Page 15 of Better in Black
One day passed, and then another.
And then a week.
This time, when she arrived at Curzon Street, she had to rapsharply at the door several times before Effie opened it. Must the whole universe test her patience?
James and Cordelia were playing chess.
“I’ve still heard nothing from the publisher,” Lucie exclaimed.
“Hello to you too, beloved sister,” James said. “And yes, I am looking extremely well, thank you for noticing.”
“You’re looking extremely full of yourself, as ever,” Lucie said, “and this delay makes no sense, as the publisher told me they were eager to begin as soon as possible.”
“Perhaps this is simply the way things go in the world of publishing?” Cordelia suggested. “A writer obliged to hurry so that a publisher can take their time?”
“Perhaps…” Lucie said, dubious. “But I thought just in case, I should stop by and remind them that I exist.”
“Oh dear,” Cordelia said. “And what did they say?”
“No one answered,” Lucie told them. “So I turned the knob, and the door was unlocked, and—”
“Oh, Lucie, you broke into your own publisher?”
“I don’t believe one could call it breaking in if the door was unlocked,” James said. “Then it’s simply paying an unexpected visit.”
“That’s what I thought,” Lucie said. “Except no one was there. Don’t you think that’s odd?”
James shrugged. “Maybe they stepped out for lunch?”
“If they did,” Lucie said, “they did so without erasing the pentagram they had chalked on the floor.”
Cordelia’s eyes flew wide.
James whistled. “Next time, Lucie, do begin your story withthat.”
—
Krog & Sons was, like most of London’s publishers, located on Fleet Street, not far from the London Institute. It was sandwichedbetween a pub, Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, and a bank, and marked only by a tall blue door with a discreet silver plaque that readkrog&sons: grimoires and spellbooks.
Lucie knocked on the door, thinking perhaps this time her publisher would be present and have some innocuous explanation for why he had chalked a pentagram on his floor. Apersuasiveinnocuous explanation, she thought. That was important.
Cordelia narrowed her eyes at the sign. “Grimoires and spellbooks?The Beautiful Cordeliadoesn’t seem like a natural fit.”
“Genre is a very limited way to approach literature,” Lucie said. “All truly great writing defies categorization.”
“Hmm,” said Cordelia. “Erm.”
“Do stop making noises, Daisy darling,” said Lucie.
James shrugged, stepped forward, and turned the doorknob. The door opened wide. The three Shadowhunters stepped inside the offices of Krog & Sons.
At first glance, the place seemed like an ordinary office, with wooden desks—though no chairs—and large curtainless windows looking out onto Fleet Street.
“Ah, Lucie, I don’t know much about publishing,” James said, “but does it seem normal to you that there would be demonic runes carved into the floor of your publisher’s office? Or”—he approached the bookshelves lining the wall, examining the black spines—“that many of the books would be written in Chthonian?”
Cordelia bent over a large wooden desk that dominated the opposite wall and sniffed at a jar of ink. She recoiled. “I think this is blood!”
“Makes sense,” James said. “Given that the keys on this typewriter seemed to be carved from human teeth.”
