“I thought women wanted honesty,” he teased.
“Pfft,” she said. “Who told you that nonsense?” He slipped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “I know what you mean. I do feel a bit worn down. I’ll take you up on that offer and head home”—she glanced at her cell phone—“half an hour early. You sure you can close up without me?”
His expression said,Are you kidding me?“Is a heffalump pink?”
“Does a woozle leave tracks in the snow?” she countered.
Arnie smiled at her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Stella grabbed her keys from the counter where she’d tossed them earlier and walked to her car parked behind the library in the first row, fourth space, to the right of the library’s exit. Same as always. She drove through town with a persistent burn in her chest and wondered if she had any antacids at home. After pulling into the garage, she grabbed for her purse, but it wasn’t there.She stared in confusion for a moment, then checked the floorboard and the narrow area between the passenger seat and the car door—as if it would even fit there. Her searching fingers found a pen, a rubber band, and a lonely, fragile cheese puff. She climbed out of the car to give herself a different vantage point and fisted her hands on her hips. Nothing but cracking leather seats. She retraced her steps in her mind and saw her purse sitting beneath the circulation desk. It would take her less than fifteen minutes to drive back across town and grab it.
She called Arnie as she drove. Thankfully she kept her cell phone with her while she worked. When he didn’t answer, she left a message. Even though the library’s rear parking lot was empty when she returned, Stella parked in her usual spot.
On the lot beside the library sat a bungalow where most of the head librarians had taken residence since it was built in the early 1900s. Arnie had convinced the town to let him purchase the home, and for as long as Stella could remember, it had been his.
Arnie’s most extravagant possession in an otherwise humble life was parked in front of his cottage—an inherited 1955 silver BMW 503 convertible.
All the lights were off inside. Arnie never went to bed before midnight, and most evenings he stayed up well into the wee hours. There was no way he was sleeping already. He must still be inside the library. Stella jingled the keys on her key ring until she found the fat-headed gold key that unlocked the back door.
Her assumption that Arnie was still inside was validated when the beeping of the alarm didn’t start as soon as she opened the door. The only light still illuminating the library dangled high above the circulation desk, spotlighting the circular space like an actor in a play, leaving the rest of the stage in darkness.
“Arnie?” His name echoed through the empty library, returned to her, and circled around her shoulders.
She squatted behind the desk and reached for her purse. It seemed to jump into her hands, saying,I thought you’d left me here!She shouldered the bag and stood. The burning sensation in her chest intensified, and Stella gripped the edge of the counter. A small pool of liquid, a vivid purple, rose through the desktop as though a fountain had burst inside the wood. Just as they had last night, letters emerged from the glowing goo, forming words. Violet roots stretched out from the words and wrapped around objects on the desktop as the fire in her blood intensified. Her hands became clammy, and Stella swayed with nausea.
The wordslove onceundulated on the desk, and as soon as Stella spoke them aloud, the blistering in her chest lessened. She steadied herself and swallowed, thankful she hadn’t barfed on the desk. She lifted a trembling hand to her forehead and inhaled a slow, deep breath.
The journal was at home. Would the pain return if she didn’t write down the words immediately? She quickly said, “I’ll write you down when I get home, I promise.” Seeming to understand, the words unwrapped their purple tendrils and skittered off the countertop, disappearing into the dark library.
Stella drew in another breath and rubbed her fingertips across the left side of her chest. What was happening to her?
Laughter drifted across the foyer. She glanced toward the vault door on the opposite side of the room. The door to the antiquities archives stood ajar, and more laughter—no,giggling—tumbled out the open doorway. Stella started walking toward the sound but hesitated. Arnienevergiggled, and it was a woman’s voice.
Chapter 3
Blue Sky Valley boasted a history dating back past the American Revolution, and many unusual, historical, and unique items and books had been tucked into a spacious, separated, and sealed section beneath part of the library. Built into the limestone, the solid walls had withstood several natural disasters over the years, and the archives remained a fortress of knowledge and artifacts.
Stella followed the sound of laughter and voices toward the vault door, which was partially open at the top of the stairs, but it shouldn’t have been unless Arnie was down there. She tugged on the door’s metal handwheel, opening it wider. She stood, listening, but silence greeted her. Had she imagined the laughter?
“Arnie?” she called in a voice quieted by the unease swelling inside her. Smoky-gray words poofed out of the open space:Apprehension. Fear. Anxiety.
Were the words a warning? Was there a reason to be uneasy about the archives tonight?
Stella tiptoed down the stairs, breathing in the scents of earth,old parchment, and tanned leather. At the bottom of the staircase, she saw a lamp burning at the far end of the room. Was Arnie researching? She took two steps into the dimly lit archives and shivered. Laughter swept down the nearest aisle. But it wasn’t Arnie’s laugh. It belonged to a female. Had Arnie invited alady friendinto the archives? She froze, wondering if she should turn around and pretend she never found Arnie in an awkward situation, but curiosity propelled her forward.
Glowing typewriter-font words slipped out of the shadows and floated across the shelves, then across a World War II uniform hanging in a display case.Borrowed Time. Temporary. Please stay.The last phrase tightened Stella’s throat. More voices drifted out and quivered around her.
“Arnie?” she whispered.
The pool of lamplight touched the tip of her tennis shoe. She gripped the edge of the nearest bookcase and peered around it. A young boy wearing an outfit made of brittle autumn leaves grinned and leaped onto a study table. He wiggled his bare toes and winked at Stella. A woman, sitting with her back to Stella, laughed; her long blond hair gleamed in the soft light. A dreadfully thin man with a nose like a toucan’s beak walked toward the table as his deep voice resonated against the shelves. His white shirt ballooned around his narrow frame as he walked, and the bend-snap, bend-snap of his loping gait reminded Stella of a flamingo. Was he reciting a psalm?
The man’s steady gaze stretched past the table and landed on Stella’s face. Her back straightened as though she’d been electrocuted. The man stopped speaking, tucked a worn Bible against his chest, and bowed his head toward Stella, causing the blond woman to turn in her chair. The impossibly beautiful woman’s skin glowed as though she’d eaten handfuls of stars. Stella had never seen anyone lovelier, and she had trouble looking directly at thewoman’s face. Her eyes burned the way they did when she stared at the midday sun.
“Ya su. Kalispèra,” the woman said in a voice smoother than poured ink.
Is that... Greek?Stella’s brain struggled to translate. She and Arnie hadn’t practiced Greek in months. “Good evening?” she mumbled.
The young boy leaped from the table, leaving a glittering comet trail behind him. Stella jerked backward, tripped over her own feet, and fell, knocking her head hard on a shelf. Her vision blurred, and she crumpled against the bookcase, sliding down until she plopped on the floor like a rag doll.
