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

Unfortunately, they’d never spoken louder than a vague whistling breeze.

On the ground floor of the tower was the librarian’s private study. Dark paneled walls, a fading woven carpet, and a soot-blackened fireplace spoke of recent male occupancy. The oak desk had probably been made from wood cut from the estate in medieval times. But she wasn’t a small woman, and the chair suited her comfortably as she settled into the familiar seat. Their guest wouldn’t find her here.

The Malcolm librarian’s purpose was to answer questions from the extended family about their often odd and not necessarily controllable gifts. Lydia had spent these past six years memorizing tomes applicable to the people who wrote to Mr. C. As far as she could ascertain, there was no journal advising how to bring home a straying son. All she could do was gather Lady Agnes’ letters and pleas and place them in a folder for Mr. Ives to see.

When she heard Lloyd in the outer office, she slipped through the hidden door as herself. She could never fool the manservant into believing she was Mr. C.

Explaining about their visitor, she handed him the folder of letters and asked him to take it to Mr. Ives. If those letters didn’t sway their guest, she might just have to resort to writing Lady Agnes directly. Mr. C would not be happy if she violated his privacy—Mr. Ives, even less so.

Duty done, Lydia returned to her search of the library for any clue as to how the next librarian might be chosen—and who would inherit the castle. The physician had said Mr. C’s days were numbered. She was doing her best to suppress panic and sorrow, but with no book catalog and no librarian gift for hearing the pages speak, her task seemed futile.

Max had learned to sleep lightly. He was on his feet before the servant knocked. Still in his dirty clothes, he opened the door, and a servant handed him a folder—a male servant, thank all that was holy.

“Thank you, my good man. Might I trouble you for a pitcher of hot water? Or could you direct me to the kitchen so I might fetch it myself?” Max set aside the folder and watched the other man’s reaction to his request. It was always good in a strange place to learn the inhabitants first.

His visitor stood a good foot smaller than Max. Slender, thinning gray hair, soft hands. . . probably an assistant or valet or both. He didn’t wear livery, and his coat was shiny with age. Mr. Cadwallader might own a castle, but he wasn’t wealthy.

“There’s a bath at the end of the hall,” the servant informed him stiffly. “I’ll turn on the hot water and give it time to heat.”

“A hot bath! You have no idea how long it’s been since I’ve had the luxury. Ship travel leaves much to be desired. If you would be so good as to set the water heating, I’ll be forever grateful.” He handed the servant a coin, which produced a small—a very small—smile.

Max traveled lightly. His trunks were stored at the dock in Leith. But he had a clean shirt and drawers in his pack, and he could steam the wrinkles from his coat and trousers. If he couldn’t persuade the librarian to his way of thinking, he’d be on his way before dinner.

Recognizing his mother’s fancy stationery, he closed the folder.

It made sense that a cantankerous old bachelor would mostly have male servants. Max could relax a bit here, as he could not in his mother’s home of husband-hunting maidens.

By the time he had scrubbed and shaved and felt almost human again, he had half a plan to persuade the old coot to agree to Max’s choices.

Finding his host was another matter entirely.

He wandered the halls with no servants to guide him. The dust-covered parlor obviously wasn’t the place to locate anyone. The scent of bacon drew him to a small breakfast chamber where a slight repast awaited—boiled eggs, cold toast, beans, and crisp, cold bacon was better fare than he’d had lately. He liked company with his meals, but no one made an appearance.

No one came to clear his place. Out of curiosity and a bit of spite for being thus abandoned, he carried his utensils through the nearly-hidden servants’ door and downstairs to the kitchen. Camping in the outposts of nowhere had taught him self-sufficiency.

Only the old crone he’d seen earlier occupied the echoing stone hall. She glanced up without curiosity and nodded at a pot-filled basin.

“Where might I find Mr. Cadwallader?” he asked. At least here, he could expect the natives to speak some form of English.

The woman shrugged. Had she not understood? Or meant she didn’t know?

Had he fallen down a rabbit hole? Would he meet a dormouse? Perhaps Mr. Carroll was holed up inside these walls somewhere, writing of weird wonders. Max had enjoyed the bursar’s reading of the new novel on the long sail over here.

Wondering where to find a White Rabbit, Max returned upstairs to explore. Using the architectural changes he could discern in the walls, he decided the breakfast room and parlor had been carved from the original great hall. A magnificent medieval double helix staircase in the center of the great hall led the way to extensive apartments above. Judging by the dustcovers, none seemed occupied.

Returning downstairs, Max went outside and located the door he’d entered that morning. It had probably once led to a now empty stable. How did the librarian get about?

He was almost diverted by a door he thought might lead to the tower’s cellars—or dungeons. The foundation definitely had a tilt, but it wasn’t his job, he reminded himself. He might have a gift for solving engineering problems, but he couldn’t fix the world.

Max studied the tower from the outside. Heavy draperies covered one set of windows. The panes were open on another set at the top. Traveling around the circumference, he located windows with gauzy curtains blowing outward.

Before he could