shelves quickly obscured his line of sight, so it was impossible to actually gauge the dimensions of the room.
“Mr. Quinn’s office is through here.” Rath led the way through a door set behind the desk, which opened onto a hall that seemed to branch and intersect itself unnecessarily. They passed several closed doors and a staff room, where a woman who looked to be of Indian heritage sipped a cup of tea. Something about the layout of the corridor—corridors?—made Ves feel faintly dizzy, and by the time they reached the head librarian’s office, he’d lost all sense of direction.
For the first time, he wondered if the task set him by Fagerlie wasn’t as easy as he’d assumed it would be.
Rath knocked lightly on the heavy oak door set with a brass plaque that read Mr. X. Quinn, Head Librarian. Rath stuck his head inside. “Mr. Rune is here for the interview, sir.”
“Send him in,” said a deep, hollow voice.
Rath ushered Ves inside, then shut the door as he departed. A large desk dominated the room, its wooden panels inlaid with swirling patterns that drew the eye. The man seated behind it looked more like a funeral director than a librarian. He dressed in a dark suit, his black hair slicked back from a high forehead. Gray streaked his temples, matching his strange, silvery eyes. His skin was so pale that the overall effect was that of a movie actor stepped from the screen, three-dimensional and speaking, yet still rendered in black and white.
Mr. Quinn gestured with one hand to the chair across from him. “Do have a seat, Mr. Rune.”
The leather creaked under Ves as he sat. Something about the windowless room made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Shadows seemed to gather more thickly than they should in the corners, deadening sound as well as sight. A human skull, weathered by the elements, perched at the corner of the desk, staring at Ves with empty sockets. On the wall behind Mr. Quinn, a glass case displayed what appeared to be a heavy dictionary, its cover battered and stained with what looked disconcertingly like blood.
Quinn touched one spidery hand to a stack of paper in front of him. Ves recognized the top sheet as the cover letter he’d typed up when applying for the position. “Vesper Rune,” Quinn mused. “Lately of Boston. My sister and nieces live there. Tell me, Mr. Rune, were you born in Boston?”
The question had nothing to do with the position on offer. For a moment, Ves considered lying—but sticking as close as possible to the truth meant fewer chances to make a mistake. “I’m from Dunhollow originally. It’s in the northern part of the state, off the Aylesbury pike. A tiny place; most people have never heard of it.”
“And what did you do after leaving Dunhollow, Mr. Rune?”
Took his brother and ran. Hid. Waited for the end of the world, and when that didn’t come, began his search for some way to break the curse. “I sought out a post in the rare book trade. My grandfather was both bibliophile and antiquarian, and though he seldom traveled, he had correspondents all over the world. Often the books they would send him were in deplorable shape. He taught me how to repair torn pages, remove dirt and stains, and rebind volumes as needed.”
“The rare book trade.” Venom dripped from Mr. Quinn’s voice. “I suppose removing library marks was part of your job, once you arrived in Boston?”
Ves winced internally. A great deal of the rare book trade was fueled by theft from libraries, and the public institutions of Massachusetts had been particularly devastated over the years. Dealers looked down upon librarians for “hoarding” books, which they felt should rightfully be sold from one rich man to the next, rather than remaining within a single institution. Librarians, of course, had their own opinions concerning the thieves.
“No sir,” Ves replied carefully. “My understanding is that’s usually handled by the thieves themselves. But I never knowingly worked with a book I believed to have been stolen, and as soon as I had the opportunity to take a position at the Boston Public Library, I did so.” He reached for his bag. “I’ve brought letters of recommendation both from my previous employers, and from Mr. Edward Fagerlie, for whom I did private work.”
Mr. Quinn accepted the letters, his strange eyes scanning them swiftly. If he blinked even once the entire time, Ves didn’t see it. “Impressive,” he