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

be the end of the library! If Mr. C lived a lot longer than the doctor said—perhaps she might memorize locations and hope someday to be useful.

That might only take a century or two.

The library may have been built centuries ago! It was amazing understanding the age of the walls supporting what had seemed like a perfectly ordinary library. It was hard to imagine the generations of librarians carved into those stones. Might they go back to the first century or even earlier? Did they even have books then?

Perhaps she was meant to find a new library and librarian! That was an immense feat but not as impossible as using gifts she didn’t possess.

Lydia eyed Max warily as he entered the dim parlor. He hadn’t brought much luggage, and his day’s endeavors had left his only suit a disgrace. He didn’t seem to mind as he considered the stack of neatly typed papers on the table in front of her.

“That’s my journal?”

“It is. I had to retype. I made too many errors. I’ve decided it is more economical if I attempt notes with a pen, then type them later.” She picked up her pad of paper and a pen, ready to take down the rest of his tale.

When he merely paced the far side of the parlor, she spurred his memory. “You were saying that you left school to take sail with a ship of engineers on their way to India.”

“And they taught me more in a year than I ever learned at school.” He made a dismissive gesture and studied a soot-blackened painting on the wall. “I think I should have some of your story.”

“I keep a journal. It will go in the library and be available to the next librarian and to everyone upon my death. There is extremely little in it. I have what Lady Phoebe is calling a rare photographic memory. I can remember any written page I see. It’s not a particularly exciting gift, but it’s useful in a library. That’s all there is to know about me. Whereas, you’ve traveled the world and seen and done things I can never hope to.”

“Huh, photographic memory.” He turned to study her but kept his distance. “Your mind is a printed page I couldn’t read even if I could read minds. Interesting. I wish I had my mother’s knack for reading thoughts, but I just do equations in my head.”

“I suspect your mother has an intuitive ability to read faces and gestures like any good fortune teller, although she does possess a fair bit of prescience about family members, perhaps through a spiritual connection. It’s just difficult to sort out what she knows and what she guesses based on what she knows. If your equations are proved accurate, then you have real evidence of your abilities. That’s important.” Lydia made a note in the shorthand she’d developed for taking Mr. C’s wandering dissertations, back when he answered his own correspondence. “Where did you go after India?”

“Home,” he said curtly. “My father died when I was eighteen, and I sailed home. He’d always counted on me to take over his business and investments. He knew I could do mathematics in my head. He wouldn’t accept that I couldn’t read contracts. So I went home, prepared to honor his wishes and do my duty.”

Lydia could hear the disaster in his voice. “You could hire people to read contracts for you,” she suggested.

He paced to the back of the enormous parlor—far away from her, she noted. It was a good thing she had excellent hearing, and the acoustics in here were perfect.

“My uncle and cousin can read contracts just fine. They simply needed my signature. But I was eighteen years old. I not only knew nothing of business or society, but I’d spent three years on ships, in the company of men. I was dazzled by the discovery of women. Boys that age aren’t capable of thinking about the future, just what’s in their—” He stopped and Lydia wondered what crude word he might have said had she been Mr. C.

He continued with irritation. “I was frustrated that I couldn’t do what was expected of me and willing to be distracted by the ladies who knew I was heir to a fortune. And I do not think it is proper to explain what happened next.” He swung to face her from a distance. “May we skip to the part where I sail away, never to return?”

“It’s your journal.” She looked up from her notes. “But it seems you’re telling me that you have a talent for engineering but a gift with women. Don’t you think it might be best if you let any other men with your gift know how you deal with it?”

He rubbed his big hand over his big nose but his grimace was still evident. “At that age, very badly. The only lesson there is in what not to do.”

“Then approach it from that direction,” she advised.

“Don’t believe innocent-looking females aren’t harpies. Don’t believe they won’t dig their hooks in any way they can, then fight over which one claimed you first. Don’t believe taking your own rooms and a mistress will remove you from the cat fight. Is any of this of value?” he asked in disgust.

Lydia stared at him, her notes forgotten. “You are blaming all your problems on women?”

He threw up his hands. “No, I’m blaming them on me. I went to a boy’s boarding school, remember? I knew nothing about women. I barely even knew my own mother. And all of a sudden I was surrounded by frilly young things who flirted and teased and made me feel like a giant among men. They offered walks in the garden and kisses, then expected proposals. I didn’t know that. I just kissed them because it was fun. And because I badly wanted what they seemed to be offering. I told you this wasn’t a suitable topic.”

Lydia tried very hard to see this big, confident