Page 6 of Foresyth Conservatory
“Thank you, Gabriel. There’s nothing you can’t find in a book,” I said, smiling. But it quickly fell when he didn’t return it.
“I don’t have a good feeling about this. This is exactly the kind of work your father meddled in, and you swore off it a year ago.”A year ago, when my father died by his own hand, was what he meant to say.
My eyes fell to my half-eaten apple. It suddenly tasted sour. He was right—Ihadsworn off detective work when my father died, anchoring my fate at the bookstore.
“I know, but I can’t shake the nagging feeling that Renate knows something about my father. He’s not like anyone I’ve met in Greenwich, Gabriel. He knowsthings. He’s an actual scholar—besides you, of course,” I quickly added when Gabriel grimaced.
“You know better than I do what it’s like in Greenwich,” I said, leaning in to whisper. “What are people reading these days?” He looked away, but not before his eyes flickered to my lips. I ignored it.
“Exactly. They’renotreading. Maybe two or three people a day borrow a book, and I get even fewer patrons at the shop. Forget about anyone being interested in the old archives; it’s being wasted on this agrarian town.” The library’s archives housed some of the oldest books in the collection—gorgeous tomes on alchemy and primordial chemistry, the origins of the scientific method. As far as Gabriel and I knew, we werethe only ones in Greenwich who had read them in the last fifty years.
Gabriel’s face softened, his boyish roundness becoming more pronounced. “I’ve known you a long time, Dahl. I know how your heart soars in mystery and legends, and I know how much you love a good ghost story. I just don’t want you getting lost in all of this.”
Like your father did, said the silence.
“What would be worse is me not getting lost at all. Staying put, always knowing where I am, never figuring out who I am.”
I know who you are, his expression seemed to plead. There was a sadness in his eyes that I couldn’t place. Was he grieving the potential loss of a friend, or was he, like me, longing for a life outside of Greenwich? At least his parents had afforded to send him to Sawyer Academy, even if they expected him to stay in Greenwich afterward.
My eyes darted to his hands—dry and ashy from handling so many books, yet delicate and refined. I knew he wasn’t one for getting his hands dirty, not the way I was. He was satisfied living in books, but I was not.
A bell chimed in the distance, and he stood, dusting off his clothes. “I have to go, but I’ll look into this Christopher Renate. Promise me you won’t leave without saying goodbye?” A small smile crept onto his lips, and it made me want to throw my arms around him in a hug, despite how improper it would seem. Despite the fact he might get the wrong idea.
“I promise.” I smiled back.
*
Accepting the Meister’s offer would be dangerous—fatal, even. But he was right. Ididfeel like a fraud in Greenwich.
My patrons trusted me with their most intimate affairs, their fears, and their dreams. But I had no real counsel to offer. What could a twenty-five-year-old girl trapped in a bookstore possibly know? I’d never left Greenwich, save for a few trips with my father as a child. The shop was never my dream. It was my mother’s. And the readings—well, those were just to pay the dues. I had become reliant on the readings to feed myself and my mother. A slave to a trade I scarcely believed in. I could memorize the meanings of the cards and study numerology, but what did I know of the future when I did so little to determine my own life?
In that regard, I was no better than my patrons.
The Meister’s offer was a golden ticket to escape the shop. Maybe even to place my mother in a proper medical center, where she could receive proper treatment for her ailment.
I was the daughter of Detective Daniel Blackburne. I had stood by my father’s side countless times while he unraveled case after case, and I had picked up a few tricks along the way. I could detect the slightest lie and see through the illusions people cast over themselves and others. It was time for me to take control of my own future—my own Fate.
I was going to accept the Meister’s offer.
Now came the tricky part: convincing my mother.
*
I was fiddling with a broken music box when I decided to finally confront her. Repair work was a habit I’d picked up from my father. When my mind was too restless to focus on reading, working on a mechanical trinket seemed to help. But this particular music box was missing a gear, and Ididn’t have the right size, so it was a fruitless effort. I sighed and tossed it into my satchel for later.
I made my way up the stairwell slowly, savoring each creaking floorboard. Some part of me would miss it: the smell of old parchment, leather-cracked spines, and dust-pillowed antiques. Though the promise of financial relief brightened my outlook, the weight of the decision I had to make overshadowed any sense of ease. I found my mother in her room, sunk into her favorite armchair. She had mustered the strength to leave her bed today. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains, casting a warm glow over the room.
“Estelle,” I began, the words hanging in the air as I gauged her reaction. If my father was the moon, then my mother was the sun—nothing had ever dimmed her internal light. She was all starry eyes and fair complexion. Until my father died, that is. Now she lay as a husk of herself, greying, and a glimmer of who she once was.
She looked up from the book she was reading, a smile briefly crossing her face before it dissolved into a grimace of pain. “What is it, my darling?” she asked, adjusting the pillow in the arch of her spine. She started to rock back and forth rhythmically.
Taking a deep breath, I recounted the Meister’s offer, embellishing a bit. “I can even learn bookbinding there and start a workshop downstairs.” I found myself speaking quickly, out of nerves. I didn’t know if the Conservatory even taught bookbinding, but it was a skill my mother had always wanted me to learn. Her arthritis had made it impossible for her to teach me herself.
Her rocking ceased, and she fixed me with a gaze that betrayed her emotions. I was a master of detecting her emotions after years of vigil at her side.
“Foresyth,” she murmured, her voice carrying an undercurrent of dread. The last light from her eyes died.
“You’ve heard of it?”
