Would that her assertion was supported upon firmer rectitude, but it was not. She did care what others thought of her, but she knew that what they saw was not who she truly was. She herself did not even know who she was; she durst never look too deeply for fear she would see something that frightened and appalled her. It was why she avoided mirrors, though, thankfully she had caught her reflection this morning or she might not have seen the mark. She couldn’t even have a wicked dream without it being broadcasted on her flesh!
If what she had said to Winterly last night was true, that one could tell a lot about someone by examining their taste in literature, what sort of character did her most private book collection reveal about her heart and mind? Who was Emma Rose really? A lover of grotesqueries? An unwholesome woman of unsavory tastes and peculiar ideas? A relisher of all things dark?
Emma always strove—or at least endeavored to appear—to be a more expurgated version of her true self, and to conform to the straitened template to which she was resigned by her family and society. Lately, however, it seemed the corruption within had gone so far as too manifest in dreams. Dreams that induced strange wanderings in the night and spawned incubi to ravish her.
They bedeviled even her flesh, leaving insidious, fragmentary suspicions in their wake—that Winterly’s presence had been no dream at all but, in truth, a living memory! Most alarming of all was that she, in the most shadowy and forbidden corner of her heart, desired that it was true, that he had come to her in the night! Faithless Emma indeed. She had precious little faith in herself of late. The thought was an unwelcome one and she shut the door to her bedchamber none too gently in hopes that evil thoughts would be trapped on the other side of it.
The sound of her aunt’s voice was a welcome reprieve from her thoughts. “And tell your sister,” Aunt Sophie was saying to Milli, “that her uncle wishes to see her in the library, I believe The Times is missing again.”
Rolling her eyes, Emma swiftly threw the door open and stuck her head out. “I don’t have the—” But the hallway was empty. That’s odd. She could have sworn her aunt had spoken right outside her door. Emma was still wearing a look of befuddlement when her sister appeared at the stairhead.
“Our uncle,” said Milli, “wishes to see you about—”
“The Times, I heard. I don’t have it.”
Milli threw a disconcerted glance behind her. “You heard us? All the way from the breakfast room? That’s not possible.”
“You…you were in the breakfast room? Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Milli,” said Emma, frightened, “I think I’m going mad.”
“Yes, I’ve wondered that for some time.”
“I am in earnest, sister! Peculiar things are happening to me.”
“That’s all right”—Milli lifted her shoulders and turned to head back downstairs—“you would not be you if you weren’t a little peculiar. Make sure you wear something pretty to tea tomorrow.”
Chapter Seventeen
Library Of Occultsim
My Dear Emma,—I shouldn’t worry too much about the sleepwalking. Last week I found Sister Margret arguing with a teapot in her sleep. You are to understand she is quite rational when awake; a little potty in her sleep, however. Nothing to fret about. God bless you and your dreams,
Mary.
Postscript:—In somnis veritas—in dreams there is truth.
The building that occupied 28 Great Castle Street was wedged so tightly between its neighbors that it appeared to stoop inward so that the eave above the door was bent like a frown. All was in shadow save that forbidding door, which was lit only by a cheerless lamp. Nothing moved below, within that glare of light, except the gathering heft of unfallen rain clinging darkly to the red bricks and vacant stairhead.
“Must be the wrong address, miss.” The coachman raised a wary gaze to the laden sky. “We ought to head back.”
“Nonsense,” said Emma, climbing the stairs, “we ought to at least knock on the door before giving up.” This was done with a determined knock. Somehow, she felt sure she was in the right place.
Almost immediately, the door swung open, the force of which released a warning gust, throwing Emma’s mantle into a welter. A fine-boned woman of uncommon beauty stood barring the entrance with a sever look upon her pale face. Her hair gleamed like a crimson halo beneath the yellow light. “Yes?”
Emma gathered her wits and stepped forward with the invitation. “I believe this was dropped—”
The woman snatched the invitation with shocking speed. The eyes that had, until then, frozen Emma to the stairhead were a peculiar tawny color. They were now bent sharply over the invitation. Her brows gathered in bemusement when she lifted her gaze from it, then she stood aside to admit Emma. “Enter.”
Emma was so appalled at the woman’s curtness that she nearly turned on her heel and marched off. Instead, she glanced over her shoulder at the carriage driver and bade him return for her in an hour.
“Very good, miss.” And off he went.
Emma all but scrambled after the woman who, as soon as the door was shut, marched off down a long corridor and then a flight of stairs that was very poorly lit. Emma was on the verge of retreating when another door was shoved open to reveal a sight so unexpected that she nearly tripped over her own jaw.
They had emerged into a vaulted room of ancient grandeur and iron chandeliers. There were soaring walls of twisting pilasters and book-lined shelves ornamented with gilded stucco and strange statuary. The ironwork staircases spiraled up towards the upper gallery like stairways to heaven where yet more books were lit by golden candlelight. All was shadow and light and mystery. And it defied reality, for she had seen the drab lines of the building from without and there had been no hint of the magnificence and magnitude disguised within.
There were not very many patrons milling about the area, and those that were—bibliographers and book collectors, no doubt—seemed to have purpose, their heads bent and their eyes scanning deliberately over the catalogues.
“Wait here,” said the woman, handing the invitation back to Emma. Without waiting for a reply, she stalked off. Emma nodded, staring about her in wonderment.
In fact, she was so absorbed in her surroundings that she did not notice the man who approached her until his voice dispelled her awe. It was as though he’d dropped down from some hidden espial, quite out of nowhere and silent withal. “Good evening, mademoiselle.” He was a striking man with long locks of unbound silver and eyes so strange a shade of mahogany that Emma misgave herself they were red. His features were as beautiful as the churlish red-haired woman who now stood behind him. Although, his countenance was a welcoming contrast to hers. “Welcome to our little collection.”
“Monsieur De Grigori is the curator of our family collection,” said the rude woman.
“And this delightful creature,” said he, “is my…sister, Minerva.”
“Mina,” she said, peering down her nose at Emma.
“Emmaline Rose.” Emma’s smile was almost apologetic as she held out the invitation to him. “I’m afraid, Monsieur De Grigori, I have come here uninvited.”