Page 25 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

As soon as she stood, the dust settled, the footsteps stopped. Gathering a deep breath, Ivy closed her eyes, then peeked around the shelf.

There was no one there.

She looked down. The polished wooden floor gleamed, but there, so faint that she might have missed them, was a single set of dusty footprints. Slender and petite, they looked as if they had been made with a woman’s slipper. It must have been Agnes, playing some sort of trick on her. Then, before she even had a chance to sigh a breath of relief, the footprints began again. Ivy’s throat tightened, trapping a scream as disembodied tracks formed right in front of her eyes.

It was still here, and it was moving.

Whatever it was, was leading her somewhere. Ivy swayed, her feet rooted to the spot. Maybe if she followed it, saw what it wanted to show her, then it would stop. That was why spirits visited, wasn’t it? To extend a message to the living? To settle unfinished business?

“I—I’m coming,” she choked out in a dry whisper. Forcing her heavy feet to move, Ivy followed the swirling dust in the wake of the footsteps. The smell of incense grew thick and heavy, though under it she thought she could make out the sweet scent of flowers. From somewhere faraway yet disconcertingly close, a woman’s low voice hummed a song in a minor key. The electricity flickered, throwing the marble busts into sinister shadows. It was so quiet that she could hear the rasp of her own uncertain breath, the tremble of her fingers against her wool skirt.

When the dust cloud had settled, Ivy found herself in front of an unremarkable shelf. This was what it had wanted to show her? Nothing looked out of place, the books the same as those on any other shelf. What if it was some sort of trap? Would the spirit materialize, pouncing on her and—

“There you are, my lady.”

At the sound of the voice, Ivy jumped, her heart still furiously pounding. The electricity had restored itself, the smell of incense gone.

Mrs. Hewitt peered around her. “I thought I heard voices.”

Ivy followed Mrs. Hewitt’s gaze, expecting the housekeeper to recoil in surprise, but the footprints were gone, and the shimmering dust as well. “I must have been talking to myself.”

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Will you take dinner in your room tonight or—”

“No,” Ivy said, rather too sharply. “That is, I suppose I’ll take it...” She trailed off. What she wanted to say was that she would eat in the kitchen downstairs with the staff, where there were other people and nice, cheery lights. But that wasn’t the done thing, and she doubted Mrs. Hewitt would have allowed it. “Here is fine, I suppose.”

Mrs. Hewitt was studying the shelf, and Ivy wondered if she could somehow sense that up until a moment ago there had been an otherworldly presence among them. But then the housekeeper turned her attention back to her. “Of course. If I may, my lady, are you quite all right?”

“Yes, quite all right,” Ivy lied.

Mrs. Hewitt gave her one last assessing look, then clipped her way out of the library in a swish of skirts and jingle of key rings.

Returning to her chair, Ivy plopped down. No more clouds of shimmering dust, no more creaking floor, and no more cold drafts. She stared at the book in her hands until the words swam, her thoughts simultaneously cloudy and racing, her body fatigued with fear.

Agnes arrived with her dinner tray and set it down on one of the cluttered reading desks. “You’re here late, aren’t you?” Ivy asked.

“Yes, m’lady. Road is washed out on account of all the rain, so I’m staying here tonight.”

Frowning, Ivy drew back the curtain and peeked outside at the driving rain. “Goodness. I didn’t realize it was supposed to be so heavy.”

“Ralph says he’s never seen the likes of it before. Offered to drive me, but he didn’t think even the auto could handle the mud.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ll be safe and snug here tonight. Tomorrow we’ll figure out a way to get you home.”

“Yes, m’lady,” Agnes said, dropping a curtsy. No matter how many times Ivy insisted she call her by her name, her request seemed to go ignored.

“Before you go, may I ask you a question?” Agnes had at least learned by now to tolerate if not expect her employer’s attempts at conversation, and she nodded.

“Will you have a seat? You shouldn’t be working anyway,” Ivy told her, nodding toward the dinner tray. “It’s past your hours. So why not sit and have a chat? I’m curious about something, and thought you might be just the one to help me.”

Agnes hesitated, then lowered herself onto the edge of a chair, careful not to wrinkle her dress. “What do you want to know?”

“I was curious about the ghost stories. You mentioned there being some rumor that the abbey was haunted.” Ivy was spreading rarebit on a piece of toast. She was grateful that her meals were always prepared with familiar ingredients, not the rich, fancy foods she had anticipated she would have to endure as a lady. When Ivy realized it had been some moments and Agnes hadn’t said anything, she looked up.

The maid was staring at her, mouth ajar. Ivy automatically dabbed at her lips. “Do I have something on my face? What? What is it?”

“You...you really don’t remember, m’lady?”

“Remember what?” There was something unnerving about the way Agnes was watching her, as if the maid couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “What, Agnes?”

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