip answers. “There was a silk scarf hanging from a hook in the back of a wardrobe cupboard. Professor Cartwright doesn’t seem like a woman who enjoys wearing frippery.”
I couldn’t recall if I’d ever heard a person use the word “frippery” in conversation. I was overcome with the urge to add it to my daily vocabulary. “Wow. I wouldn’t have thought of Amelia Cartwright as a scarf person. Maybe it’s the kind of thing that doubles as mosquito netting in the jungle or sun protection in the desert.”
“No doubt someone forgot it in her office and she’s waiting for them to pick it up.”
“And that’s it?”
“She gets headaches. There were several bottles of headache tablets in her drawer. No evidence Georgiana Quales ever existed.”
“Well, she wanted to make the job and the office her own.”
“She also wanted to obliterate any evidence of her predecessor.” He sounded upset, as though that was in bad form.
We left St. Mary’s, and I think both of us were disappointed with our evening’s work.
I yawned and settled back in the passenger seat of his car. Idly I gazed out of the window as we drove past other colleges, none of which were on the brink of doom as far as I knew. After we hit one of the big roundabouts heading out of town, I realized we weren’t heading to Harrington Street. “Rafe, where are you taking me?”
With assumed innocence, he said, “Didn’t I tell you? I want you to come back to my place.”
“Oh, you do, do you?”
“I’ve asked Silence Buggins to meet us there and look at these manuscripts. And I’ve got the proper facilities. I’ll take a look at them as well.”
> “I’m so glad you’re getting Silence to read them. I tried to get through a few pages and I nearly died of boredom. I don’t know how you can do what you do.”
He glanced over at me, and his eyes were dark and mysterious. “When you’re doomed to live as long as we are, you have to find ways to combat boredom.”
I immediately felt childish and bad-tempered making such a fuss about a few pages of dull manuscript. I could see that where I never felt like I had enough hours in the day, Rafe and the other vampires had exactly the opposite problem. If he could find interest in studying obscure historical manuscripts, more power to him. And if Silence could learn to do the same and keep her mouth shut while she did it, that would benefit all of us.
When we pulled into the drive in front of the manor house, William Thresher opened the door, looking more harassed than I’d ever seen him. He looked very relieved to see us. “Silence has just been telling me a better way to cook beef. In fact, Silence has been telling me a better way to cook everything in my kitchen. Who needs a cookbook or twenty years of experience or even a search engine when they have Silence Buggins?”
Oh, dear, I felt that we had arrived only moments before William Thresher, in spite of generations of loyalty from his whole family to Rafe, would’ve tossed in his apron and said goodbye forever.
Soon we heard Silence herself, still talking. She had followed William from the kitchen down the hall to the entrance. As her voice grew closer, he said, “Rafe, I must beg you to get that woman out of my kitchen.”
Rafe tried to keep his face serious, but amusement danced in his eyes. “You have my word, William.”
When she arrived at the door, I heard, “Of course, you must simmer the cow’s feet for several hours before you add the tripe. William?”
Then she saw us, and Rafe stepped forward. “Silence. Thank you for being so prompt. We’ve no time to lose. Let’s get immediately to work in my study.”
I’d have followed them, but he stopped me. “Lucy, perhaps you can keep William company for a few minutes.” I was surprised but then thought she’d be less likely to talk if I wasn’t there.
I followed William into the kitchen. “Do you want me to make myself scarce so you can have a few minutes of silence?” We exchanged glances and both burst out laughing. “I meant actual silence.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know how you put up with her. She was talking so long, I used the potato peeler on a wooden spoon, trying to sharpen it into a stake.”
I understood the impulse. “She can be trying, but she means well.”
He pulled out a frying pan and stuck it on the gas stovetop. “Lucy, please tell me you’re hungry. I have an overwhelming need to cook something to soothe me.”
“Now you mention it, I am hungry. But then walking into your kitchen makes me hungry, because I always know you’ll feed me something wonderful.”
His eyes glinted as he smiled. “Will you leave it to me and let me surprise you?”
“Always.” I knew it would be a good surprise.
“And not lecture me on how I could prepare it better?”
“Never,” I said, trying not to laugh.
“Your room’s all ready for you,” he said, as he threw a knob of butter into the frying pan. “Let me pour a glass of wine while you wait for dinner.”
It seemed that everyone knew I’d be staying over at Rafe’s except me. But in truth, it was never a hardship. The room that had been designated as mine had a huge comfortable bed and a small selection of clothes and toiletries that belonged to me. Staying here meant I got to enjoy Rafe’s company and William’s cooking. I settled myself on one of the barstools at the marble breakfast bar in the very modern kitchen. I was glad to have William alone, in truth. I toyed with the bottom of my wineglass wondering how to broach the subject that fascinated me and then decided to just be blunt. “Rafe tells me that your family have served his for generations.”
He took a plastic bag out of the big stainless fridge. Inside were fat scallops that had to have come fresh from the market that very day. He tossed them in the butter, took some of the wine from the bottle he’d poured me and splashed it about in the skillet. “That’s right. Rafe saved my I-don’t-know-how-many-times-grandfather’s life. My distant granddad was some sort of mercenary, what you’d call a gun for hire, although I suppose in those days it was a knife or sword for hire. The story goes that he was hired to kill Rafe and then when he realized it wasn’t a fair fight and the fellows after Rafe were clearly villains, he threw in his lot with Rafe. He was wounded, but still helped Rafe get to safety. Rafe was generous.
“That William Thresher swore loyalty and pledged that his son and his son’s sons would continue to serve Rafe.” He plated the scallops, cut a big chunk of crusty bread and pushed it toward me. “And we always have.”
I could see how that kind of pledge might be binding in Tudor times, but now? “But what about you? You’re so modern, and you’re doing so well with your catering. Won’t you want to leave at some point and start your own business?”
He looked shocked at my words. “Never. Loyalty to Rafe is in my DNA.” If Rafe were a witch, like me, I’d suspect a spell at work, but as far as I knew, Rafe couldn’t put a spell on anyone. He could drain their blood and turn them into one of his own kind, which probably came with its own brand of loyalty, but that was different.
I didn’t ask why, but William answered the unspoken question anyway.
“Rafe isn’t exactly a friend, and yet he is. He isn’t just my employer, and yet he is. Our relationship is indefinable. I’m not sure that our modern age has a term that truly defines our relationship. I would do anything for Rafe.” He didn’t go so far as to say he’d lay down his life, but somehow it was implied.
“Shouldn’t you have a choice in who you work for or how you spend your time?” Perhaps that was modern and North American of me, but I strongly believed in free will.
He laughed. “You think Rafe would stop me if I tried to leave?” He shook his head, already putting the pan in soapy water to wash. “You know he wouldn’t. He’d be disappointed and would have to be very careful about who he hired to replace me, but he’d manage. I stay because I want to, as well as that I stay out of honor.” He swished soapy water over the pan. “I sound like a prat, but that’s the best I can do. I’ll teach my son the same lessons my father taught me.”
Ah, now we were getting to the interesting stuff. “About that son of yours…” I let the sentence peter off.
He grimaced. “I’m not doing too well on that front, am I? This isn’t exactly a hotbed of suitable women.”
“Is that partly why you’re branching out into catering?”
He glanced up at me. “Do you think I’m likely to meet the next Mrs. Thresher working as a caterer?”
“I don’t know.” It didn’t seem likely, though. “You’re a nice man, pretty good-looking. What’s the problem?”
“Rafe, I suppose. I don’t quite know how to go about romancing a woman and saying, by the way, my employer’s a vampire, and if you marry me, you’ll be living on his estate, and your son will serve him always.”
I had to laugh. “Maybe you could save that for the second date?”
I tried to think of anyone I knew who would be a likely Mrs. Thresher. Violet would love to get married, but I couldn’t imagine my somewhat flighty cousin with the serious William, even if his cooking was to die for. The college girls I knew were too young. And why was I even thinking about matchmaking? He was a grown man. He’d figure it out.
I pushed my empty plate toward him. “Tempt her with your cooking. She’ll be yours for life.”
“Ah, Lucy, if Rafe hadn’t already spoken for you, I’d be on my knees proposing.”
I giggled because I knew he was joking, but a tiny sensation, like the scrape of a jagged fingernail, marred my sensation of post-meal well-being. Was I like a piece of furniture to be spoken for? Maybe put on the layaway plan until he was ready to have
me delivered? Not only was Rafe incurably high-handed, but his morals and ideas had been formed in the 1500s when women probably rated below good furniture.
Rafe Crosyer needed to understand that I was not chattel.
Chapter 14
I took my wine to the lounge, perfectly content to enjoy my surroundings. There was a bookcase stocked with books old and new. Some of them he’d definitely bought with me in mind. I didn’t think Rafe read a lot of chick-lit or recent thrillers. I chose one and happily settled on the couch.
Rafe appeared about two chapters in. “How’s it going?” I asked, placing a bookmark in the spot and closing the book.
“She’s enjoying herself. I think reading about her own time reminds her of her life as a daywalker. She can certainly tell if the descriptions are authentic. She’ll immediately catch anachronisms, I’ll be able to authenticate paper and ink, and a little research will tell us if there’s a market for these kinds of manuscripts. At the very least, St. Mary’s will know what they have in their collection. So many times, colleges and libraries are gifted collections when alumni or locals die, thinking they’re doing the institution a favor, but without any idea of what’s in the collection, sometimes all they see is boxes of books they need to sort out or store. That’s likely how these were overlooked until I happened upon them.”
“You mean, they were sitting on the shelves all that time and no one bothered to read them?”
“As far as I can tell. There could be an interesting PhD project there, perhaps. For the right person.”
“How long will it take Silence to read them all?”
“That depends on her concentration span. If it’s like yours, it will take her until the end of time.”
“That’s not fair!”
At his raised eyebrow, I said, “Okay. Maybe she’s better at deciphering scrawled tiny handwriting that’s faded with time.”