Page 43 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

Settling into a chair across the table, Mrs. Hewitt took a sip from her own cup. “My lady, I wish that I did not have to impart this information to you, but it seems that I have no choice. I need you to listen to me, and listen carefully. What I am going to tell you will sound improbable, impossible even. But you must believe me and then be ready to act quickly.”

Ivy had no choice but to nod. After what she had experienced and seen, any answers were preferable to the wild conjecture that was churning through her mind.

Hewitt cleared his throat and went to lock the kitchen door. “I suggest that whatever you tell her, you tell her quickly. We haven’t much time.”

Mrs. Hewitt gave a tight nod, then turned back to Ivy. “My lady, Blackwood is no ordinary library, and you are no ordinary heir to it.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is a power, a dark power, that runs through the library, and at its heart, is a very old, very important manuscript. Ralph told me that you found it, saw it for yourself.”

Ivy shot a look at Ralph, who was absorbed in scratching at a stain on the table with his fingernail. “I did?” she asked. There were many manuscripts in the library, but Ivy didn’t remember finding anything particularly noteworthy.

“Yes, you did.” Mrs. Hewitt confirmed. “For four hundred years, the Hayworth family have held the viscountcy of Blackwood, and their stewardship of the library has carried with it a curse.” Mrs. Hewitt drew in a deep breath. “The library, it demands memories, dreams, from each and every heir. It adds them to its ever-growing collection, imbues the books with a dangerous kind of power that brings the words to life. Once the heir is drained and no longer of use, the next heir is sent for and the cycle begins again. You are the latest, and unfortunately the youngest, in a long line of Hayworth descendants.”

There was a chip in the rim of Ivy’s teacup, the dainty floral pattern interrupted by the chiseled clay beneath. Words were coming out of Mrs. Hewitt’s mouth, but they held no meaning, made no sense. Ivy was still in her dream, that was it. The beautiful birds and flowers might be gone, but it was a dream nonetheless, surreal and nonsensical.

“The library is a living thing, hungry for new books, new stories,” Mrs. Hewitt continued, “and the manuscript is the heart that circulates them. Every Hayworth heir has contributed a book, but they do not sate the library for long.”

Ivy had to tamp down the urge to laugh; it was all so ridiculous. “Are you telling me that all my memories are in a book somewhere?”

“Your memories, your dreams, your every movement and thought,” Mrs. Hewitt confirmed.

She swallowed, once and then twice before forcing herself to ask, “How do you know all this?”

“Because the Hewitts likewise are tied to the library. Our family has stood guard for those same four hundred years, ensuring that the library gets what it needs from the Hayworths, but never escapes beyond the confines of the abbey. We are immune to its powers, the result of an ancient pact made between our families.”

When she was younger, Ivy’s father had taught her about Occam’s Razor—the simpler the theory, the more likely it was to be true, but the more complicated it was, the more likely it was to be false. What Mrs. Hewitt was telling her wasn’t simply complex, it was full of downright fantastical details that simply could not be real. Ghosts and spirits were one thing, but magical libraries with sentient desires and hungers were simply a bridge too far.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m afraid that you don’t have the luxury of disbelief,” Mrs. Hewitt said with a grimace. She paused. “What, exactly, has Arthur told you about his family and the Sphinxes?”

Ivy pushed the cup away, crossed her arms as if that would offer some sort of protection from this new reality. “He said the library is special because it contains rare manuscripts, and that his club is committed to opening up the library for research and academic pursuits. They think it’s a shame that it’s hidden away and inaccessible to scholars.”

Mrs. Hewitt nodded. “The Mabrys have long coveted Blackwood and its powers,” she continued. “You see, the manuscript isn’t just valuable, it contains secrets that have driven men to madness for centuries. How to bring back the dead and attain immortality. How to achieve eternal youth. They see it as a powerful tool that should be in the hands of the military. But they don’t understand how dangerous it would be, how impossible to harness its powers for such a specific use. You saw for yourself what happened when you lent out the books. Now imagine that, but in the hands of men hungry for power and mass destruction.”

“It’s the Mad Monk’s manuscript,” Ivy whispered, as memories surfaced and pieces began to fall into place. She had forgotten about the ghost story, but now it tangled with memories of a hooded skull at the end of her bed, a hot, sour breath on her neck. And the manuscript, she could vaguely see the illustrations in her mind’s eye, fantastical flora and fauna, and more disturbing tableaus of women in pools of blood. But the images remained indistinct and it was impossible to parse what was a memory and what was a dream.

“A fanciful name, but yes, the tale does have some truth to it. We don’t know much about him, except that he lived here during Henry VIII’s reign, and was fascinated with alchemy and the fabled fountain of youth. He was the author of the manuscript, and put all the dark magic that he studied into it. Whatever was in the manuscript is what imbues the library with its power. They feed off each other and hold the monk in half death.”

Ivy took a sip of cold tea. Pushed it away again. The only sound in the kitchen was the clock ticking in the corner, yet her head throbbed as if a symphony had taken up residence in it.

“Arthur is only marrying you so that he can have complete control of the library.” Ralph’s low voice cut through her racing thoughts. “Do you see it now? I told you, you should have left.”

Ivy bit her lip, unwilling to meet his piercing stare. She hated that he was right, but more than that, she hated that she felt as if she had somehow disappointed him.

“No, she shouldn’t have,” Mrs. Hewitt countered sharply. “You know what would happen if she were to leave.”

Ivy barely heard them. Everything was falling apart faster than she could piece it together. Arthur didn’t care for her, had never cared for her. Worse than that, he had used her for some dark and terrible purpose. She couldn’t deny what she had seen with her own eyes in the library only an hour before.

“I can’t marry Arthur,” Ivy whispered, staring at the scarred and stained oak table.

Mrs. Hewitt grimaced. “I would not recommend it, no.”

Ralph stood up abruptly, pushing back his chair. “She can’t stay here.”

“Why? What will happen to me if I stay?”

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