Page 24 of The Devil in Oxford
The lock was a simple warded affair, nothing difficult. I lifted a pick to the moonlight.Which to choose, which to choose?
Ruan glanced down the alley toward the street before he let out a low laugh. “I cannot decide whether or not I should be disturbed at the ease with which you bend the law to suit your whims or to admire you for it.”
I furrowed my brow, focused upon the brass keyhole, and jiggled the pick once.
Then a second time. It did not want to give. I sighed, rocking back onto my now cold, damp haunches. “If it’s any consolation, I cannot decide either. Besides, I do not consider thisburgling. I was invited by the museum owner to investigate.”
Ruan shifted and I caught a glimpse of the street again and a canine-shaped shadow at the end of the lane. My breath caught. “Do you see that?”
Ruan turned, blocking my view of the street and the dog along with it. “See what? There’s nothing there… just an empty street.”
The hair on the back of my neck rose. “You… you didn’t see the dog? It was just there.” I lifted my hand, pointing to the entrance to the alley.
Ruan’s back stiffened as he turned back to face me. “You are telling me that you saw a dog.… Does this have to do with what you asked me this morning?”
I caught my lower lip between my teeth. “I know. I know. Omen of death—or so you said. But as we already have a dead man, I think we’re all settled on that score.”
“I’m not amused. Ruby, if you are seeingspectralcreatures, I would say thatisa slight problem.”
“It’s not a spectral dog. I would certainly know if I’d seen a ghost or a demon or whatever exactly that omen might be.” I triedto make light of the concept, but after the things I’d encountered since meeting Ruan, I was not as easily able to discount theotherworldas I once was. I cleared my throat. “It’s likely a stray, seeking out a spot to bed down for the night. There are hundreds of dogs in Oxford, I’m inclined to believe I’ve seen one ofthoseand not some harbinger of doom.”
Ruan grunted in disagreement, but at least he let it drop.
The dog. Then that man outside the Covered Market. I swallowed hard, trying not to think of whatthatmeant. Surely I was not seeing things that were not real—not again. I squeezed my eyes shut trying not to think about those days, of how close I’d come to being put into a hospital for shell shock in 1917. They said I’d been too close to the front lines for my delicate feminine constitution. I believed them… at least for a time… chalking up the inconsistencies of my memories to the trauma of the war. But I was no more mad then than I was now.
I had seen something. Not a ghost. Not my imagination. There’d been a dog. There had to be. But I was wise enough to let it drop, lest I end up in the same situation now as I had been then. No matter how kind Ruan was, seeing things that no one else does never bodes well.
I shook my head and turned my focus back to the brass plate covering the keyhole and continued fumbling with the lock until I felt it give, and the door swung free.
“Now… shall we see what Mr. Harker is hiding?”
WE CREPT UPthe narrow winding stair until we reached the landing, which opened onto a small gallery before leading out into the main exhibition space. Meager moonlight made its way through the glass dome overhead. We silently made our way through the main hall, neither of us willing to use a flashlight, lest we attract unwanted attention from the sleeping city outside.
“I don’t like this place,” Ruan murmured, pausing alongside a glass display case from the last century. He laid a gloved hand upon the glass, oddly transfixed by what was inside. “Hurry up and find what you’re looking for so we can be gone.”
I drew closer to him, peering over his shoulder at the darkened case. “I would like to point out that it is hard to hurry when I don’t even know what I’m looking for in the first place.”
“Then you’d better get started.”
I muttered something rather unkind aboutirritating Pellars, glancing back over my shoulder to the windows leading onto the street. We were far enough from them that I doubted my light would draw much notice. I flicked on my flashlight and cautiously shined it into the case.
The sleeve of my jacket brushed against Ruan’s. His breath hitched and he muttered something in Cornish. I couldn’t quite decide if it wasmeor the object that caused such a response. Inside the glass case, an old decorative comb lay on a wooden stand with a black satin cushion beneath it. The contrast caused the white of the scrimshaw to glow in the darkness. It was intricately carved with a peculiar symbology I could not place. A language of some sort. I’d stake my life upon it. Though it was none I’d ever seen. Small pieces of pearl and abalone had been meticulously embedded into the edge, catching in the artificial light from my flashlight.
What is it?
Ruan’s bottom lip was caught in his teeth as he studied the little comb, his gloved hand on the glass. His conscience warring with him on whether to lift the case and touch it. The spell it cast upon him was unnerving, yet there was something achingly familiar about the piece.
“It’s a charming little comb, Ruan. Probably made by some bored sea captain for his wife at home.”
Ruan could not tear himself away from the piece. “Do you not hear it? It sings…”
My heart thundered in my chest. I was seeing things, Ruan washearingthings. Granted, he often heard things, but I doubted he frequently heardobjects. If this was any indication of what we were dealing with, whatever was going on in Oxford was bad. Very bad. I touched his hand, taking it into my own and gently pulling him away from the glass. It was the first time he allowed me to touch him, but rather than shrink away he simply let me lead him away, his attention riveted to the little comb. “No, Ruan. I don’t hear anything. Nothing at all.”
One step, then another backward, in a strange hypnotic dance into the shadows of the museum.
“Ruan…” My voice cracked as I held his hand in my own.
Whatever trance he’d been in snapped, a nearly audible crack split the space between us as he pulled his hand away and turned from the comb. His face was unreadable save for the deep divot of worry between his brows. He flexed his hand, then folded his arms tight across his chest.
