I held my breath as a wild rush of knowledge, longing, hope, and determination shivered and rolled through me. For that one breath, I was connected to every author who had held quill to write on Harold’s pages. More tenuously, I was connected to every volume and book they noted.
He was an index, connected to thousands of books, some of them lost forever. The sharp cut of sorrow—all those voices silenced—shuddered through me and then relief, as the new titles the Reeds had entered into Harold took over. We had written in his pages for years, making sure he was no longer filled with death and loss and sadness.
I exhaled, and all the voices, all the wordy thoughts and knowledge faded, faded, and were gone.
“Yes, Harold?”
“I think it is time you read your father’s last journal. Perhaps over a cup of tea?”
I knew what he was offering. He would sit with me, up in our little room in the attic. He would listen to my questions, he would let me grieve my father. Then he would read me something ridiculous to remind me that somehow, even in sorrow, there was joy.
“I can’t. Not…not right now.”
“But soon.” He bent just a bit and caught my gaze. “I think it’s important, Myra.”
“All right. Soon.”
He nodded and stepped back.
I waved Death through the door, then pulled it shut. The latch clicked, locked until I touched it again.
“Shit. I forgot Ryder’s books. Can you get them out of the trunk?” I tossed my keys to Than, and he caught them handily.
It only took us a second to get the box toted into the library. “Sorry,” I told an amused Harold. “Some books Ryder found.”
“Wonderful!” he said. “Welcome, all.”
I popped open the lid of the box and scooted it next to the nearest shelf. “Is this good for now?”
The spirits in the room were appearing, one after another, to stare at the newcomers for a moment before disappearing. So many people and creatures and ideas and concepts popping in and out of visible existence, it was like watching raindrops turn into people who evaporated the moment they touched the ground, only to be replaced by more raindrops and people.
“We will all be just fine until you return. Thank you, Myra, my dear.”
He leaned forward and pecked a very fatherly kiss to my forehead, then clapped his hands and bent over the box. “Now, who do we have here?”
I smiled and turned.
Than was staring at me, his endless black eyes glittering with curiosity.
“Let’s get to work,” I said, suddenly self-conscious. Maybe bringing Than out here, into my most private escape, had shown more vulnerability than I wanted.
Or maybe, my heart whispered, you wanted to see what death could do, wanted him to help you find a way not to kill Bathin, not to lose Delaney, and not to grieve like you are still grieving for your father.
I ignored my heart and left the library with Death on my heels.
Chapter 14
Call number one:
“It was huge!” Mrs. Kestner waved her hand straight up above her head. She was a local who worked at the bank. She also was an avid hiker.
“What were you doing out hiking at night, Mrs. Kestner?” I asked. “Alone?”
Her house was one of the many tiny cottages built in the thirties. This one had an addition off the back. The front room, which had once served as both the living and family room, was now a tidy home office and crafting space with a bright yellow couch, matching chairs, and some leafy plants in the corners.
Than stood at my side, observing.
“I got held up at work, and then Georgia needed me to pick up the kids and get them home because Paul was also working late. Georgia’s pulling a double at the hospital, you know.”
