Page 32 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

Determined to make her mark on Blackwood and refusing to be intimidated, Ivy braved a headache the next day and headed for the library. Arthur had asked her what the oldest book was in the collection, and now that she knew there were monastic texts dating back centuries, she was eager to find out. If nothing else, she was sorely in need of a distraction.

There were countless shelves and corners that she hadn’t yet inventoried, but today she started with the end furthest from the great windows. The dust was thicker here, the book spines faded and soft-edged from wear. Each shelf was fitted with a reading desk, though most of the chairs had long since gone missing. It truly was a magnificent library. She had been to countless libraries and reading rooms with her father, but none of them had possessed such character, such a sense of arms opening wide to embrace her. Someday she would polish the mahogany rails that lined the gallery, buy chairs to replace the missing ones, and polish the grimy marble busts until they glowed white. But even now, in its decaying glory, it was the most beautiful sight in the world. Something told her that if there were to be a true treasure in the collection, it would be lurking here, in this forgotten corner. Heaven truly was an untouched stash of books, just waiting to be opened and read.

The carpet whispered under Ivy’s feet as she made her way along the shelf, eventually giving way to bare wood. It was so quiet when it wasn’t raining, every sigh of the wind, every turn of a page amplified in the cavernous room. Stopping in front of one of the shelves lining the wall, Ivy traced her finger down a gilded spine. She had all but forgotten that this was the spot where the ghostly footsteps had led her. It had been dark that evening, but now with the gray light filtering in through the window, she could see that it looked as innocuous as any other shelf. She stayed her finger. There was one book that was wrong though, somehow out of place. It wasn’t leather-bound as were most of the other books, and the texture beneath the fabric binding was soft and worn, as if many fingers had touched it over the years, but just in one spot—the top of the spine. Tentatively, Ivy grasped the spine to pull it down, when suddenly the entire shelf groaned and simply disappeared. She stumbled backward as a secret passage revealed itself.

The light from the window seemed to dim, and the rest of the library faded away as she stared at the dark recess where but a moment ago a shelf had been. Her heart pounded in her ears, the weight of her discovery slowly sinking in. This happened in Sherlock Holmes novels, not real life. Curiosity quickly overtook her, and before she could think better of it, she was squeezing through the opening and into the dark passage.

Ivy was only three steps in when she realized she would need some sort of light to help her see. Pushing cobwebs aside, she hurried back out to the library, grabbed the torch that Mrs. Hewitt kept by the door in case of the electricity going out, and plunged back in. The torchlight bounced off roughly hewn stone walls, a musty heaviness settling around her. The passageway was short, and in no more than five steps she was through it, and expelled into a small, dark room with a surprisingly high ceiling. Stringy cobwebs hung from every corner, and the air was thick and warm, old. The only furnishing was a heavy wood table which stood against the far wall, and next to it a lectern draped in brittle velvet. As Ivy slowly made her way to the table, the air turned cold, her arms prickling with gooseflesh. At any moment the hidden door could swing closed behind her, and she would be trapped. No one knew where she was, and she doubted that anyone would be able to hear her yell for help. But she moved forward all the same, pulled to the table by some unseen force.

Brushing aside the dust, Ivy studied the empty table. It was old, simple, devoid of decoration save for the turned wooden legs and empty cubbyholes that lined the back. Perhaps it had belonged to one of the monks when Blackwood had been a proper abbey. She ran her fingers gently along the top of the lectern. The cloth draped over it was insubstantial to the touch, and it was a wonder that it didn’t simply fall away to dust as she lifted it. Whatever lay under that cloth, she was probably the first one in decades—if not centuries—to gaze upon it. Perhaps she should leave it be, come back another time with gloves and a better light. But something drew her to it, and she couldn’t help herself.

With the cloth lifted, she stilled her hands, her heart beating hard. Mounted to the lectern was a single manuscript, older than any Ivy had ever seen. Its creamy vellum pages had turned brown at the edges long ago, and a frayed red ribbon lay disintegrating on the open page.

Even the most elaborate manuscripts that she had spent nights poring over with her father paled in comparison to the book that lay before her. Strange figures danced in the margins, bathing in pools of turquoise water with exotic flowers. The language was unfamiliar. Not Latin, and not some older form of German or Italian. Not having been exposed to centuries of light and pollution, the images were as brilliantly colored as the day they had been painted. Leaning closer, Ivy was just about to risk turning the page when a noise stopped her. The hairs on her neck lifted, and her fingers fell away from the manuscript. The room was still and silent as a tomb. Then another creak, deliberate, this one closer.

Why had she thought exploring this remote and hidden chamber was a good idea? Mrs. Hewitt would find her decomposing body months later, clucking her tongue that her young mistress could have been so stupid. Spinning around, Ivy half expected to come face-to-face with some ghastly apparition. But the torchlight fell upon a man of flesh and blood. A man she knew.

Ralph filled the doorway, a dark silhouette, before he moved all the way into the room and the torchlight threw his face into shadows. “What are you doing here?” His voice cut through the stifling silence, and despite it being Ralph of all people, she had never been so glad to see another human being in her life.

But her relief was short-lived. Her breath steadying and heart rate slowing, she drew herself up. “I could ask the same of you.”

The room grew even smaller with Ralph in it, his energy dark and dangerous. Was he angry that she had stumbled upon this place? Had he followed her to make sure that she never spoke of it again? He was like a shadow, always at her heels, and she wondered how often he was just out of sight, watching her.

His jaw worked, but he didn’t say anything, just took a step closer to her. Instinctively, she moved away, backing into the table.

“For Christ’s sake, Ivy, I’m not going to hurt you.”

He had never used her Christian name before, and there was something vulnerable, hurt, in his tone that stopped her. A wave of déjà vu washed over her. No, hehadused her name before, but when? She had faced Ralph before, outside, on the moors with the wind and rain at her back. But why would she have been alone with him, in the moors of all places? Her mind desperately fought to gain purchase on the memory, like waking from a beautiful dream with only the faintest notion of what it had been about. But no details crystallized, only a deep, unnervingly familiar ache of longing that settled in her chest. She shook the half-formed memory from her head. That wasn’t what was important right now.

“Did you follow me here?” Ivy asked in a whisper.

Ralph didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to; his silence was answer enough.

“What do you want from me?” Her heart had started racing again, Ralph’s closeness robbing her of any clarity of thought. The little room filled with the scent of woodsmoke and the outdoors. This was madness, yet she couldn’t help the hopeful expectation that he come closer to her, touch her. She could practically feel the warmth of his hands on her skin, his breath on the tender spot behind her ear. Why did this all feel so familiar? Why did she want Ralph of all people to step into her space, to wrap his arms around her and pull her to his chest and never let her go?

But Ralph didn’t move. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said in a low voice that sent shivers down her spine.

The gravity of his tone snapped her out of whatever silly fancy she had been indulging in. “What do you mean? What is this place?”

Sighing, Ralph ran a hand through his hair, standing the short, golden-brown strands on end. He looked as if he had been working in the stables, his shirt collar loose, his sleeves rolled. “You’re too curious for your own good,” he said on the back of a heavy sigh. “Too stubborn.”

The way he said it, it was with a familiarity, anintimacy. This was more than a breach of conduct between an employer and employee. He spoke with the confidence of a friend, or even a lover. “You’ve been spending time with Arthur Mabry,” he continued before she had a chance to respond.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“What has he told you about the library?”

Ivy’s tongue darted over her dry lips, Arthur’s strange plea coming back to her. Something told her to tread carefully, that there was more to the mutual distrust between Ralph and Arthur. “He told me that the Blackwood library is special, that it holds a lot of rare books on occult subjects.”

Ralph’s gaze sharpened. “Did he ask to come to the library?”

She knew he wasn’t going to like her answer, though she wasn’t sure why. “He—he already has come. He asked if he could bring his club next time.”

“Christ,” Ralph muttered to himself, confirming her suspicion.

“It’s my home,” Ivy countered. “I may invite who I wish.”

Ralph drew his hands down his face, looking unbearably tired. “You have no idea,” he said. “No idea. Don’t let them come.”

---