But he was still the man I loved.
Matthew took me by the shoulders and waited until I met his eyes. “Be safe.”
His words were emphatic, and I felt the force of them. He cupped my face in his hands, searching every inch as though trying to memorize it.
“I meant what I said on Christmas Day. The family will survive if I don’t come back. There are others who can serve as its head. But you are its heart.”
I opened my mouth to protest, and Matthew pressed his fingers against my lips, staying my words.
“There is no point in arguing with me. I know this from experience,” he said. “Before you I was nothing but dust and shadows. You brought me to life. And I will do whatever it takes to keep my heart safe from further harm.”
The tenth house of the zodiack is Capricorn. It signifieth mothers, grandmothers, and ancestors of the female sex. It is the sign of resurrection and rebirth. In this month, plant seedes for the future.
34
Andrew Hubbard and Linda Crosby were waiting for us at the Old Lodge. In spite of my efforts to persuade my aunt to stay at Les Revenants, she insisted on coming with Fernando and me.
“You’re not doing this alone, Diana,” Sarah said in a tone that didn’t invite argument. “I don’t care that you’re a weaver or that you have Corra for help. Magic on this scale requires three witches. And not just any witches. You need spell casters.”
Linda Crosby turned up with the official London grimoire—an ancient tome that smelled darkly of belladonna and wolfsbane. We exchanged hellos while Fernando caught Andrew up on how Jack and Lobero were faring.
“Are you sure you want to get involved with this?” I asked Linda.
“Absolutely. The London coven hasn’t been involved in anything half so exciting since we were called in to help foil the 1971 attempt to steal the crown jewels.” Linda rubbed her hands together.
Andrew had, through his contacts with the London underworld of gravediggers, tube engineers, and pipe fitters, obtained detailed schematics of the warren of tunnels and shelving that constituted the book-storage facilities for the Bodleian Library. He unrolled these on the long refectory table in the great hall.
“There are no students or library staff on site at the moment because of the Christmas holiday,”
Andrew said. “But there are builders everywhere.” He pointed to the schematics. “They’re converting the former underground book storage into work space for readers.”
“First they moved the rare books to the Radcliffe Science Library and now this.” I peered at the maps. “When do the work crews finish for the day?”
“They don’t,” Andrew said. “They’ve been working around the clock to minimize disruptions during the academic term.”
“What if we go to the reading room and you put in a request just as though it were an ordinary day at the Bodleian?” Linda suggested. “You know, fill out the slip, stuff it in the Lamson tube, and hope for the best. We could stand by the conveyor belt and wait for it. Maybe the library knows how to fulfill your request, even without staff.” Linda sniffed when she saw my amazed look at her knowledge of the Bodleian’s procedures. “I went to St. Hilda’s, my girl.”
“The pneumatic-tube system was shut down last July. The conveyor belt was dismantled this August.” Andrew held up his hands. “Do not harm the messenger, ladies. I am not Bodley’s librarian.”
“If Stephen’s spell is good enough, it won’t care about the equipment—just that Diana has requested something she truly needs,” Sarah said.
“The only way to know for sure is to go to the Bodleian, avoid the workers, and find a way into the Old Library.” I sighed.
Andrew nodded. “My Stan is on the excavation crew. Been digging his whole life. If you can wait until nightfall, he’ll let you in. He’ll get in trouble, of course, but it won’t be the first time, and there’s not a prison built that can hold him.”
“Good man, Stanley Cripplegate,” Linda said with a satisfied nod. “Always such a help in the autumn when you need the daffodil bulbs planted.”
Stanley Cripplegate was a tiny whippet of a man with a pronounced underbite and the sinewy outlines of someone who had been malnourished since birth. Vampire blood had given him longevity and strength, but there was only so much it could do to lengthen bones. He distributed bright yellow safety helmets to the four of us.
“Aren’t we going to be . . . er, conspicuous in this getup?” Sarah asked.
“Being as you’re ladies, you’re already conspicuous,” Stan said darkly. He whistled. “Oy! Dickie!”
“Quiet,” I hissed. This was turning out to be the loudest, most conspicuous book heist in history.
“S’all right. Dickie and me, we go way back.” Stan turned to his colleague. “Take these ladies up to the first floor, Dickie.”
Dickie deposited us, helmets and all, in the Arts End of Duke Humfrey’s reading room between the bust of King Charles I and the bust of Sir Thomas Bodley.
“Is it me, or are they watching us?” Linda said, scowling at the unfortunate monarch, hands on her hips.
King Charles blinked.
“Witches have been on the security detail since the middle of the nineteenth century. Stan warned us not to do anything we oughtn’t around the pictures, statues, and gargoyles.” Dickie shuddered. “I don’t mind most of them. They’re company on dark nights, but that one’s a right creepy old bugger.”
“You should have met his father,” Fernando commented. He swept his hat off and bowed to the blinking monarch. “Your Majesty.”
It was every library patron’s nightmare—that you were secretly being observed whenever you took a forbidden cough drop out of your pocket. In the Bodleian’s case, it turned out the readers had good reason to worry. The nerve center for a magical security system was hidden behind the eyeballs of Thomas Bodley and King Charles.
“Sorry, Charlie.” I tossed my yellow helmet in the air, and it sailed over to land on the king’s head.
I flicked my fingers, and the brim tilted down over his eyes. “No witnesses for tonight’s events.”
Fernando handed me his helmet.
“Use mine for the founder. Please.”
Once I’d obscured Sir Thomas’s sight, I began to pluck and tweak the threads that bound the statues to the rest of the library. The spell’s knots weren’t complicated—just thrice- and four-crossed bindings—but there were so many of them, all piled on top of one another like a severely overtaxed electrical panel. Finally I discovered the main knot through which all the other knots were threaded and carefully untied it. The uncanny feeling of being observed vanished.
“That’s better,” Linda murmured. “Now what?”
“I promised to call Matthew once we were inside,” I said, drawing out my phone. “Give me a minute.”
I pushed past the lattice barricade and walked down the silent, echoing main avenue of Duke Humfrey’s Library. Matthew picked up on the first ring.
“All right, mon coeur?” His voice thrummed with tension, and I briefly filled him in on our progress so far.
“How were Rebecca and Philip after I left?” I asked when my tale was told.
“Fidgety.”
“And you?” My voice softened.
“More fidgety.”
“Where are you?” I asked. Matthew had waited until after I left for England, then started driving north and east toward Central Europe.
“I just left Germany.” He wasn’t going to give me any more details in case I encountered an inquisitive witch.
“Be careful. Remember what the goddess said.” Her warning that I would have to give something up if I wanted to possess Ashmole 782 still haunted me.
“I will.” Matthew paused. “There’s something I want you to remember, too.”
“What?”
“Hearts cannot be broken, Diana. And only love makes us truly immortal. Don’t forget, ma lionne.
No matter what happens.” He disconnected the line.
His words sent a shiver of fear up my spine, setting the goddess’s silver arrow rattling. I repeated the words of the charm I’d woven to keep him safe and felt the familiar tug of the chain that bound us together.
“All is well?” Fernando asked quietly.
“As expected.” I slipped the phone back into my pocket. “Let’s get started.”
We had agreed that the first thing we would try was simply to replicate the steps by which Ashmole 782 had come into my hands the first time. With Sarah, Linda, and Fernando looking on, I filled out the boxes on the call slip. I signed it, put my reader’s-card number in the appropriate blank, and carried it over to the spot in the Arts End where the pneumatic tube was located.
“The capsule is here,” I said, removing the hollow receptacle. “Maybe Andrew was wrong and the delivery system is still working.” When I opened it, the capsule was full of dust. I coughed.
“And maybe it doesn’t matter one way or the other,” Sarah said with a touch of impatience. “Load it up and let her rip.”
I put the call slip into the capsule, closed it securely, and placed it back in the compartment.
“What next?” Sarah said a few minutes later.
The capsule was right where I’d left it.
“Let’s give it a good whack.” Linda slapped the end of the compartment, causing the wooden supports it was attached to—and which held up the gallery above—to shake alarmingly. With an audible whoosh, the capsule disappeared.
“Nice work, Linda,” Sarah said with obvious admiration.
“Is that a witch’s trick?” Fernando asked, his lips twitching.
“No, but it always improves the Radio 4 signal on my stereo,” Linda said brightly.
Two hours later we were all still waiting by the conveyor belt for a manuscript that showed absolutely no sign of arriving.
Sarah sighed. “Plan B.”
Without a word Fernando unbuttoned his dark coat and slipped it from his shoulders. A pillowcase was sewn into the back lining. Inside, sandwiched between two pieces of cardboard, were the three pages that Edward Kelley had removed from the Book of Life.
“Here you are,” he said, handing over the priceless parcel.
“Where do you want to do it?” Sarah asked.
“The only place that’s large enough is there,” I said, pointing to the spot between the splendid stained-glass window and the guard’s station. “No—don’t touch that!” My voice came out in a whispered shriek.
“Why not?” Fernando asked, his hands wrapped around the wooden uprights of a rolling stepladder that blocked our way.
“It’s the world’s oldest stepladder. It’s nearly as ancient as the library.” I pressed the manuscript pages to my heart. “Nobody touches it. Ever.”
“Move the damn ladder, Fernando,” Sarah instructed. “I’m sure Ysabeau has a replacement for it if it gets damaged. Push that chair out of the way while you’re at it,”
A few nail-biting moments later, I was ripping into a box of salt that Linda had carried up in a Marks & Spencer shopping bag. I whispered prayers to the goddess, asking for her help finding this lost object while I outlined a triangle with the white crystals. When that was done, I doled out the pages from the Book of Life, and Sarah, Linda, and I each stood at one of the points of the triangle. We directed the illustrations into the center, and I repeated the spell I’d written earlier:
[des: author had this centered on the page and intends it to look like a
triangle.]
Missing pages
Lost then found, show
Me where the book is bound.
“I still think we need a mirror,” Sarah whispered after an hour of expectant silence had passed.
“How’s the library going to show us anything if we don’t give her a place to project an apparition?”
“Should Diana have said ‘show us where the book is bound,’ not ‘show me’?” Linda looked to Sarah. “There are three of us.”
I stepped out of the triangle and put the illustration of the chemical wedding on the guard’s desk.
“It’s not working. I don’t feel anything. Not the book, not any power, not magic. It’s like the whole library has gone dead.”
“Well, it’s not surprising the library is feeling poorly.” Linda clucked in sympathy. “Poor thing. All these people poking at its entrails all day.”
“There’s nothing for it, honey,” Sarah said. “On to Plan C.”
“Maybe I should try to revise the spell first.” Anything was better than Plan C. It violated the last remaining shreds of the library oath I’d taken when a student, and it posed a very real danger to the building, the books, and the nearby colleges.
But it was more than that. I was hesitating now for some of the same reasons I had hesitated when facing Benjamin in this very place. If I used my full powers here, in the Bodleian, the last remaining links to my life as a scholar would dissolve.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Sarah said. “Corra will be fine.”
“She’s a firedrake, Sarah,” I retorted. “She can’t fly without causing sparks. Look at this place.”
“A tinderbox,” Linda agreed. “Still, I cannot see another way.”
“There has to be one,” I said, poking my index finger into my third eye in hopes of waking it up.
“Come on, Diana. Stop thinking about your precious library card. It’s time to kick some magical ass.”