by Jade Astor
“Great to see you, Roark,” he said, scanning Uncle Vernon and Stephen’s surprised faces. “Malcolm told me we had company. I’m so glad I haven’t missed anything.”
With an easy smile, he stuck out his hand, but Roark made no move to greet him. Instead, he clenched his fists at his sides.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“How do you like that? Three short years and my brother has forgotten me already.” Pivoting, he offered his hand to Uncle Vernon and Stephen instead. “Great to meet you both. I’m Justin Fairbourne.”
Chapter 4
“So you’re the experts my brother has engaged to catalog our books. I stopped at Malcolm’s office before I came here, and he told me all about it. It’s a good idea, I have to say. Time someone sorted out all the junk piled up in this house.”
While Justin Fairbourne offered his enthusiastic greeting, Mrs. Mulgrave made a discreet exit. Roark seemed to lose his focus on his guests as he stood staring at his brother, and not out of delight at seeing him home. Justin, however, either didn’t notice or care.
“Sorry I didn’t get here earlier, but you know how it goes. Lines at the airport. Things to do. The important thing is that I’m here now.”
“Safe to say we all can see that, Justin.” Roark seemed to speak through clenched teeth. “I was about to take them to the library and show Mr. Carlyle the books.”
“An excellent idea,” Uncle Vernon piped up.
No one objected, so Roark led them from the study. Justin fell into step beside him, which Stephen and Uncle Vernon brought up the rear. While they moved down the hall, the brothers spoke in hushed voices, their heads bent together. Seeing them together, Stephen realized that the children he had seen in the photo were the two of them, the woman presumably their mother. What happened to her? Since he had excellent hearing honed by years of listening through doorways and walls while his parents talked about him, he decided to eavesdrop.
“Three years, Justin.” Roark’s words came out in a hiss. “Where were you? You didn’t even come to the funeral.”
“I know.” Justin didn’t sound the least bit apologetic. “I didn’t think I was wanted.”
“That’s not the point. You should have been there. For Dad.”
“For Dad? That’s rich. You know perfectly well how he felt about me. Don’t bother to deny it.”
Roark didn’t.
Soon they arrived at two large double doors fashioned of dark, deeply polished wood and fitted with hexagonal brass knobs. Rushing ahead of his brother, Justin flung them open with a flourish.
“Here we are,” he said, standing aside so they could peer in.
“Wow,” Stephen said. Beside him, Uncle Vernon gasped.
They stood gazing into a spacious room furnished with a long table surrounded by four straight-backed wooden seats, a Victorian armchair upholstered with blue patterned fabric, and an equally plush ottoman. A small chandelier hung from a high ceiling crisscrossed with ornately carved wooden beams. The real attraction, though, was the walls—or rather, the lack of them. Instead, the room consisted of shelves that reached from floor to ceiling without a single gap between them. Every available space was crammed to overflowing with books of all sizes, colors, and ages. A six-foot ladder stood in the far corner to enable browsers to access the volumes stored at the top.
It took Uncle Vernon a few minutes to find his voice.
“Magnificent,” he whispered, as though they had stepped into a sacred space. Rushing to the nearest shelf, he ran his palm along a shelf, gingerly stroking the spines of the books. “I had high hopes for what we might find here, but I never expected anything like this.”
“I haven’t moved anything since my father’s death, aside from putting back a few volumes he had pulled down,” Roark said. “I wasn’t sure what order things were in originally, assuming there was any system to begin with.”
“No matter, no matter,” Uncle Vernon said, sounding dazed with joy. “You were prudent to let it be.” He began to circle the room, mesmerized by the rows of rare books. Stephen hung back, fearful of getting in his uncle’s way, not to mention reluctant to touch anything valuable.
“I have to admit, I still can’t see why these are such a big deal,” Justin said, moving past Stephen and Roark. Apparently not at all concerned about damaging the books, he reached up to grab one at random. When he cracked it open, a strong musty odor escaped in a cloud of brown dust. “Just because something’s old, it’s not necessarily useful or valuable, is it? It’s not like anyone would have the patience to read any of this stuff.”
“Put it back, Justin. Close it,” Roark demanded, but his brother ignored him. Instead he thrust the open book at Roark, who took a step back. Curious, Stephen craned his neck to peer over Roark’s shoulder. The page he’d opened to featured a woodcut of a grim, large-nosed man in a dark smock, posing with a pile of scrolls and a telescope on a table beside him.
“Check this out.” Justin laughed. “This fellow might just be one of our illustrious ancestors, though I sure hope he wasn’t the most handsome.”
Roark’s voice was cold with disapproval. “I don’t think you should be playing with that, Justin. You’re only making it more difficult for Stephen and his uncle to do their work.”
“By opening a book? One that belongs to me, I might remind you.”
“To the estate, you mean.”
“Isn’t that what I just said? For crying out loud, Roark, what do you think books were made for? Actually, I’ll tell you what—they’re for people to read. Not that this one lends itself naturally to that particular activity. Here, why don’t you give it a try? From a certain angle, this guy does look a little bit like you.” His good humor fading, Justin shoved the book into Roark’s hands and went to join Uncle Vernon.
Standing awkwardly side by side, Roark and Stephen examined the volume together. As far as Stephen could tell, it was a book of astrological theory that attempted to reconcile the discoveries of 16th-century scientific pioneers with the more mystical interpretations favored by later Victorian spiritualists. One such seer, a nervous-looking gentleman whose likeness appeared on the front page, had authored the book.
“It looks kind of creepy,” Stephen admitted. He lifted his gaze to meet Roark’s outraged brown eyes. Roark snapped the book shut like a trap.
“The ravings of a charlatan. You’ll find plenty of that drivel here, I’m afraid. My ancestors were a bit eccentric. Given to fantasies involving the supernatural.” Scowling, Roark strode back to the shelf and wedged the book back into its original space. Stephen imagined he heard the shelf groan as the other books shifted. “Don’t mind Justin, either. He has no respect for anything older than he is, and no manners, either.”
“It’s all right. We have a lot of that stuff in my uncle’s shop. It was popular back in the day.”
“No doubt. Not all the believers died out in the last century, though. My late father enjoyed such scribblings—to his detriment, in my opinion. I just hope it’s not a genetic trait. If it is, I thankfully escaped it.”
Stephen said nothing, secretly preferring Justin’s carefree attitude to Roark’s sullenness. He also recalled Leo’s fascination with the Istharios myth and, once again, Geoffrey’s histrionic ravings. No, he reminded himself, that was nonsense. Geoffrey’s outburst had resulted mostly from his frustration at not daring to ask Uncle Vernon out on a date. An academic debate had boiled over into a silly argument. For all he knew, Geoffrey was on some kind of medication that made him loopy, like a lot of other old guys who wandered in and out of the shop talking to themselves.
“Some of these bindings are pretty brittle,” Roark went on. “The air is too dry in here. It dissolves the glue after a while. The pages fall out if you open them too quickly. I’ve tried to tell Justin that. At least my father knew enough to handle them with care.”
“I promise you, we’ll do the same,” Stephen said. He watched Roark brush off and straighten the vol
umes surrounding the one he’d replaced. He knew the time had come to broach a difficult topic. He made sure to keep his voice level and casual, as if he were bringing up something of mild interest but not serious concern. “You came to our bookstore.”
“Yes.” Roark didn’t turn around. His shoulders lifted and dropped. “I enjoyed browsing your uncle’s collection. I hope your uncle gave you a commission for the sale the Coleridge volume.”
Stephen ignored the attempt to derail the conversation. “You and I talked for a while, but you didn’t say who you were.”
“You didn’t ask. I wouldn’t have lied.”
“So what’s the story behind your shopping trip? It can’t be a coincidence that we found you again here.”
At last, Roark stopped tidying the shelf and turned. “No coincidence. I was planning to contact your store about cataloging this collection. It’s priceless, as you can probably tell, not to mention filled with family documents and records. I decided to check out your uncle’s business for myself. I wanted to make sure Malcolm and I had chosen someone who was both discreet and up to the task.”
“My uncle and I run a bookstore, not a gossip column.” Stephen felt his cheeks go hot with resentment. “You want to know what this collection is worth, and we know how to figure that out. Do you think you’re the only family to take pride in your heritage? The Carlyles have been handling rare books for more than a century. My ancestor, Maynard Carlyle, even knew Charles Dickens! So I assure you, we are both competent and honest.”
“Are you? I hope so. This goes far beyond identifying a quote from Coleridge, cleaning out an attic, or putting a stack of dusty old tomes in alphabetical order. There’s stuff in here you wouldn’t believe, dating back before Maynard Carlyle was even born. There are books here that haven’t been opened in two centuries. And in some ways I think it might be better to keep it that way. I tried to tell my father that, in fact, and then Malcolm. But they decided not to listen.”
Stephen could hardly believe Roark’s arrogance. “Like I told you, Carlyle’s Antiquarian Books is the best in the business. You’d look all your life for someone who knows as much about the subject as my uncle.”
“I hope you’re right. Because you haven’t seen a collection like this before, Stephen. Your uncle hasn’t, either. Guaranteed.”
“Why? What’s in this room that’s so secret and special?” Defiantly he scanned the shelves but saw nothing out of the ordinary, unless one counted first editions of various nineteenth-century novels and instructional tomes. Uncle Vernon had plenty of similar volumes in the store. They were interesting and collectible, but hardly controversial.
“I can’t answer that directly, because I don’t actually know. But Fairbourne House has a dark past. A past that casts its shadow over everyone who’s lived here since. If any room in the house is haunted, it’s this one. I don’t mean there are actual ghosts flitting around, because I don’t believe in woo-woo. I mean there are remnants here—of people and actions so evil we can still hear their echoes today.”
Stephen gaped at him, unsure whether to laugh or shiver. Like Geoffrey, Roark seemed utterly serious, even fanatical in his sincerity. His dark eyes gleamed with laser-like intensity as he waited for Stephen to respond.
“I suppose you’ve heard these echoes? Personally, I mean?”
“Sometimes. You’ll hear them, too. I wish I could prevent that—but I can’t. Not if you and your uncle go ahead with this ill-advised scheme of sorting through these volumes.”
“Scheme?” Roark’s choice of words astonished him. Didn’t he know that it was hardly Stephen’s choice to be here at all? He was only his uncle’s assistant. If Uncle Vernon wanted to page through every last book on these shelves—which Stephen knew he did, and rather desperately at that—he had no choice but to go along. “I really don’t think—”
Before he could finish his sentence, his uncle scurried over with Justin in tow.
“I’ve never seen so many first editions in one place,” he cried, his face flushed with excitement. “Stephen, we’ve stumbled upon a treasure trove!”
“A bit like the first archaeologist to enter King Tut’s tomb, maybe,” Justin suggested.
“Exactly.” Roark crossed his arms. “You might want to think about what happened to him.”
“I don’t mind telling you that this is going to be a labor of love,” Uncle Vernon continued, ignoring the brothers’ bickering. “We’ll have to work quickly, of course. It would take months—even years—to catalogue everything here. But we can make a dent this weekend, surely. Look at all of this, Stephen. Can you imagine what we might find here?”
“Personally, I can’t wait to find out,” Justin said. “Let’s hope it’s valuable, considering how long we’ve stored it instead of using the room for other things.” When Uncle Vernon looked horrified, he laughed. “You’ll probably hate me for saying this, but I like to stick with modern things. I’ve grown up surrounded by history and old paintings and furniture, but what really interests me is the future. I mean, I can respect people like you and my brother, who want to study the past and all its faded glories. It just isn’t for me.”
His easygoing grin tilted one side of his mouth. Before he was even aware of it, Stephen found himself returning his smile. Roark heaved an impatient sigh.
“I’m sure the books can keep for a few more hours while you settle into the cottage. I’ll have Leo take you there right away. Rest a little, and you can return whenever you’re ready and get started.”
“No need to tax Leo’s limited faculties,” Justin piped up. “I’ll show them to their new digs. My pleasure.”
“Are you sure you still remember the way?” Roark asked with a scowl.
“The way across the lawn to the cottage? I think I can manage. I took a break from Fairbourne House, Roark—I didn’t develop amnesia.”
“Well, than, thank you, Justin. I’m sure the Carlyles appreciate your hospitality. You and I can talk later.”
“No problem. Like I said…my pleasure.” Justin raised a hand and, with a theatrical sweep of his arm, summoned them to follow him. “Right this way, honored guests.”
Roark’s face contorted with barely suppressed anger. He said nothing to anyone as they walked out. On the way across the lawn, Stephen shook his head in wonder. Cain and Abel had nothing on these two. How could he have misjudged Roark Fairbourne, and their conversation back at the shop, so completely? What Stephen had interpreted as sensitivity and interest in books—maybe even in Stephen himself—had really been just the opposite. Roark had been trying to show off his own superior knowledge and social position, maybe even trap or scare him with those silly questions about books with evil lurking inside them. The whole exchange had been a game to him. Nothing more.
Luckily, Stephen knew how to play games too. Maybe he hadn’t figured out all the rules of this one yet, but he prided himself on being a quick study.
At least Justin was a pleasant surprise, and in any case the whole ordeal would all be over in a couple of days at most. It was funny how he’d already begun to miss Uncle Vernon’s quiet store and his uneventful life behind the counter. Hopefully, the weekend would pass quickly and he’d be back to his normal routine in no time at all.
The cottage stood at the back of the house, framed by a cobbled path and a row of alternating purple and white lilac bushes. Small but cozy, it offered two bedrooms as well as a living room area and a kitchenette. As Justin had promised, the cupboards and refrigerator contained a few staple foods suitable for a weekend’s worth of breakfasts and light lunches.
“You’ll have dinner at the house both nights you’re here, of course,” Justin explained as he showed them around. “I’ll make sure Mrs. Mulgrave makes enough for everyone.”
“Roark said we were invited to the house tonight,” Stephen said. “Something formal.”
“Did he? His manners aren’t as bad as I supposed. Actually, that sounds like fun. He can’t object to one more gues
t, can he?”
“I hope not.” Stephen smiled, and Justin grinned back. This weekend was looking better every minute.
“Can I confess something? I walked over here with you because I wanted to apologize for my brother’s little tantrums back there. I’d hoped he would change while I was away—I even thought maybe his resentment of me was part of the rage always eating him alive. I see I was too optimistic.”
“It’s okay, really,” Stephen said.
“No, it’s not. You’re guests who are doing him a huge favor. The least he could do is be civil. But what you just witnessed is his usual M.O., I’m afraid. Roark is what you might call the intellectual of the family. Only twenty-six years old and he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him smile…not since we were little kids, anyway.”
“Like in the photo?” Stephen ventured.
Justin winked. “Exactly.”
“I see no harm in taking life seriously,” Uncle Vernon interrupted. Stephen forced himself not to roll his eyes. “If you ask me, not enough people do.”
“Well, personally, I don’t see the point. After all, who knows what could happen tomorrow? Enjoy today and just hope you get through it in one piece.” Justin laughed again, keeping his eyes trained on Stephen. “That’s why I don’t have a lot of interest in the past. There just isn’t time to go backwards.”
Uncle Vernon made a sniffing sound as Stephen carried his suitcase into the smaller of the two cottage bedrooms. A single window, open to take in a light summer breeze, looked out over a large stone fountain composed of two cupid-like figures pouring jugs over a mermaid. Real water flowed from the vessels and down into a shallow pool where lily pads and delicate aquatic plants floated. The statues’ faces, though round and cherubic, struck Stephen as faintly diabolical. The mermaid didn’t seem to be enjoying their attentions much. One of her willowy arms was raised over her head to divert the stream off to the side.
