The Book of Secrets

by Melissa McShane

  I had no idea what “aug. pers.” meant—“august personage”? No, that sounded dumb. And sometimes it was “aug. spec.” or “aug. fam.” and I had no guesses about those. But I had a fair idea these were Abernathy’s records of purchased books. Did people really pay cash for prophecies? It seemed so mundane. Suddenly I wished Campbell would show up again. He’d behaved as if all this was perfectly normal, like he’d come for a prophecy a hundred times before. He could be as arrogant and snobbish as he wanted, as long as he helped me figure all this out.

  Inspired, I ran my fingers across the folders until I found Campbell, Malcolm. Then I hesitated, feeling uncomfortable. Wasn’t it a little like spying, reading his records? I scowled and pulled the folder out all the way. If he came back, and bought a book, I’d have to write it down—I’d briefly wondered if it was magic that wrote the records, but there were too many different handwritings for that to be likely—and I’d see his other purchases then even if I didn’t look now. Besides, how secret could they be?

  There was only one sheet of paper in the folder, which was common; there weren’t many folders with more than one ledger page. His name was written in a slightly less nice cursive script than most of the others, and there were only three entries, all labeled aug. spec., each dated a year apart starting four years before. Method of payment: sang. sap., whatever that meant. Each of them had been worth less than $1000. Expensive books, or cheap prophecies?

  I put Campbell’s folder away and checked the other drawers, hoping for some kind of manual, delaying the moment when I’d have to go back into the basement. I wasn’t superstitious—much—but I couldn’t stop seeing Mr. Briggs’ body, covered in blood and lying so still it was clear he was dead. The second to the bottom drawer, where I’d found the labels, held more office stationery. In the bottom drawer—I gasped and slammed it shut before cautiously opening it again. It was full of cash—neatly bundled fifties and hundreds, more than I could count at a casual glance. It made no sense. If someone had murdered Mr. Briggs for this—and it was enough to be worth murdering over—why hadn’t they come into the office for it?

  I closed the drawer again, shuddering, and examined the rest of the room. There were a few photos on the walls, showing the city as it had been in the thirties or early forties, judging by the dress of the people in them. One was the original of the blurry photo on the catalogue, less blurry; I’d had my back to it while I typed and hadn’t noticed it before. The man in the photo was clearly bald under his hat and wore a three-piece brown suit.

  I ran my finger along the top of the frame. It came away clean. Light cleaning, Mr. Briggs had said. Cleaning was a nervous habit of mine, not exactly something I enjoyed, but suppose Abernathy’s was aware enough to know when it was dirty? An intelligent bookstore, that was another surprise for the day.

  There was a closet at the far end of the office. I turned the knob and discovered it was locked. I examined the final key, then inserted it into the lock. It turned smoothly, and I opened the door to discover a tiny, windowless room. The back wall was unfinished brick, and I could see an outline where a doorway had been filled in. Occupying one side of the room was a flight of stairs, leading up.

  I stepped through the door and looked up the stairwell. Late afternoon light from the landing window, blue and still, illuminated the stairs, which were uncarpeted and pale in places from years of wear. They were also coated thinly with dust. I took a few steps up and winced at the creak, which echoed in the otherwise still air as if the stairs themselves were challenging me. I kept going, trailing my fingers along the wall because there was no rail. The dark wainscoting was poorly stained and streaky in places, the smooth white plaster above felt cool and damp and slightly gritty, and I checked my fingertips to see if it was coming off on my hands. I rounded the corner of the landing and continued to ascend.

  There was a door at the top, painted white with an oval iron knob and a keyhole. I tried the knob; locked. I hesitated, then took out the key that had opened the “closet” below. It wouldn’t go in. I tried a couple more times, thinking it might only be stuck, but no, it wasn’t the right key for the lock. For some reason, this spooked me more than Mr. Briggs’ body had. Anything might be behind the door.

  I jingled the keys. This was all fascinating, and incredibly mysterious, but what I needed was information. I should be looking in the store—

  My heart lurched. I ran down the stairs and into the office. Did those back stairs count as part of the premises? Had I left the store open to anyone—or to the murderer, come back to finish the job?

  locked the door as quickly as I could with trembling hands and took a few careful steps into the store, listening. I heard nothing but my own breathing, which was quick and terrified. That meant nothing, if someone had already concealed himself in the store.

  I searched among the bookcases for intruders, wishing I had something more dangerous on me than my phone, but found no one. So I went to sit behind the front counter, clasping my hands in my lap, and stared out the front window. I ought to search the basement, but at that moment nothing could make me go back down there. It could wait until tomorrow.

  Cars slid past the plate glass window with ABERNATHY’S stenciled at the top, the letters reversed from my point of view. The sun had mostly set, coloring the world blue and gold. I leaned my chin on my hand and tried not to think about how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten lunch, and it was well on the way to dinnertime. Mom was making lasagna for dinner, rich with ground beef and tomatoes and four kinds of cheese. My stomach rumbled again, and I checked my watch. Thirty-seven minutes, and I could lock up and go home.

  The door slammed open. If there had been bells over it, they would have gone flying. “You,” a young woman said, and slammed the door shut behind her. “Who do you think you are?” She was pretty in a petite, slender way, with dark hair cut pixie-style, close to her head, and round, rosy cheeks. I’d never seen eyelashes as long as hers before and wondered if they were fake. She wore a Jackie Kennedy pink wool coat and a knitted gray scarf that wrapped twice around her throat and fell past her waist.

  “Helena Davies,” I said. “Who are you?”

  “Judy Rasmussen,” the girl said. “What did you do? Trick Nathaniel into giving you the job?”

  “Um, no.” I sat up straight, wishing I’d put on lipstick that morning. Judy Rasmussen’s makeup was perfect, just like the rest of her, and it made me, rumpled by my search of the store, feel unkempt by comparison. “He placed an ad, I answered it, he hired me. That’s all.”

  “That job wasn’t his to give away. I’m supposed to be Abernathy’s next custodian. There’s been a mistake.”

  She was giving me the same look Campbell and Lucia had given me, that same disdainful, you-can’t-possibly-be-worthy look, and it made me angry.

  “Lucia confirmed I’m the custodian. So it can’t be that much of a mistake. I’m sorry if you’re upset—”

  “‘Upset’ isn’t the word for it. It shouldn’t take long to straighten this out. You’re not a Warden, are you? All this must be a huge shock. I’m sure you know you don’t belong.”

  “Meaning I’m not good enough?”

  Judy gave me a once-over that Malcolm Campbell would have been proud of. “Why would you even want to be Abernathy’s custodian when you don’t know anything about it?”

  “Because I…” It was a good question. I didn’t have an answer.

  Judy crossed her arms over her chest. “Look. It’s simple. Tomorrow, you can abdicate, and go back to your own life. You don’t understand what you’ve gotten mixed up in.” She sounded sincere, not sneering, and it struck home. I didn’t fully understand what was going on with Abernathy’s and magic and the war. This wasn’t my life.

  “Abdicate?” I said.

  “It’s not hard. My father can take care of it in the morning. Look. I’ve been training for this for years. Do you really want a job you’re not prepared for?”

  It was another good questio
n. Two hours ago, I would have said I don’t and walked out the door, let Lucia deal with the fallout. But walking through the store had made me feel unexpectedly connected to all of this. “Mr. Briggs thought I was worthy. And I think you’d have to admit he had the right to choose.”

  Judy scowled. “Everyone knew who the next custodian was supposed to be.”

  “Apparently everyone was wrong. Maybe you ought to wonder why Mr. Briggs changed his mind. Maybe you aren’t as perfect for the job as you think.”

  It was, as the saying goes, a palpable hit. Judy’s eyes narrowed into black-fringed slits. “You don’t know who you’re talking to.”

  “I don’t. Should I?”

  “My father,” Judy said, “is William Rasmussen.”

  “Sorry, that still doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “It will tomorrow,” Judy said. “I guarantee it.” She slammed back out the door, trapping the end of her scarf, and opened it abruptly to free it. I smiled, but it faded fast. Judy Rasmussen. William Rasmussen. I’d been casual about my ignorance, but the truth was I did feel nervous. Judy didn’t seem like the kind of woman who’d make idle threats. Whoever William Rasmussen was, he was no doubt powerful enough to make my life miserable in some way. Well, I was sure he couldn’t force me to step down as custodian, or Judy would have said as much, and I could deal with everything else. I hoped.

  It was seven minutes to six. I went back through the store, making sure all the doors were locked and all the lights were out. I stood for a full minute looking down into the basement from the top of the stairs. The dangling bulb was the only light, so I could barely see the edge of the bloodstain where Mr. Briggs had lain. Something else to worry about in the morning.

  The blue-bound Reflections by Silas Abernathy still lay atop the office desk. I flipped open the cover, then closed it. Maybe it wasn’t an oracle, or a prophecy, or whatever you called it, but I’d chosen it, or it had chosen me, and I did like travel books. I picked it up and carried it with me out of the office. I’d borrow it, and put it back in the morning.

  I locked the outer door at exactly one minute past six o’clock and dropped the keys into my purse along with the book. The store’s windows looked back at me like empty eyes. I no longer felt the sense of connection I had earlier, just a dullness of spirit I told myself was hunger. The upper windows were curtained except for a sliver of darkness between two drapes. Maybe I should get a locksmith to let me through that secret door. Or maybe I should stop being so nosy. I sighed and turned away. If I hurried, I could catch the bus, and go home to eat a big piece of lasagna, and pretend my life was normal.

  The bus ride home felt like it took forever. I sat huddled into my coat and watched the people around me. What did it mean that everyone was a source of magic? It didn’t show on the outside, if that was true—unless it did show, and nobody knew to associate whatever it was with magic. The young bearded man wearing the knit cap and red plaid lumberjack’s coat, wires trailing from his ear buds… the middle-aged mother sitting with her hand on her pre-teen son’s knee… the white-haired guy who had paper grocery bags at his feet, overflowing with a head of celery and some loaves of sliced square bread… If Lucia was telling the truth, all of them were filled with magic, and none of them knew it. I was filled with magic. I didn’t feel any different. Lucia had been so matter-of-fact about it, it made me wonder what else I didn’t know.

  My parents lived near Happy Valley in a ranch-style house with a daylight basement and a one-and-a-half car garage that only one car could fit into, even if it wasn’t crammed full of the remnants of Mom’s enthusiasms. I went in through the side door as usual, and walked into the warmth and delicious smells of my mother’s kitchen. “Close the door!” Mom said. She was bent over the oven, removing a glass casserole dish that sent up waves of hot, tomatoey goodness through the air.

  “You’re just in time,” my brother, Jake, said. He was seated at the table with his feet up on the next chair, playing on his phone. “Set the table.”

  “It wouldn’t kill you to help out,” I said, swatting his legs to make him move.

  “I’ll lose my life.”

  “That could happen literally.”

  “Stop arguing and set the table, both of you,” Mom said, setting the lasagna down. “Did you get the job?”

  “They wanted me to start immediately.” I hung my coat and purse up and took plates out of the cupboard. “It pays well and…” I couldn’t think what else to tell her. Certainly not that I was working for an oracular bookstore, fighting a magical battle against alien invaders.

  “Do you get benefits?” said my father, entering the room. He’d removed his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his blue and tan checked shirt. “That can be worth more than a paycheck, in this economy.”

  “I… think so. There’s still a lot I don’t know. But it’s a position with… a lot of responsibility, and the work is interesting.”

  Jake tossed flatware on the table with a clatter. “It’s a bookstore. How interesting can it be?”

  “More interesting than getting creamed by guys the size of buffaloes six days a week.” Jake, a junior, had made varsity this year and never let anyone forget it.

  “It’s winter, dummy,” Jake said. He dropped into his seat and began heaping his plate with green salad. “Weight training.”

  “Fine. More interesting than seeing who can bench five hundred pounds.” Though secretly I thought being able to bench press that much would be interesting.

  “Let’s not argue, all right?” Mom pushed the lasagna toward Dad so he could serve. It was such an old-fashioned gesture that I was once again struck by that sense of dissociation between past and present. My family was a little old-fashioned. Dad’s job supported the family, even its hapless middle child. Mom had stayed home to take care of us when we were young and now had her own online business selling knitted children’s clothing. None of us children had ever rebelled more seriously than my older sister Cynthia getting her eyebrow pierced when she was fourteen. We were normal, we were boring, and I liked it that way.

  “It’s not an argument, just a discussion,” Jake said. “I want Helena to have a good job so she can move out and I can set up a big-screen TV in her room.”

  “We already have a big-screen TV downstairs,” Dad said.

  “This would be so I can have parties in private.”

  “That’s never going to happen,” Mom said. “Helena, what are your hours?”

  “Well, it’s six days a week, ten to six, and I’m not sure what kind of time off I get,” I said, forking up lasagna and blowing on it to cool it.

  “That’s a lot of hours. Are you sure it’s not too much?”

  “Helena knows what she’s doing, Louise,” Dad said. “That still leaves time for socializing.”

  “With Viv,” Jake said with a grin. Mom made a face. She’d disliked Viv ever since the time in third grade I came home from her house with my hair dyed bright Kool-Aid red. It didn’t matter that it was temporary color; Viv represented randomness and chaos, things Mom hated nearly as much as imitation vanilla flavoring and press-on nails.

  I took another bite. Rich, flavorful tomato sauce filled my mouth, cheese trailed from my fork to my lips, and I closed my eyes in bliss. My mother had spent most of my childhood taking cooking classes and trying the results on her family. Last night it had been Thai noodles in peanut sauce. Tomorrow it might be chicken cordon bleu. If she was hoping to encourage me to move out and become independent, her cooking wasn’t helping her cause. “This is really good,” I mumbled. Mom beamed.

  Across the room, my phone buzzed from inside my purse. I made a move toward it. “Sit,” Dad said. “You know the rules. No phones during dinner.”

  “It’s probably Viv. I have to tell her I’m not interested in hanging out tonight.” Socializing after the day I’d had would be exhausting.

  “Doesn’t Viv have a job?” Mom said. “It’s Thursday. Even she can’t be thinking of partyin
g on a work night.”

  “She’s waitressing mornings and plays gigs some evenings.”

  Mom made another face. Instability, the kind represented by Viv’s efforts at making a name for herself as a musician, was another thing she hated. My phone buzzed again. “It could be urgent,” I said.

  “Everything’s urgent to Viv,” Dad said. “Enjoy your meal. Savor it. Stop rushing around. Kids these days, it’s like they’re surgically attached to their electronics.” He was grinning the way he always did when he delivered one of his “kids these days” statements.

  “I put my phone in my room,” Jake said. I kicked him under the table.

  In the kitchen, Mom’s phone rang. “That’s Cynthia,” she said, and half-rose from the table.

  “No phones,” I said. She rolled her eyes at me, but sat back down. “Besides, she just wants to tell you about her latest big deal and how important she is.”

  “Be nice. Your sister has a right to be proud of her successes.”

  I shrugged. Cynthia and I had never gotten along, and even though our parents never compared me to her, I always felt them wondering why I didn’t have goals and direction and a growing stock trading career and a hot boyfriend. Though they probably didn’t think about the last; as far as my father was concerned, none of the guys we dated were good enough for his daughters.

  I finished my lasagna and cleared my place, rinsed off the plate and put it into the dishwasher. “I’m downstairs if anyone wants me,” I said, taking my phone and Silas Abernathy’s book out of my purse. I trotted down the narrow stairs that now reminded me uncomfortably of the basement stairs of Abernathy’s, complete with the dim glow of the light fixture. I crossed the basement without turning on the light and pushed my door open, kicking my shoes off and rubbing my toes in the thick pile of the carpet.

  We’d moved into the house when I was three, and the purple carpet had been there at the time. When I was ten, I’d started begging to have it replaced. By the time I was sixteen, I was used to it, and now I couldn’t imagine my room without it. I fell onto my unmade bed face first, breathing in the smell of the lavender potpourri my mother scented the sheets with. So long as it smelled fresh, I didn’t worry about making the bed. No point, when I was just going to mess it up again at night.