Karigan waited as the professor crossed the long space between them, followed by Cade Harlowe, who grabbed a towel along the way to mop his face. Would she get any answers from them, including one to explain what this building was all about? Or would her “uncle” continue to play the mysterious professor and try to put her off. When they reached her, he was all smiles beneath his mustache, but Cade Harlowe’s expression was one of suspicion, which must, she thought, match her own.
“I told you she would come looking sooner or later, didn’t I, Cade?”
“Yes, Professor.” Cade’s tone was bland.
“And I would bet all my sweet, old auntie’s finest gems—she had seven husbands, you know—that our young lady is the one who caused the disarray in my office tonight.”
Karigan chose not to respond one way or the other.
“Well, I suppose it was not unexpected,” the professor said as if to himself.
She wondered if he meant the shambles of his office or her causing it.
The professor came back to himself, his gaze turning to one of concern. “I’d hazard you’ve had a tiring journey to find us, my dear. Shall we retire to someplace more comfortable?” He extended his arm.
Her leg was sore after all the stairs. Cade relieved her of her taper, and she took the professor’s arm. The professor walked slowly to accommodate her limp, and she was grateful to be able to lean on him.
“How do you like my little sanctuary?” he asked, waving his arm at their surroundings.
“It’s . . . it’s not little—it’s huge! What is this place?”
“It is what remains of the original Josston Mills complex, number four,” he replied. His smile faltered slightly. “Five floors of industry in this one building alone. This floor was once the spinning room.”
Karigan tried to imagine how many spinners and spinning wheels it would take to fill the place but found she couldn’t quite. The professor continued to smile down at her as if he guessed just what she was thinking. She shook her head.
“Nowadays, it is believed this building is but a shell I occasionally use for storage.”
“Is it?”
“I do use it for storage,” he replied, “though it is not precisely a shell.”
As they crossed the great length of the room, her wonder grew. The far end appeared to be an opulent sitting area and library with stout furniture upholstered in rich leather. The wood of furnishings and shelves was dark, burnished with brass fittings. An old Durnesian carpet covered the floor. It was not old in that it looked worn or faded, but that its dyed weavings were of a texture and deepened tint that suggested age. Only the most masterfully made Durnesian carpets aged so well. It also featured the “homestead pattern” that had belonged to a clan of the most revered of makers.
A chipped and hairlined marble sculpture of the god Aeryc cradling the crescent moon stood beside a handsome desk. At first she took the sculpture for granted because she was used to seeing such iconography in her own Sacoridia, but then it occurred to her she’d heard no reference to Aeryc or Aeryon or any other gods since her arrival in this time. She remembered Mornhavon the Black and his Arcosians had worshipped only one god and thought the Sacoridians heathens for supporting an entire pantheon.
As if one god could take care of an entire world’s needs, she thought with derision.
Did Mornhavon require his empire’s citizens to worship the one god, or did he allow them to choose? She couldn’t imagine he would allow choice in religion or in any other matter of importance.
She released the professor’s arm and limped to the shelves which rose from floor to ceiling, with a rolling ladder to reach the uppermost heights. Unlike the library in the house, she found some titles she recognized, such as Lint’s Wordage and The Journeys of Gilan Wylloland, the latter an old favorite of hers. She pulled down another book, The Sealender Legacy, and found the book largely charred. In fact most of the books she checked were damaged and had the look of age upon them. Unlike the carpet she stood on, they had not done well through time, though it looked like someone had taken care to clean and mend them as much as was feasible.
These were all Sacoridian titles, at least as far as she could see, including its history and fictional works. She even spotted several volumes of census reports. She turned around trying to take it all in—the extensive library of damaged books, the huge mill building, the Durnesian carpet, and a professor in formal evening attire.
“Ah,” Professor Josston said. “Here is Cade with some tea.”
The professor had allowed her time to try and absorb it all, but now Cade strode toward them bearing a silver tray service from the opposite corner where a small kitchen was set up with a stove, cupboards, and table. He’d since put on a white shirt and waistcoat, but he still wasn’t quite up to gentlemanly standards with his sleeves rolled up and his collarless shirt unbuttoned at his throat. He set the tray down on a low table and stepped back.
“Shall we sit?” the professor asked. He gestured at a chair and Karigan sat, glad to get off her leg.
“You, too, Cade.”
The younger man’s arms were folded across his chest, and he opened his mouth as if to protest, but the professor cut him off.
“Sit.”
Cade sat. He did not look very happy. He continued to look unhappy while the professor served tea and poppy seed muffins. Karigan thought it an odd time for tea, as she reckoned it must be past the midnight hour, but she welcomed it nonetheless. Tea made everything better.