The Librarian's Spell by Patricia Rice (ebook offline reader TXT) 📗

yes. It requires further study. The ten-foot thick walls dissecting the space between the inner and outer towers are the support.” He pointed out the depth of the arch they passed under. “Peel towers normally only had three floors. You have four, indicating the outer tower was built over the inner. The design is brilliant. Are you certain an Ives didn’t originally own this land?”

The librarian snorted inelegantly. “Your scientific family and my psychically gifted Malcolm family have a long history together. Have you seen our family castle in Northumberland?”

“The seat of the earls of Ives and Wystan—now the marquess of Ashford? Is that your assistant’s ancestral home? I’ve heard of it, of course, but I left home at fifteen. I haven’t seen much of the isles except Scotland.” Max regretted that, but his inability to read history prevented learning anything useful.

“The Ives and Malcolms have been neighbors back into the mists of time.” The librarian stopped to examine a fissure forming in one of the stone walls. “They married, built castles and towns together. A century or two ago, a war over the Northumberland castle led to a long break, but chances are that this tower may have preceded it. Imagine both a mystical Malcolm and a scientific Ives designing a defensive fortress. For all we know, they could have stored ghosts in here.”

Ah, the librarian could speak—like a book Max should have read. “My parents never told me the tale. My mother watched me for Malcolm traits. My father simply expected me to follow in his footsteps, increasing his Ives fortune. They weren’t much on family history.”

“Is this crack the reason the tower tilts?” his companion asked in a low, husky voice.

He wished for the hood to fall back so he could see the librarian’s expression to see if he spoke with disdain or disapproval.

“It is evidence that the ground is settling, no more. I’ll show you my concern.” Max took another zigzag in the maze of chambers created between the supports, bringing them to the final corridor. He patted the patched, ancient, dry-stone wall lovingly. “The original watchtower. Our ancestors probably painted themselves blue and stood at the top, spears in hand, ready to fight off the Romans.”

“Your idea of history is a touch conflated if you think the Romans were here in the fourteenth century,” the librarian said with amusement. “But if you truly believe it is from the first or second. . .”

Max circled to the northeast, holding up the lantern until he found what he wanted. “There, that’s the entrance to the original watchtower. It’s been closed up with stones and masonry. There ought to be a byre on the other side of that arch. If it’s a peel tower, a ladder might have led to the first floor. It’s possible they filled the byre with stone as support when the new tower wall was built.” He patted the old walls.

The librarian studied the ceiling. “They built a frame around the watchtower to support the newer tower. Surely these inner walls should last forever.”

“Nothing lasts forever. See where the beams are separating from the foundation? More soil settling. All this excavation may originally have been part of a mine.”

“So, the core might sink, pulling down the rest of the structure?” the librarian asked sadly.

“Possibly. I need to run tests, experiment with loads. Sinking piles to repair it. . . could be prohibitively expensive. Here, look at this.” He held the lamp up to the smoother stones creating the arched doorway. “See the etching?”

The librarian’s elegantly long fingers traced the carved stone. “Well worn. It’s been here a long time.”

“We wouldn’t see the writing at all if not for the new tower protecting it from the elements. The bottom names are the most weathered, so they’re probably from early days, before the new castle. As you reach the top, they’re more legible. That is the one that says Cadwallader, I believe.” Max pointed at one of the chiseled, flat arch stones at head height. “It’s still old, etched well before our time, I’d say.”

“Extraordinary. Although I suppose this could be the name of an ancestor.” The librarian looked higher. “How are you able to read the names, especially with this odd lettering?”

Max shrugged. “I know my letters. I simply can’t see them the way others do. But I can touch these since they’re carved in stone.”

Max pointed out the barely visible secretary’s name above the librarian’s head. Feeling those letters hadn’t been easy since they were so faint. “It would be hard to imagine two ancestors with similar names listed together. Is Miss Wystan the next librarian?”

“She does not have the gift. I see nothing on the stone above hers, which might mean there will be no more of us. I shall research these names and see if there might be another meaning.” The librarian lowered his lantern and turned back. “Have you written your solicitors about your mother’s finances?”

“You know I have not,” Max said in irritation. He’d wanted more excitement over his amazing discovery, not nagging and depressing tasks he couldn’t carry out. “I’d have to go into the city, and I am disinclined to do so.”

“Have Miss Wystan write for you. The matter is too critical to be ignored.” Evidently done with the tour, the librarian walked away.

Max uttered a few mental curses. He was supposed to let the beautiful secretary know the location of his secret ally? Any Malcolm worth her salt would tell his mother the instant she had a name.

Lydia had chewed her nail down to her thumb by the time Max finished his dinner and arrived in the parlor. Playing the role of taciturn, reclusive Mr. C was wearing on her honest nature. But she was quite certain the engineer would not have led a woman under the tower or shown her the magical archway.

Her name had been listed after Mr. C’s.

She would be a useless librarian—and apparently the last one if the stones were to be believed. Her incompetence could