Unhallowed (Rath and Rune #1) - Jordan L. Hawk Page 0,38
morning, having slept poorly—for the short instances he’d actually been able to sleep. Halley’s Comet blazed in the east, and he spotted more than one person with a telescope on their lawn or roof, observing its passage. The first newsboys passed him on bicycles piled high with their wares, and on a whim, he stopped at a corner and bought a paper.
As had become usual, news of the comet filled substantial inches of column space. An astronomer in Arizona repeated assurances that, despite what Monsieur Flammarion claimed, the cyanogen gas in the comet’s tail would be too tiny an amount to harm anything when the earth passed through it.
Apparently, not everyone believed him. According to several articles, religious fervor had taken hold across the country, and church services ran continuously day and night in towns from Virginia to Texas. Workers quit their jobs to join revivals, praying for forgiveness and salvation now that the end of days were upon them.
Ves didn’t know about any actual prophecies saying the comet would bring on the end of the world—but then, why would anyone have bothered with them, since the worst was meant to have already happened?
It would be a night for potent magic, though. At his guess, any number of cults were already making preparations for calling up whatever might serve their purposes.
Would anyone dance on Caprine Hill Wednesday night? Would fires burn amidst the stones, calling the Black Goat of the Wood forth to spawn yet more of its thousand young?
Once at the museum, Ves took advantage of his early arrival to work on his map of the library. When eight o’clock came around, he retired to the bindery and attacked the backlog of periodicals that needed to be bound together. He carefully cut each installment in a volume free of its original binding, then used a sponge soaked in water to remove any remaining traces of glue. After assembling a volume, he placed it in the book press and began work on the cover.
His mind wandered as his hands worked. Before they’d parted the night before, Sebastian had said something about updating Mr. Quinn as to their inquiry into O’Neil and the missing book. With the head librarian’s permission, he’d fetch Ves shortly after lunch, which was one of the reasons he had come in early. Technically it didn’t matter if he did his job well, since he’d be long gone by the time his trial period ended. But it was a point of pride; if he was to set his hands to the task, then he wanted it done correctly, and as completely as possible.
Shortly before lunch, he put everything in order. His coffee had gone cold while he worked, so he made for the staff room to refresh it.
Two men already sat there; they fell silent when he entered. “You’re our new binder and conservator, isn’t that right?” one of them asked.
He nodded. “Vesper Rune.”
The man smiled broadly. “I’m Arthur Fairchild, and this is Mortimer Waite. Please, call me Arthur.”
“And you may call me Mr. Waite,” said the other. His suit was new, without a trace of wear on it, and small rubies studded his cufflinks. Most librarians Vesper had met were anything but wealthy, but Mr. Waite and Miss Endicott both seemed to come from money. What on earth were either of them doing working here?
“Don’t be rude, Mortimer,” Arthur chided. “We’re all librarians together, aren’t we?”
“Mr. Rune is an outsider,” Waite said disapprovingly.
“So is Miss Endicott, and yet you’re engaged to be married,” Arthur replied.
Waite merely shrugged.
Whatever workplace maneuvering these two sought to engage him in, Ves wanted none of it. He poured fresh coffee and retreated to the bindery, closing the door firmly behind him.
A breeze ruffled one of the journals waiting to be bound. The newspaper he’d bought on the way in blew off the desk, scattering onto the floor.
Ves froze, every muscle tense, the skin along his spine aching. All around him, whispers gathered, echoing from one section of the room, then the other.
“Binder…get out…leave or die…”
The hair on his neck prickled, and he put down his cup. Straightening, he paced around the bindery, listening. But the whispers seemed to come first from one direction, then another.
“What are you?” he challenged. As a youth, he’d heard voices from the wood and the hill on certain days—but those were known, expected. The things they had belonged to didn’t haunt buildings. “Are you some creature of the Outside? Some ghost or spirit?”