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

Not one flapping eyelash or flirtatious smile. Miss Wystan was all business.

A single red-blond curl dangled at her elegant nape. The bit of lace about her throat clung to the enticing curves of her bodice. Max almost lost track of the question, except the nagging familiarity of her voice held his attention.

When she waited with her fingers posed on the keys, he jerked himself back to the moment. “Buy whatever paper you need for a year, and I’ll pay for it. I should offer you a salary as well. This is beyond the bounds of hospitality.”

“Mr. C pays me well,” she said stiffly. “But the paper will be welcome. The household budget is not large.”

“He pays people before things, admirable. I am not often at a loss for words, Miss Wystan, but I find myself in a quandary. I’m not at all certain my tale is suitable for feminine ears.”

Returning her hands to her lap, she met his gaze frankly. “The Malcolm library was once an exclusive realm of women. Generations of Malcolms tracked their gifted relations and stored their private journals to help the next generation. Men referred to the journals as spell books and witchcraft—until over a century ago, when Malcolms began marrying Ives.”

“And producing gifted males, I understand.” Enjoying the sound of her voice, even her disapproval, Max wandered the room, studying the curiosities. “How many Ives journals have you accumulated?”

“Not many,” she admitted honestly. “Men refuse to believe their gifts are unusual. Ives men, in particular, are more interested in building and destroying than in paperwork. As a man, Mr. C is better able to make demands of the Ives gentlemen. He’s added an excellent collection of more recent volumes. They have been quite invaluable. I do not find them in the least shocking. I believe the transcript I read to you this afternoon came from a Malcolm/Ives descendant.”

Her face became animated as she spoke. Max sipped his whisky and allowed her melodic contralto to flow over him. He avoided genteel ladies for excellent reasons, but this one had almost a hypnotic effect.

“If I am to trust you with my deepest, darkest secrets, Miss Wystan—”

“Lydia,” she insisted. “Isolated as we are, it is easier to behave as family. As we are,” she added hastily. “At some point, we all have Malcolm ancestry.”

Max nodded agreement. “Then I am Max. As I was saying, Lydia, I’d like to hear your deepest darkest secrets in return for mine. After all, if we are all family. . .”

She frowned. “I have no secrets. You will be very disappointed in my life story.”

“On the contrary, my dear Lydia, your name is etched on the ancient stones beneath the tower. I’d say the reason for that is a fascinating secret.”

Four

Lydia didn’t know how she’d survived the evening after the astonishing revelation about her name on the tower foundation.

Sitting at her office desk the next morning, writing the supply list to be ordered, she could scarcely concentrate.

Her name was on the foundation?

She thought Max couldn’t read. How had he read her name? On a place where no one ever went. Surely, he was mistaken. She should have questioned him then, but she’d been too befuddled, and had let him control the conversation. She had little experience in controlling anything.

After posting her order for supplies—Marta’s uncle picked up and delivered the mail—Lydia took the stairs up to Mr. C’s chamber. She hated making him walk the stairs. She hated that she couldn’t locate the volumes as he did. Books had always called to her, any kind of book. She read indiscriminately. That didn’t make her a librarian with a catalog in her head.

She was nothing more than a clerk or secretary. If she believed Mr. Ives about the writing, could she be more? Nervously, she preferred thinking he was teasing her. Surely he wouldn’t outright lie, would he? Or perhaps there had been a Lydia Wystan in the past who had carved her name into stone.

Mr. C was sitting in his chair, waiting for her. He held his book closely in his good arm. His hand wasn’t firm but his left arm was. The feeble one rested on the chair arm, unmoving.

“Mr. Ives is investigating our tilting foundation,” Lydia told him. “In return, I am to transcribe his journal. I believe he’s censoring his narrative because I am female.”

The librarian’s distorted lips turned up at one side, and he nodded agreement.

“Is there no way you can tell me who inherits the library? Whoever it is really should be learning the books. They could start by helping Mr. Ives find volumes on the tower’s construction. There ought be a whole school of scholars cataloging against a time when there is no librarian. Malcolm gifts are never guaranteed.” Lydia hid her desperation with scolding.

Mr. C wrinkled his nose in disagreement. She’d spent months learning these tiny signals. She simply didn’t know which point he disagreed with.

He tapped his book as he always did when she brought up the library.

“But I cannot read your words until you’re gone, and I could be gone by then,” she protested. “I cannot read the journals with my mind as you can. I have tried and tried, but there is nothing except vague whispers.”

Lydia liked to believe she was akin to a sturdy piece of furniture, always there, always useful, with no concern for human drama. But Mr. C’s disability frustrated her even more than it frustrated him some days.

Mr. C slumped unhappily in his chair, unable to argue. It was unfair of her to expect more.

“I think I will investigate to see if the tower really needs work,” she decided. “I’m not entirely certain Mr. Ives can be trusted. Anyone who hides from his own mother—well, I cannot approve.”

When Mr. C did no more than let his chin fall to his chest as if he wished to sleep, she stomped back to her small room where she’d returned her cloak. It was a bit warm for a summer’s day, but the