Page 45 of Darkest at Dusk
“Fire,” Peg whispered. “A terrible fire.” Her gaze darted around the room as if the fire might still flare in the corners. Isabella marked the fear and chose another path, one that would soothe rather than stir.
“Tell me, Peg, do you have any brothers or sisters?”
Peg’s expression softened.
“Oh, aye, miss. Three brothers and a sister, though I’m the youngest of the lot. They all think I’m spoiled, mind you. Being the baby and all.”
Isabella smiled faintly. “And are you?”
“A little, maybe. But it didn’t stop them from sending me here to earn my keep.” Peg’s lips twitched into a grin. “My eldest brother, Danny, he’s the worst for it. Acts like he’s my father sometimes. But he writes me letters, every month, like clockwork. Full of gossip and nonsense. You’d think the whole village was on fire the way he tells it.” She paused. “Glad I am now that Mam taught all of us to read and write.”
Isabella let out a soft laugh. “Your brother sounds like quite the storyteller.”
Peg nodded, her smile lingering before she turned back to her work. The silence that followed was softer now, less suffocating.
After a time, Isabella turned her attention to one of the crates. It sat apart from the others, its lid cracked open, nails bent and splintered. She went to stand before it, her hand hovering over the splintered wood. With a huffing exhalation that felt too loud in the stillness, she pushed the lid open.
Inside lay books. Dozens of them. Their shapes were familiar and welcome, cracked leather spines, gilded titles faded with time, corners softened by years of careful hands. They should have been wrapped carefully in oilcloth and twine, for that was how they had been packed. Instead, there was a snarl of twine off to one side and the books were stacked in a random way.
She took care to wipe her hands on a clean cloth before lifting one carefully. Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica.
She knew this book, and every other in this crate. She brushed her fingertips lightly over the embossed letters on the spine before placing it gently on the table.
Another followed, then another. Titles in Latin, French, Arabic. Symbols that seemed to twist and writhe on the page if she stared at them too long.
“That’s an awful lot of books,” Peg said. “And those just from a single crate.” She looked around at the piles on the floor. “So many books.”
“These belonged to my father,” Isabella murmured.
“They look old. Older than books ought to look.”
“They are very old,” Isabella said, memories of Papa summoning a bittersweet smile.
Peg set down her feather duster and lifted the heavy bucket of dirty water, her arms straining with the weight. The water sloshed as she adjusted her grip.
“I need to fetch fresh water,” she said.
Isabella nodded. “Of course, Peg. Take your time.”
The maid hesitated at the threshold, her freckled face pinched with worry, her gaze darting around the room.
“You’ll be alright, miss? Alone in here?”
Sweet girl. Whatever ghosts she imagined in the dim corners of the library, they were no worse than the wraiths that had been Isabella’s companions all her life, certainly no worse than the wraith she had encountered her first night here.
“I will. Go on,” she said.
Peg cast one last wary glance around the library before slipping out the door. The echo of her footsteps faded.
Isabella turned slowly, her eyes sweeping across the room. The silence stretched around her, vast and unyielding, like the weight of the centuries pressed into the stone walls and carved wood panels.
And in that silence, something moved.
Not footsteps. Not the creak of settling wood. Not the whispers of unseen wraiths.
It was more a shift in the air, like breath stirring dust. She felt that breath on her cheek, stone cold, cellar damp. Heat without flame licked across the floor. The scent of roses filled the air.
Then came a thud as a book tumbled from the shelf across the room and struck the floor.
