Feeling that she was still alive and unhurt, Skate opened them again. She saw only the ward placed on the wood, her bent wire making contact exactly where it should. As she watched, a trickle of energy trailed across the surface of the defeated trap and dissolved into nothing. With a satisfied grin, she dropped down into the house.
Skate landed wrong and had to tumble into a roll to avoid hurting herself or Rattle. She struggled to her feet, the backpack adding difficulty to the process.
Rattle clicked again. Skate ignored it and took stock of her surroundings. She had landed in a bedroom. The late afternoon sun cast a slightly orange glow on everything, making it look warm and sleepy. There were dressers and end tables, and a privacy screen in the corner. The bed was feminine in its decoration, but not distractingly so. Everything in the room had an air that suggested it was relatively new and well-kept. It was very unlike Belamy’s home that way; everything in his home had carried a trail of dust from months of neglect—the location of everything unchanging and unmoving, inviolate even as it was forgotten. The only things in his house that did not bear that sense of abandonment were the books. They alone saw care and use, and they enjoyed a hallowed status.
It did not appear that Ossertine held her own books in quite such high regard, because Skate saw no sign of any books in the room, which seemed to occupy most of the second floor.
“Do you know where her books are?” she asked her back in hushed tones; a rooftop thump might have perked up ears, but a strange voice afterward would raise true suspicion, and that was attention she could ill afford.
Rattle avoided clicking but shifted around in the pack and pushed downward with just enough force that her head and shoulders jerked backward a bit. “Okay, I got it,” she said, taking the bent staircase down to the ground floor.
This room looked much more promising—like Belamy’s study, though smaller. While the upper floor was entirely directed toward accommodating a comfortable bedroom, the ground floor divided its space into two sections. One, which Skate saw through an open door, was an unstaffed kitchen. The study she was in functioned as a den or living room. Rows upon rows of books covered the room’s walls, the line of spines broken only twice: once where a comfortable sofa and table with a shaded lamp were positioned, behind which was a small square landscape painting, and again across from it where there hung a huge painting of an unfamiliar figure engaged in battle.
“Okay, eyeball,” Skate said over her shoulder, “pick one.” She unslung the bag and held it in front of her, afraid that mishandling it might get her stabbed or clawed. She could feel Rattle positioning itself inside the bag, and the heavy cloth of the bag shifted as the bat-winged eyeball spider peeked out to begin its survey.
Its eye roved hungrily over the titles, and if a book lacked one, Rattle stuck a trio of spindly legs out to open it. If it looked familiar (as the first several did), the book would be replaced on the shelf.
Skate walked with Rattle across the shelves that lined almost every inch of wall in the room, eventually standing on tiptoe to let it read the highest shelf, then bending at the waist to let it read the bottom. The sun moved further down while they scanned every book in the room. As they neared the last of the library, Rattle clicked its legs in irritation, and Skate couldn’t help but let out a heavy sigh. Belamy had said that there were books here he didn’t have. Where were they?
Her arms were getting tired. After Rattle had pulled and replaced the last of the books and devolved into a clicking frenzy, Skate set the bag down. The sought-after books were not here.
For the first time, Skate let her mind wander from the job. Not having anything else to do while Rattle stewed in its irritation, she found the only thing in the room worth looking at other than the books. The small square painting—the one that she could take out of the room if she wanted to—was dark and foreboding, though not masterfully done. The amateurish brushstrokes created a somewhat blurred image of a small island in a lake, all ground areas lush with various flora. It was evening in the painting, just as it was quickly becoming outside. The island in the middle had the only building in the whole picture: a thin tower with a single light peeking through a window in the top floor. Habit made Skate begin to examine the frame to see if it might be valuable.
Her initial appraisal was not promising. It looked like gold, but a gentle touch revealed wood under paint rather than precious metal. It did reveal something much more interesting, though: the painting would shift very easily from its place, despite its size and weight. She pushed it to the right and caught a glimpse of bare wood behind the frame. Curious, Skate tried to remove the entire painting and found that it dislodged easily. It was also heavy, and she struggled to set the thing down gently. When she had placed it safely on the floor, she saw with surprise that there was a small door the size of a window suspended in the wall. She pulled the heavy iron ring that served as the handle.
It was only as the door began to swing open that Skate thought of how foolish an act that had been; if this oddly placed door opened into the neighboring house’s wall, as it must do, she risked being spotted for a thief. Before she could admonish herself for her curiosity, she took in the sight in front of her:
This was not the neighbor’s house but a spacious room lined floor to ceiling with books, just like the room she was standing in—except the ceiling was higher, and the room considerably larger. A pair of comfortable-looking chairs and a fireplace interrupted the flow of the books across the room. Skate briefly thought about how dangerous it was to have a fireplace around this many books as she climbed through the door.
An ear-splitting screech rent the air. Panicked, Skate looked at the doorframe and spotted the culprit: another rune, this one designed to alarm rather than hurt. Presumably, Ossertine had not wanted to risk damaging her prized collection, but the noise was sure to attract a huge amount of unwanted attention. “Rattle!” Skate shouted, trying to be heard over the din. “Get out here and find a book! Quick!”
Before she had finished the command, Rattle had darted past her, flapping its dark wings happily as it roved the titles. The thing took less than ten seconds to pick one and clicked happily as it bobbed haphazardly toward the backpack with its prize in tow.
The screeching continued as Skate bolted out of the strange room. She slammed the hidden door shut, hoping that it would smother the noise, but to no avail. She pulled the neck of her ragged tunic over her nose to hide her face, and tied a rag from a pocket across her brow. Then she picked up the backpack, heavier with both the book and Rattle within, and bolted out the door.
Ten feet out the door, she heard a voice cry out for her to stop. She fought the urge to look for the source, since it would be no one she wanted to talk to: the best-case scenario was that it was a neighbor or other witness, and turning would only give them a description.
Skate darted down an alleyway, and heavy footfalls in the snow behind her told her she was being followed. She knew how to lose a tail, and set to work on randomizing her path; if she had a destination in mind, she would make for it eventually, even if she were not consciously trying to. She knew to avoid the house of Barrison Belamy, and so pushed it out of her mind. She took note of which way she turned and varied it at each opportunity: left, left, straight, right, straight again.
As she ran, Skate found a building with outdoor stairs leading to the roof. She bounded up them, still not looking back to see who was chasing her.