“Some of them seem to be, yes. Not all.” I trace the outline of the Tree of All Souls.
“It could be a forgery,” Ann says.
“What if it’s not? What if…What if he’s in trouble?” I say.
“Or someone wants you to believe that he is,” Ann says gently.
“There is a way to find out,” Fee says. “We could go in.”
“Not yet,” I say. How can I tell my friends I’ve become afraid to enter that world? That when I think of it, my palms sweat and my heart races so desperately that I fear I am dying? What I feel when I think of going back is pure, terrifying panic. “There was something about that note that jarred my memory. Do you remember Wilhelmina Wyatt’s book on secret societies? Let’s see if Miss Wyatt’s book can shed some light on any ‘coven’ that might be using these symbols.”
“But we don’t have that book with us,” Ann says.
“True. But the New York Public Library might.”
Felicity crumples onto the chaise in dramatic fashion. “No. Please not that old fossil, the library, Gemma.”
“No need for melodrama, Fee. Ann is the actress, not you. Cheer up! Perhaps they’ll have a book on hats,” I say, grabbing my purse and gloves. “Let’s go.”
“I’ve just remembered that I sometimes hate you, Gemma,” Felicity grumbles, and I can’t help but laugh, completely overjoyed to see her again.
* * *
The New York Public Library is anything but a fossil. It is a living, vibrant thing, like being inside some time-traveling ship that is also a sea creature. A helpful librarian directs us to the proper room, and after perusing the card catalog, we find what we’re looking for. Except that Miss Wyatt’s book isn’t on the shelf where it’s supposed to be.
“Excuse me,” I whisper, troubling the librarian again. “I can’t seem to find this book.”
She sorts through a stack of library cards and selects one, tapping it with her finger. “It’s out.”
“Out?” Who could possibly want to read such an obscure title?
She smiles, raises an eyebrow. “Yes. Borrowed. That’s how the library functions. You’re in luck, though. Looks as if it’s due tomorrow. Come back then. I’ll set it aside for you.”
“But who borrowed it?” I blurt out.
She stops smiling. “I’m afraid that’s not allowed. We protect the privacy of our patrons. I’m sure you would want the same. Come back tomorrow.”
The next morning, bright and early when the library opens, Felicity, Ann, and I are there, seated at the table nearest the circulation desk, waiting to see just who will be returning Miss Wilhelmina Wyatt’s exposé on secret societies, which the now-wary librarian has promised to hand over to us straightaway. “My. It must be very important,” she says quietly, giving us a narrow-eyed once-over as she stamps cards with the date.
“Very,” I whisper. “Why, our Kappa Kappa Gamma garden party will be simply ruined without it.”
“I must leave for the theater by six o’clock,” Ann reminds us as we wait.
“This is so terribly dull,” Felicity complains in a loud whisper.
“It’s only been twenty minutes, Felicity,” I singsong under my breath.
“There is nothing to do here!”
I glance pointedly at the beautiful room whose shelves teem with books on every subject under the sun. “I’m sure they have a book on Parisian fashion or poisoning your enemies. Perhaps there’s even one on both.”
“You only pretend to be nice,” Felicity sniffs. “No one knows your wicked heart like I do.”
“That may be the truest thing you’ve ever said.”
I select Middlemarch by George Eliot, but I can scarcely pay attention to its prose. I keep glancing at the desk in hopes of seeing our mystery reader. The hours tick by. The room is hot and still. Drowsiness sets in. My eyelids flutter. And then I am dreaming of the realms and the Tree of All Souls. That bargain of peace. That terrible sacrifice. I hear the gate to the Winterlands asking its eternal question: What is your heart’s desire?
I snap awake, heart pounding. “What time is it?”
“Half past four,” Ann says with a yawn. “They’ll be closing soon.”
“Thank heavens,” Felicity grumbles.
“What if the borrower doesn’t return it after all of this?” Ann asks.
“We murder Gemma and you and I go to Delmonico’s for dinner,” Felicity says.
And then, suddenly, a woman sweeps through on her way to the desk. She walks with quiet confidence. Her black hair is pinned beneath a pale yellow straw hat adorned with feathers, which pairs well with her bold black-and-white striped dress. Draped across her arm is a red cloak. Her beauty could best be described as handsome—there’s a sharp, nearly masculine quality to her face and manner. Felicity sits up straight and does her best to look disinterested, though, from her frequent sideways glances, she most decidedly is.
“I should like to renew this book,” the woman says softly to the librarian, setting the book on the desk. Her accent is hard for me to place—faintly British but not quite.
The librarian gestures to me. “I’m afraid this woman has been waiting for it all day, miss.”
The dark-haired woman whips around. Her brown eyes widen and her mouth opens in shocked surprise. Without another word, she hurries from the room. Felicity, Ann, and I give chase. From behind me, I hear the librarian breaking the hush of the room: “Miss Doyle! Don’t you want the book?”
The woman in the yellow hat scurries down the marble staircase. She is quick. Blast!
“Please don’t force me to chase you in this hideous corset. I can…scarcely…breathe,” I plead from the top of the staircase.
To my surprise, she turns to face me, allowing us time to descend. “Who are you with? Are you one of them? Where is my sister?” she demands. There is both fury and fear in her tone.
“I’m sorry. I—I don’t know what you mean,” I say.
“Where is my sister?”
“Your…your sister?”
“Yes! Where are you keeping Noor? Noor Hassan!”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. My name is Gemma Doyle—”
Her eyes widen further at this. She gasps, and then something hard, hidden by the red cloak, pokes into my side. “If you scream or run, I will shoot. Now. Come with me.”