For a single moment her eyes held mine and I saw the truth there. Then, overwhelmed, she collapsed, and only through God’s grace was I able to catch her before she struck the ground. I removed her from that evil place forthwith…
Pushing the book away, Taylor rubbed her eyes.
For hours she’d been reading the heavy, leather-bound book – an eighteenth-century translation of a French book from Aldrich’s collection. It was the only known book that told anything useful about Isabelle Montclair. Even so, it was only so helpful.
She didn’t think Aldrich had believed it was real. A few minutes ago, she’d come across a terse note he’d left between the pages. ‘Overwrought and unlikely.’
She ran her fingertips across his familiar jagged handwriting. He was right, as usual.
She’d have given anything for him to be here now. To tell her what to do. She felt so lost. Everything was so dangerous, and they were running out of time.
The library was filled with books – thousands of them – about alchemical history. They would never get through them all. Never find the right ones.
It was so frustrating.
She pressed her fists against her eyes.
‘You should take a break,’ Alastair advised from across the table.
Relaxing her hands, she glanced across to where he sat, a book open in front of him. He’d appeared about twenty minutes after she got here, and he’d been sitting there quietly for hours, making notes into his laptop.
The pale blue glow of the screen highlighted the circles under his eyes.
‘You’re tired, too,’ she pointed out. She reached for the cardboard cup at her elbow. The coffee was cold and bitter, but she made herself drink it. She had to stay awake.
Picking up her phone she glanced at the time – it was after midnight. The last text she’d received had been from her mother two hours earlier:
Good night, darling. We miss you. xx
Her heart twisted in her chest.
Not for the first time it struck her that if her mother had any idea what she’d been up to today, she’d yank her back home so fast the dean would see nothing but the dust from her tyres.
But she didn’t know.
She scrolled down to check her other messages. There was nothing from Sacha. She’d not heard from him since she left him on the steps of the admin building.
For a second, her finger hovered over the text button. Then stopped.
He was probably asleep. Dying always wore him out. She didn’t want to wake him.
With a sigh, she dropped the phone back down on the table.
She stretched, loosening the kinks in her shoulders.
Alastair typed something into his phone before throwing it down in a motion that mirrored her own.
‘Where’s Louisa?’ Taylor asked, guessing who he was trying to reach.
He glanced at her, surprised. His straight blond hair was always unruly but at the moment it was standing almost on end. He kept raking his fingers through it.
‘Searching for Mortimer.’ His tone said what he thought of that.
‘What? On her own?’ Taylor’s eyebrows shot up.
‘She’s not on her own. She promised me she wouldn’t go on her own.’ But he didn’t sound convinced. His fingers drummed the table next to his phone.
‘Maybe you should call her?’ she suggested.
He picked up his phone and held it for a second before setting it back onto the table.
‘If she’s in the middle of something it’ll just piss her off.’ He let out a long breath, and leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m sure she’s fine. She knows what she’s doing.’
It sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
Taylor studied him thoughtfully.
‘You really like her. Don’t you?’
He shot her a withering look.
‘You know what I mean,’ she said. ‘You’re friends. Louisa doesn’t have many friends.’
‘No, she doesn’t,’ he conceded. ‘And, yes. We’re friends.’ As he spoke, he picked up a pen and tossed it in the air. It spun for a long time – longer than should have been possible. ‘Always have been.’
‘She likes you, too,’ Taylor told him. ‘I can tell.’
Snatching the pen, he set it down on the table with enough force to make it bounce. ‘Yeah, well…’
He turned back to his laptop, signalling an end to the conversation.
Taylor let it go.
For a while after that they got back to work, but Alastair kept picking up his phone. Glaring at it as if that would somehow make her text back.
Finally, Taylor set down her book.
‘Look. Why don’t you just go find her?’
He shook his head. ‘Someone’s got to look after you.’
‘You know what? I really am capable of sitting in a library by myself. I’ve been doing it since I was six.’
She didn’t try to hide her irritation.
His lips twitched. ‘Steady. I know you can sit still all on your own. But things really are not safe right now.’
‘You think I don’t know that? I was there today. I’ve been here for weeks. I survived Bringers. I’ll be fine with books.’
‘I am fully aware of that.’ His tone was measured. ‘But Mortimer could walk into this college any time he wants because he is one of us. He could walk into this library right now. All he has to do is slip past the guards. And it’s dark outside, Taylor.’
He was right. She leaned back in her chair.
‘OK, OK…’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to take it out on you. I just… I don’t like that you let Louisa go off on her own because of me.’
‘She’s not on her own,’ he said. ‘I think, anyway.’ He thumped his forefinger against the book in front of him. ‘I just wish I could get something out of this.’
Taylor glanced at it – now that she could get a good look at it, she saw how old it was. The leather binding was worn and frayed. The cover bore odd symbols in badly faded gold. It wasn’t in any language she recognised.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘I thought it was Greek at first, but it isn’t, is it?’
He shook his head. ‘Not Greek. Something else. A very old alchemical language – well, that’s what we suspect, anyway. We thought for a while it might have all the answers but we haven’t been able to crack it.’ He shoved it across the table towards her. ‘Take a look. Maybe you can make sense of it. I’m losing hope.’
Hesitantly, Taylor reached out towards the book. She’d handled a few alchemical books and she knew what it felt like to hold them – a kind of low-grade electrical buzz. Like standing underneath a power line.
But this one was different. She could sense it even before she touched it. It hummed with energy. It seemed to draw her to it.
Slowly, with a kind of fearful fascination, she lowered her hands to the book. The air above it crackled. She had the strangest sense the book wanted her to touch it.
Her hands hovered, hesitating.
Alastair looked at her quizzically.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know,’ she whispered.
He straightened, instantly alert. ‘What do you feel?’
‘I can’t describe it,’ she said, her fingers still just above the leather. ‘It’s like it’s… calling me.’
‘Wait.’ He reached for the book. ‘Don’t touch it.’
He was too late. The pull of it was impossible to resist. Her hands seemed to move of their own volition, leaping towards the book before he could take it away.
The energy hit her like a tidal wave. Her heart began to pound, her hair flew back from her face as if blown by a sudden wind. She drew back with a gasp, but couldn’t lift her hands from the book – they simply wouldn’t let go.
Alastair leaned forward slowly, watching her with fascination. ‘What’s happening, Taylor? What do you feel? Describe it.’
Her hands were vibrating. The book seemed almost
to writhe in her grasp.
‘It feels… alive,’ she said slowly. ‘So… much… power…’
Without warning, the book shot out of her grip and slid across the table.
Drawing in a sharp breath, Taylor collapsed back in her chair, clutching her hands to her chest.
‘What was that?’ She stared at the book.
‘I have absolutely no idea.’
Cautiously, Alastair reached for the book, sliding it across the table towards him with the base of his pen.
‘I’ve spent weeks trying to understand what the symbols in this book mean. I’ve picked it up and carried it everywhere. It’s never done anything like that.’
They both stared at the book on the table between them. It appeared benign now. Nothing but paper and ink. But Taylor was staying well away from it.
Alastair considered her with a new curiosity. ‘There has to be a reason why that just happened. It can’t be a coincidence.’
Taylor stared down at her hands. The sensation of power and electricity still seemed to tingle in her fingertips. She felt shaken and somehow exhilarated.
‘Maybe we should try that again,’ Alastair said.
‘The young lady must not touch the book.’
The voice – authoritative and German-accented – came from behind them. They both spun around.
An elderly man stepped out of the shadows. His face was lined and his hair white, but his carriage was upright, and he moved at a sprightly pace. He looked back and forth between them, his eyes dark and intelligent. ‘Where did you get that book?’
‘Professor Zeitinger… I…’ Alastair sounded awe-struck. ‘I found it. In the Bodleian. When I was researching for Aldrich Montclair. You know, the French curse.’
‘No one informed me of the finding of this edition.’ The professor’s voice made the statement an accusation. ‘Germanic alchemical texts from the medieval period are overseen by me.’
‘But… Professor.’ Alastair frowned. ‘It’s not German.’
‘Of course it is German.’ The professor jabbed his finger at the book. ‘Are you telling me you don’t know what this is?’
Alastair shook his head in bewilderment.
‘No.’
‘I’ve spent my entire career studying these symbols.’ Zeitinger’s voice was low. ‘I have searched the world for this book for many years.’
Alastair’s eyes widened.
‘Professor. What is this book?’
‘The Book of Unravelling.’
There was a pause, and then, unexpectedly, Alastair began to laugh.
‘Bloody hell. I am such an idiot. Jones will garrotte me when he finds out.’
‘Unravelling is one interpretation of that word, of course,’ Zeitinger continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘It could also be translated as Undoing. Reversing. Untangling. The language of the time was imprecise.’ He peered at the two of them. ‘This book was believed lost for centuries. Possibly destroyed. Are you telling me it was in the library all this time?’
Alastair opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. His shoulders shook with suppressed mirth.
‘What is so funny, young man?’ the professor asked disapprovingly. His W came out as V. Vot is so funny.
Alastair’s slapped his hand against one knee as he tried to get control of himself.
‘It was,’ he gasped at last, ‘misfiled.’
‘That is an outrage,’ Zeitinger tutted. That only made Alastair laugh harder.
Mystified, Taylor looked back and forth between the two of them.
‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘What is this book?’
The professor turned his focus to her. Beneath thick, white eyebrows, his dark eyes were deadly serious.
‘You are Aldrich Montclair’s granddaughter, are you not?’
She nodded hesitantly. ‘Yes…’
His expression softened, infinitesimally. ‘I am Professor Wolfgang Zeitinger.’ He tapped the air just above the book cover, never touching it. ‘Young lady, this book is the missing piece in a very dangerous puzzle. Your grandfather searched for it everywhere. It’s likely he died for it.’
Her stomach lurched. ‘I don’t understand. Why would someone kill him for a book?’
‘This book was written by a German alchemist who studied the Dark arts,’ Zeitinger explained. ‘He came closer than any of us to understanding Dark power. How it could be used. And how it could be broken.’ He pulled his hand away from the book. ‘For us, this could be the key to life. And death.’
He snapped his fingers. ‘We must hurry. Give me something to wrap that book in – paper. Or fabric. No one should touch it.’
‘Yes, professor.’ Alastair rushed off in search of the supplies.
‘I still don’t understand.’ Taylor stood next to the elderly man, trying to comprehend what was happening. ‘What is it about the book that will help us?’
‘The discovery of this book is incredibly dangerous,’ the professor explained as Alastair returned and began wrapping the book in paper, careful not to touch it. ‘If Mortimer Pierce learns the book has been found he will kill us all. It is only our own ignorance that has protected us thus far. And now we have lost that.’
When the book was wrapped, the professor picked it up gingerly, motioning for them to follow.
‘We must hurry.’
* * *
‘Is it true?’ the dean asked as he strode through the door of his office. ‘Have you found it?’
He wore no tie, but, as always, his white shirt was crisp and his suit un-creased. Taylor, who had never seen him wearing anything else, was starting to wonder if he slept in a suit.
Alastair and Professor Zeitinger both began talking at the same time.
‘We didn’t recognise it…’ Alastair said.
‘How could this have happened?’ demanded Professor Zeitinger, still furious about the misfiling.
‘Stop, both of you.’ The dean held up his hands. ‘How and why are insignificant at this point.’ He turned to Zeitinger. ‘Wolfgang. Is it the book?’
The professor held his gaze.
‘It is the book.’
Jones ran a hand across his face. There was a kind of awe in his expression.
‘Where is it?’
Zeitinger stepped to one side. The book lay on top of Jones’ desk, papers spread around it.
Jones reached out hesitantly before drawing back his fingers again.
‘I can’t believe we finally have it.’
‘It is a miracle,’ Zeitinger agreed softly. ‘I genuinely believed it was destroyed.’
‘All this time…’
The dean looked at the elderly professor, who finished the thought for him.
‘… it was right under our nose.’
‘Taylor,’ Alastair said, as if suddenly remembering something important. ‘She reacted to it when she touched it…’
Jones’ head snapped up. ‘She touched it?’
Alastair winced. ‘It was an error. We didn’t know what it was. I had no reaction to it at all when I touched it. No one had, up to that point. Aldrich knew it was important but he hadn’t identified it as the book.’
‘What was the effect?’ Jones asked.
‘I saw it all.’ Zeitinger stepped forward. ‘The power of the book recognised the power in her.’
Jones’ cool gaze swung to Taylor.
‘When you touched it, what did you feel? Did any thoughts come into your head?’
Taylor thought of the rush she’d felt.
‘Just power,’ she said. ‘And maybe… anger? It happened fast.’ She looked at the dean. ‘Why is the book so deadly?’
‘Most of what we know is apocryphal,’ Jones said. ‘By that I mean, it’s part of lore, but no one is certain if it’s true. We believe the book was written by a German alchemist named Cornelius von Falkenstein in the seventeenth century. His sister was drawn to Dark power, seduced by it. She attempted to raise a demon and was killed in the process. Fal
kenstein wrote this book as a kind of revenge. But the professor is the expert.’
He glanced at Zeitinger, gesturing for him to take over the story.
The professor stepped closer to the book. ‘The two siblings were very close. Her death broke his heart. Falkenstein became obsessed with Dark practice. Not as his sister had been – he did not seek power. He was obsessed with destroying it.’
Although his voice was not loud, his words somehow filled the quiet space.
‘He practised day and night,’ Zeitinger continued. ‘Documenting his successes and failures in an archaic alchemical code he invented himself, hiding his findings so that no one else might be injured by trying to replicate his work. The Alchemical Council – which at the time set out the rules and laws for our kind – forbade his experiments but he ignored their restrictions. His research went further than anyone had ever gone before, stepping to the very brink of madness.’ His glasses glittered. ‘In the end he was forced to stop. It was too dangerous. No one knew what he might unleash. We still don’t know. Condemned by the Council as a madman, he was imprisoned in an asylum for the remainder of his days. His research was believed destroyed by those who suppressed his work. However…’ He glanced back at his desk, where the leather-bound book lay on the stack of papers, as innocuous as an encyclopedia. ‘… persistent rumours always maintained that it existed. That it was never destroyed, but rather hidden in the home of one of the Council leaders.’
‘Now we know those rumours were true,’ the dean said.
Taylor’s skin tingled, remembering the promise of sheer, unbridled power that had surged through her.
‘Can this book help Sacha?’ she asked.
‘That is the hope,’ Zeitinger said after a moment. ‘But hope will only get us so far.’ He turned to Jones. ‘I should start work immediately.’
‘Of course,’ the dean replied. ‘What do you need?’
‘A room with a locked door. An assistant…’ The elderly professor glanced at Taylor. ‘… and Miss Montclair. Who reacted to the book as if she recognised it. And it her.’
Eleven
Sacha and Louisa roared through Oxford’s dark tangle of streets.
The Secret City Page 7
