Cautiously we approach the rotting fence, flecks of paint barely visible along the weathered wood. Emmett reaches for the gate and the whole thing comes apart under his hand, collapsing to the ground like it was held together with dust.
He turns around, and I offer him nothing but an arched brow.
“Good afternoon,” Emmett calls. In the crook of his elbow he carries a basket of fresh jams left over from our field lunch.It would be rude to show up without a gift,he said.
No answer comes from the house, but up on the rotting thatched roof a chimney is puffing black smoke into the sky. A shadow flits by the dust-caked window. Someone is home.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Emmett approaches the door confidently, like we’ve been invited for tea. I trail behind him, his willing shadow.
With one large hand he reaches up and knocks on the ancient door. The sound reverberates through the silent forest. No answer. He knocks again.
The shadow in the window stills, watching us. From behind the door comes the sound of five locks being undone, agonizingly slow.
Click
Click
Click
Click
Click.
The door creaks open wide enough to reveal a single eye. “Who are you?” a male voice asks.
“We’ve come to call,” Emmett says pleasantly. “I believe you know my brother.”
The single visible eye narrows.
Emmett holds the basket up with a hopeful grin. “We’ve brought jam.”
He slams the door in our faces, the sound reverberating through the forest.
Then, one final lock slides, and the door swings open.
“Might as well come in,” the man says.
He’s not what I expected. I’d pictured some sort of grizzled, ancient creature from a children’s story. What stands in front of me is just a man. He looks to be in his late thirties, with a close crop of dark blond hair. He has a forgettable face, nice enough, but unremarkable in every way.
The house is musty and dark, every curtain drawn or window so covered with filth it lets in little light. There are stacks and stacks of books piled on every available surface, some covered in dust, some brand-new. Over every doorway hangs an upside-down horseshoe.
I follow Emmett through the door, but as soon as I step onto the flagstone floor, I’m hit with a stomach-curdling revulsion. A disgust so strong I suddenly feel the need to run out the door and go anywhere that isn’t here.
I look to our host, who is standing still in the hallway, watching us like he expected this. His face is neutral, pleasant even, but when I look at him, I feel nothing but bone-deep disgust. It crawls up my throat until I’m choking on it. I hate this man. I hate him urgently, without reason.
Emmett’s fist tightens around the basket of jam, and there’s no longer anything funny about our gift.
“Come in, come in,” the man says. “The sooner you get your answers, the sooner you can leave.” He’s got an odd, stilted sort of accent.
We follow him into the sitting room, as gray and overcrowded as the rest of the house. He gestures for us to sit on a pair of woodenchairs by the fire, and Emmett and I acquiesce, despite every bone in my body resisting.
He blows dust off of two teacups. “I don’t receive many guests.”
He pulls a black kettle from the cavernous fireplace in the middle of the room and fills our cups.
I slip the book out from where it was tucked under my arm beneath my cloak. “Do you know anything of the original owner of this book?”
