Winter Tide Read online

  “Here,” said Dawson softly. A spiral staircase led to further levels. The iron shook beneath us as we followed her up. We passed a second floor, where wooden doors studded the walls on all sides, and came out in the shadows of the third and final of the library’s most forbidden rooms.

  Here, at last, we found our books. Along one whole side of the level, the shelf notations read simply “Innsmouth Collection.” I stopped in the middle of the floor.

  Audrey touched my elbow. “Aphra?”

  My eyes felt tight in their sockets. “I’ll be all right.” Caleb was already among the shelves, and I forced myself to move.

  Had the books been in my charge, I’d have organized them by family and household, by books for home or temple, books for teaching and meditation and cooking. This last they’d made a start on: they’d segregated the clearly Aeonist texts from books that could be found in any town, and relegated the journals to the far side of the farthest bookcase. But within that first category, either they had only the vaguest understanding of each volume’s contents, or interpreted them through some filter I couldn’t begin to comprehend. They had managed to sort by title: copies of the Book of Eibon clustered nearest the dumbwaiter, probably the reason we’d gotten three the first day.

  When I looked closer, I saw that they’d placed markers in front of the books we’d requested. I frowned. It made sense, but felt deeply intrusive. Did they seek some pattern in our requests that would reveal the books’ secrets—or ours? Then again, given the collection’s poor organization, it might simply ensure that they could return each book to its assigned spot.

  Would they notice if I took one out to look at? Some of the shelves were very dusty. Even the breeze of our passage might leave trails. The journals, though, should already be well-disturbed by our recent requests, and by the librarian’s willingness to bring whole stacks to the reading room.

  As hoped, I found the journals disordered and the dust around them thoroughly smeared. Caleb stood at the aisle’s end, sharing one of Chulzh’th’s volumes with Audrey and Dawson. Audrey kept her voice low, but I could hear the suppressed energy as she described our elders to—Deedee, should I call her now? We’d ridden each other’s blood, but the remaining barriers between us were hers to preserve or remove.

  I checked notebooks carefully, but quickly. I hungered for well-known names, or familiar handwriting. Some of the books, yellow and pungent with age, bore dates from the 1600s and earlier. Sections in English were barely comprehensible; in Enochian and R’lyehn the dialect had barely altered. I found Marshes and Eliots, Waites and Gilmans, along with the more diverse names of the smaller and poorer families—but no one closer than a distant cousin.

  And then—in one of the common five-and-dime notebooks, familiar handwriting indeed. My own, my childhood scrawl. I clasped the book against me, afraid to look, then did so anyway. The first entries were from 1923; I’d been seven. My script was still shaky, wavered above and below lines as it complained of Caleb’s infant irritations and exulted over classroom triumphs and favored desserts. My spelling was excellent. I wanted to curl around myself or cry; I did neither, though my whole body felt taut with the distance between myself and myself.

  Surely one’s childhood concerns must be hard to encounter decades later, regardless of the life fallen between. Must invoke yearning and repulsion inextricably mixed.

  Caleb saw me standing motionless. “What did you find?”

  “My diary,” I said. Then added, knowing the absurdity: “It’s private, no brothers allowed.”

  He snorted, but sobered quickly. “I’d just started my first. When the raid came.”

  “I remember.” Caleb was a Hallows child, born while the last brown leaves clung to their branches. As tradition bade, he’d received a fine new journal and pen for his sixth birthday. I remembered him holding them proudly, sitting poised with nib above paper for minutes on end as he considered what words might be worthy. I looked again at the shelf, but didn’t see that small leather-bound volume, nor any others of mine, near the empty spot I’d made.

  Dawson tapped her watch. “I’m sorry, but the longer we stay, the more risk of being caught. Let’s do a quick scan for any unusual security, and then get out of here.”

  I hesitated over the diary. Wasn’t it mine? And the journals were so obviously untracked, uncatalogued. But Dawson shook her head, and Audrey said, “It’s not just the risk of them noticing it missing; someone might find it in your room. We’ll come back for everything.” She took a last look around, eyes wide and bright, as I reluctantly returned my younger self to her place on the dusty shelf.

  The building felt no less alive, no less malignant, as we made our way out. I heard it breathe around me, every creaking pipe a sign of pursuit and discovery.

  These convictions may have been simple fatigue—for we were well out of the building and a couple hundred yards down the path when the alarm went off.

  It shrieked through the night: an old foghorn of a siren, intended to waken and summon all possible aid within a vast reach. I froze, but when no blades materialized in the first second, I began sprinting.

  Behind me, other footsteps. Then Caleb, shouting under the clangor: “Vhr’ch! Cru Phlyr ich nafhgrich yp! Aphra, cru linghn yzhuv th’rtil!”

  The reminder of the others’ vulnerability broke through my panicked flight. I stopped, and turned to wait. Audrey gestured that I should return, and reluctantly I did so.

  “Innocent people will be running toward the alarm,” she hissed.

  “Oh. Oh.” It was obvious once she said it. She ran her hands through her hair, took out bobby pins, mussed locks too obviously un-slept-in.

  We hung back from the path, not wanting to be the first spectators. But soon enough, students and faculty arrived bearing flashlights or stumbling on the darkened walks. Many wore coats hastily thrown over nightshirts, but others were still dressed, especially as the crowd expanded. We joined in, but did not push to the front.

  A police car braked hard on the nearest street, its own siren masked by the library’s. The whirling red and blue lights made me turn away abruptly; the constant noise already sent spears of pain through my ears. When I forced my head up I saw that the police had been joined by a university guard and two people I suspected were librarians. A taller man arrived, white-haired and gaunt and angry. Two policemen and a librarian went in through the front door, and a couple of minutes later the alarm silenced its wailing. I nearly fell to my knees in gratitude, though the police car still cried over the chaotic babble of the crowd.

  George Barlow and three of his men strode toward the other investigators. They moved with grim dignity, but their faces were flushed and their breath hit the air in quick puffs of steam.

  The police car raised its voice once more, then wound down into silence. Barlow spoke, voice pitched to carry. “We need to ask all of you to remain here for a few minutes. We want to hear about anything you may have seen—once we’ve spoken with you, you can get back to your warm beds.” Both police and guard looked irritated but didn’t gainsay his assertion of control. The gaunt man announced officiously that everyone ought to wait and remain calm, and Dawson identified him as the college president.

  “Miss Marsh!” Spector’s voice from behind, out of breath. He came around and nodded to the others. Charlie hobbled after. “Did you see anything?”

  “No one but this crowd,” said Dawson. “And I didn’t hear anything over the alarm.” Audrey nodded agreement. Charlie kept his face impassive.

  Peters went inside, and Barlow and the others spread out to begin their interrogation. I fretted silently—invisibly, I hoped—over footprints and fingerprints, a door left unlatched, a brilliant Holmesian sleuth concealed among their team. Students and faculty murmured to each other: some excited, others cold and irritable, few noticeably worried. I focused, trying to stay calm. My blood is a tide.

  Barlow made us wait just long enough to prove he could. He smiled easily. “Ron. I
see you’ve been adding to your irregulars.”

  Before Spector could respond, Audrey offered a dazzling smile and held out her hand. “Audrey Winslow—I’m delighted to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  He took her hand and started to bend over it before settling on a businesslike shake. “George Barlow. Charmed, of course.” He released her hand, slightly belatedly. “I’m certain Ron’s picked out an observant team. I hope you caught something useful?”

  Audrey shook her head, managing a blush and a rueful duck of her head. “We only saw the people in the crowd, and the alarm made it impossible to hear anything. I’m afraid we can’t tell you anything helpful.”

  “That’s a shame. How quickly did you get here?”

  “Before we heard the alarm, we were up late talking at Professor Trumbull’s place. We didn’t have much getting ready to do, but when we arrived there was nothing to see.”

  “Hm. And the rest of you?” Barlow tinted his voice with the faintest trace of doubt. We shook our heads dumbly. “Ah, well. One can’t expect everything, I suppose.”

  “It’s a large library,” suggested Spector. “Whatever—whoever set off the alarm might still be inside. Best if we work together on the search.”

  Barlow made a show of considering it. “No, I think we’d better handle this one ourselves. But do let me know if you—or your ladies—notice anything that might be relevant. Why don’t you get back to your beds; it’s a cold night.” He tipped his hat. “Good night, Miss Winslow. A pleasure to meet you.”

  Spector started after the other agent, his face a mask of control. Audrey put a hand on his elbow. “Wait. Is he likely to listen to anything you have to say right now?” Spector shook his head. “Can he make more trouble than he has?”

  “She’s right, sir,” said Dawson. She kept her gaze low. “It might be better to take this somewhere a bit less chilly.”

  “No,” said Spector. “I want to know if they find anything.”

  “You think they’ll tell us?” she asked.

  “This is my assignment, damn it. I was first on campus; they can’t just run around me. Excuse my language, I’m sorry.”

  I waved off the apology, but said, “Actually, Miss Dawson was the first of your people here. And they don’t seem inclined to keep her informed.”

  Spector worked his mouth around a grimace, but then sighed. “So she was. My apologies. Still. One of us might overhear something.”

  Exhaustion weighed on my eyelids. Afraid to remain and be accused of thievery to my face, afraid to leave and be accused in absentia, I stayed, as did the others. The rest of the audience began to disperse as they were questioned and released. A few still lingered, though not enough for us to hide among—not that we were well-camouflaged in any case.

  After what seemed an aeon, but was in fact barely a half hour, Peters emerged from the building. He spoke with the librarians, who responded with quiet urgency. My ears still ringing from the alarms, I couldn’t make out their words until one librarian raised his voice abruptly: “You certainly may not!” Then more low voices.

  Barlow turned to the remaining stragglers. “You’re all free to go. We’ll be investigating more extensively in the morning, and the library will be closed until further notice.”

  The college president stalked up to him, a righteous scarecrow. “What’s the meaning of this? How dare you make such decisions on my campus, disrupting my students’ studies? Their parents will demand an explanation—I demand an explanation!”

  Barlow held up a hand and gave a placating smile. “Sir—” His voice dropped, intimate, and I wished desperately for my ears to regain their usual sensitivity. Audrey frowned slightly, then masked the frown with a worried smile. She approached Barlow and the president, a subtle rhythm in her walk drawing the eye. She leaned in, pupils wide, to ask a question. Both men turned to her, and Barlow patted her sleeve and said something apparently intended to be reassuring. She said something more, wrapped her arms around herself, looked small and worried. Barlow spoke further, and her body language loosened. She gave him a grateful smile, ducked her head.

  “It’ll look better if we retreat a bit now,” whispered Dawson. We followed her down the path, back toward the faculty row. Out of sight of the library lawn, we stopped to wait. Dawson shook her head. “You’re going to hire that girl, aren’t you?” she asked Spector.

  “I might have to.”

  A few minutes later Audrey appeared. On seeing us she produced a more genuine smile. “His brain just turns right off,” she said, miming a silent snap of her fingers. We began walking again. “You, now,” she nodded at Spector, “if I wanted you to tell me something, I don’t know what I’d do. Your brain is always going, even when you’re talking to a girl.”

  “Thank you. I think. Did you learn anything?”

  “Oh yes, he was at great pains to reassure me that he had it all under control. He says that someone has stolen books—wouldn’t say which ones, but implied they were worrisome choices—and that the case for the Necronomicon was damaged. That’s what set off the alarm.”

  I tried to match her nonchalant attitude, but my own brain kicked into high gear as I processed this information. Had another intruder been in the library at the same time we were? Or had Barlow’s people somehow engineered the alarm as an excuse to go where the librarians had forbidden?

  As Audrey had said, little could induce Spector to be a fool. “That’s very interesting. I’m not going to ask why Mr. Day was so distraught when the alarm went off, but if you did see anything, I’d be obliged if you’d get that information to—someone—who might be able to make use of it. Not necessarily Barlow and his self-appointed investigators.”

  “I’m afraid we really haven’t,” said Audrey firmly.

  I added, finding something I could say without confessional implications: “And I don’t know why someone would go after the school’s Necronomicon—the one they’ve a right to, I mean—when there are dozens among the Innsmouth books. They can’t have all those so thoroughly locked up, can they?”

  “That’s true,” said Dawson. “But their original copy has a special reputation among the faculty and students. The Innsmouth collection is less well-known.”

  We talked further as we approached the dorms, but we were exhausted, and the conversation turned in circles and skittered into useless corners. So we didn’t tarry when the time came to separate out by sex. With Spector as witness, Dawson and Caleb’s parting was friendly but impersonal.

  Dawson peeled away as we neared the faculty row. A few lights still burned in Dean Skinner’s house. I gazed after her a long moment before turning toward Trumbull’s place.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I told Audrey.

  A tight frown and a glare passed over her face, swiftly replaced by a more thoughtful look. “It’s power. Like magic—however much weaker it may be than what the really powerful people have, I’m not going to turn it down.” She glanced over her shoulder at Skinner’s house. “I’m lucky. Simpering for a few minutes is a small sacrifice. Haven’t you ever…?”

  I shook my head. “Men don’t think of me that way—men of the air, I mean. I’m an ugly woman to be ignored, or a monster to be feared.” I recalled Jesse’s hand on my cheek. But I suspected he merely had a different opinion of monsters.

  “That has its own uses.”

  “I know. I’ve used it.” And would again, doubtless, before our time in Arkham was up.

  CHAPTER 21

  I slept late, only drowsily aware of Neko’s rising as I rolled into the patch of wan sunlight she’d vacated among the sheets. Hours later, I woke to the sound of shouting. I lay still, trying to determine whether it presaged some invasion. All I could pick out was Trumbull’s voice, furious, and Neko’s, placating.

  Beside me, Audrey sat up and rubbed her ears. “What the hell?”

  “Trumbull’s angry.” Likely about something related to our adventure of the previous night—and therefore so
mething I ought to know, even if I’d rather slink back under the covers.

  I threw on skirt and blouse, padded into the hall in stocking feet.

  Trumbull rounded on us as we came into the dining room. “You were out when the alarm started. What do you know? What are these illiterate morons doing to my campus? The library is locked and guarded, and there were government agents waiting outside my classroom asking pointless questions!”

  I held up my hands. “What did they ask you?”

  “Whether there were books I’d been forbidden in the library. Where I was at 3 a.m. I was here, sleeping, until their alarm went off. It wasn’t just me, either—they’re keeping all the faculty from their work, and I had twelve students late for the same reason. This place is supposed to be secure, not overrun with ignorant, monosyllabic savages. I can’t work like this! I repeat: what do you know?”

  Trumbull angry was only a little more alarming than Trumbull at any ordinary moment. Still, I caught my breath. I put up a hand to halt whatever story Audrey might tell; for all that we feared her interference, Trumbull was one of the few people who might do something useful with the truth. “We did go to the library last night, but we stole nothing. We only wanted to see our own books—how large the collection really was, where it was stored. We went in, we looked, and we left. Then when we were well outside, the alarms started. Now Barlow and his thugs claim books are missing and cases broken.” I glanced at Neko, to whom this was also new. She nodded, considering. “I think they set off the alarms themselves, to get access to the restricted books. And perhaps to keep them from us.”

  “They wouldn’t let Spector help them search,” added Audrey.