Mr. Terduck looked much the same as he had six years before at Grayson and Lorelei’s wedding, a tall stalk of a man, as skinny as Astor’s front leg, not a single gray hair in the tuffs of coal-black hair sticking up in clumps on his head. His long Roman nose appeared to have been broken at least twice. He was wearing loose black wool trousers, a very fine handstitched white linen shirt, and slippers on his long, narrow feet. He beamed a singularly beautiful smile at Grayson, showing lovely white teeth, and surely there was a twinkle in his eyes.
“Ah, Mr. Sherbrooke, I’ve been waiting for you, saw you through my library window ride up on that lovely horse. Although I don’t know what kind of horse he is, I daresay Bean will take good care of him. Yes, yes, I also recognized you from the drawing on the back of your books. Smart man, your publisher, to think of sharing your fine-looking face with your readers—increases sales, I’d wager.” He paused, studied Grayson’s face. “I imagine he would not have dreamt of doing such a thing had you looked like a troll.” Without pause he turned and yelled, “Bean, we have a horse for you to coddle!”
An ancient relic came around the side of the house, perhaps tall once, but now stooped, dressed in well-worn trousers and a shirt rolled up to his gnarled elbows. Wisps of gray hair were carefully combed over his head and pomaded flat to his skull. A bit of vanity? He wore a wide smile that deepened the wrinkles on his weathered face. He ignored Grayson and walked right up to Astor. “Whit a beaut ye be, pretty laddie. Ye come wi’ old Bean, and we’ll see yer wined and dined on the best hay in the city.” His voice sounded like a soft, lilting song. He continued to croon to Astor, a sweet humming sound. Astor, to Grayson’s surprise, cocked his ears and stared down at Bean, then lowered his head and blew in his face. Astor was always leery of anyone other than Grayson, but now he stood perfectly still while Bean stroked his glossy neck and continued to speak to him, occasionally nodding his great head as if he understood. Astor blew against his face again, a sure sign he approved of this new servant who obviously worshipped him. He lowered his head again and nudged Bean’s shoulder, then pranced beside Bean, his black tail high.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mr. Terduck said, “I see you’re stunned, Mr. Sherbrooke. This always happens, so beware. Your horse might not want to leave Bean. I believe Bean emerged from his mother’s womb with magic for many animals, but particularly horses. And it is magic of a sort, but quite unlike what’s happening here. Ah, what’s happening here befuddles my brain, scares me to my toenails. But do come in. My cook, Mrs. Brush, has prepared English scones my dear departed wife Amelia taught her, and they’re quite tasty, bulging with berries, but which berries you may wonder. Always a surprise. And her tea is so strong you will be marching in place whilst you sip it. Come, sir, I have much to tell you. I pray you will be able to resolve this situation. I find violence abhorrent, particularly when it’s directed at me.”
Grayson, rendered nearly mute from the sheer number of words spoken nonstop by Mr. Terduck, followed him as he bent nearly double to get through the front door. He said over his shoulder, “Be careful, Mr. Sherbrooke. The Scots were much smaller when the house was built back in the early seventeenth century. I don’t want you breaking your head, else your father would be most upset—at least I would hope he would be upset.” He paused, lowered his voice to a reverent whisper. “Did you know in 1128 King David was hunting close by when a white stag suddenly appeared in front of him? David undoubtedly believed he’d be gored and die, but instead he saw between the stag’s antlers appeared a shining white cross, thus the name Holyrood—white cross—the cross upon which our savior was crucified. And then the stag disappeared. A romantic tale, is it not? Regardless, the palace is named Holyrood. I enjoy telling visitors the story—the ladies nearly swoon, and the gentlemen merely look at me, supercilious eyebrows arched, the disbelieving louts.”
Grayson stepped into a low-ceilinged entranceway, its floor covered with ancient once-light tiles, now black with age. Two branches of candles stood on a heavy mahogany table that looked faintly Spanish. The walls were covered with old paper, once a light blue, now a color best described as dingy gray. How could anyone bear to live in this dark, depressing house?
Grayson felt the walls closing in as he followed Mr. Terduck down a narrow, dark hallway to another low door. Mr. Terduck paused a moment and grinned. “I am sorry you had to crawl through the chaff, but now your reward, sir. Behold—” And Mr. Terduck stepped aside and waved Grayson into a large rectangular room filled with sunlight flooding in from a series of square leaded glass windows giving onto the front of the house, the sun so bright it was nearly blinding. Grayson could only stare. The ceiling stretched upward to two stories, supported with thick overarching beams darkened with ash from hundreds of years of fires in the fireplace. An amazing room, but what struck Grayson to his soul was the sheer number of volumes filling shelves covering three walls, climbing at least eight feet toward the ceiling.
For a moment Grayson couldn’t speak, could only gape at the hundreds of volumes, and all the while bright sunlight flooded in and seemed to swirl around him, welcoming him, warming him. The books, ah, the books. Many looked so old their pages might crumble if touched.
He heard Mr. Terduck say behind him, “Most of my visitors prefer my neat little parlor, all dark and cozy, but I knew you would feel quite at home in here. I write too, you know. Not wonderful stories like yours, but rather a history of Holyroodhouse, all the way back to the Augustinian abbey King David built after his famed meeting with the stag.”
Grayson stopped listening. He unexpectedly sensedother.Other?A ghost from Holyroodhouse?The otherness slowly faded into the warm sunlight, but he was left with certainty. Grayson walked directly to one of the bookshelves and pulled out a tome covered once a rich, vibrant red but now the color of a vague, long-forgotten sunset or a faded red rose.
Grayson said, “This book—I can make out the words pressed into the leather.Mary, Queen of Scotland. Her diary, I suppose. But, Mr. Terduck, I can’t open it. Is there a key? A hidden special latch I can’t find?”
Mr. Terduck was nearly bouncing on his feet with surprise and anticipation. He appeared to have trouble speaking, surely a miracle, then the words spurted out. “How I hoped and prayed you would be able to help me, Mr. Sherbrooke, but look at what you’ve done already. I mean you went immediately to Queen Mary’s book, and without hesitation you pulled it out from all the books around it. May I ask why you picked out that book, sir?”
Grayson wasn’t about to mention his knowledge of theother, how he’d simply known which book. He said only, “I saw it and pulled it out. It seems to me it is probably Queen Mary’s diary.”
“Yes, probably. But, Mr. Sherbrooke, you went right to it, as if, well, drawn to it.”
How to explain that things like this sometimes happened and it was always a surprise to him as well? Grayson merely said, “How did you come to own it, sir?”
Mr. Terduck waved his hand around the room. “All these volumes were here when I moved in two years ago. Mr. Sherbrooke, listen to me. You have proved I was right to seek your assistance. I know to my bones this is indeed Queen Mary’s diary, and it has waited for you, sir. Only you.” He paused a moment, shaking his head. “But I do not understand why it didn’t open for you. There is no key, no keyhole. I’ve felt every inch of it and found nothing. Why can’t you open it?”
Grayson said only, “I don’t know. It appears to be solid, not a book at all.”
Suddenly, the air around him seemed to pulse, to lightly push against his face. The book warmed in his hands, seemed to settle in. He would swear the book breathed. The feeling of theotherwas near again, right behind him, nearly touching his shoulder. What was going on here?
CHAPTER SIX
Mr. Terduck’s eyes never left the book. He looked ready to rip it from Grayson’s hands. He said slowly, “When I come into my study in the mornings, I swear to you sometimes the book has moved. Some days it is sitting so far forward it looks ready to fall to the floor. I always try to open it, but nothing ever happens, so I shove it back on its shelf. The next day I will see it has pressed itself against the back of the shelf and other books are in front of it. Once I removed the books next to it to see what would happen. The next morning it lay flat.
“Mary’s diary will not open for me, and yet I know it must hold the key to the curse. Ah, the wretched curse.” He stopped, shook his head. “I’ve read your novels, Mr. Sherbrooke, and knew to my soul you could help. Thus, I wrote to your father, praying you would come. The diary must open for you, else...” His voice trailed off. He looked ready to cry.
Somehow Grayson knew the diary wasn’t ready to open for him, which seemed ridiculous since it had practically flown into his hands. “Tell me, Mr. Terduck, how can Mary’s diary possibly involve you? Why do you think you’re cursed?”
“Do call me Cibalto, Mr. Sherbrooke.”
Grayson nodded. “And I am Grayson. This curse, Cibalto. I know all these events happened three hundred years ago, and logic says the misdeeds and crimes of the past cannot hurt us.” He paused, drew in a breath, and spit out the truth. “However, I’ve seen the past sometimes bleed into the present, and many times long-ago events bring havoc, so—”
Cibalto jumped when there was a knock on the door and it opened. “Ah, here is Mrs. Brush with our tea and scones. I cannot tell her to leave because she will not. She always hovers over me until she sees me eat every crumb. She tells me she promised my sainted wife she would make me eat since my wife believed me too thin. I don’t wish to pause in my revelations, but there is no choice.”
Life, Grayson knew, was always twisting and turning and dishing up moments of comedy to make you shake your head. He forced himself to turn and smile at a plump middle-aged woman wearing a green gown covered with a huge white apron with absolutely no sign of cooking stains. Like Mr. Terduck, when she smiled at him she showed beautiful white teeth. She looked him up and down, and her bright eyes shone. “Och, ye be a fine-lookin’ young lad, wi’ so many words flittin’ in yer heid, fair to bedazzles th’ self. Both of ye, time to eat me scones. Eat, sirs, eat.”
When at last Mrs. Brush left, Cibalto said, “Grayson, you must tell me what kind of berry is in the scones since Mrs. Brush will question me. Even now I am woefully ignorant of berries, and these taste more foreign than most.”
“They are loganberries, I believe.”
“Thank you. I will tell her, and she will be impressed with me. I remember when Amelia and I first moved into this house—it’s called Rose House, don’t know why since there are no rosebushes hereabouts—Mrs. Brush only mumbled. But my precious wife taught her how to carry forth, and now, alas, she won’t shut up. I can scarce get in a word edgewise when she’s about. I do miss my wife. She spent her time berating me for not listening to her, and she loved the smell of fresh linens on our bed. Do you like the tea? Did your tongue spring to attention?”
