Page 18 of The Devouring Time

The window, meant to catch the breeze from the ocean, is large enough for us to both slip through without issue. The interior is as I recalled: stuffy and covered in dust. The biggest change is the drop cloths thrown over the furniture.

As soon as we’re inside, Adrian makes for the telephone sitting on the hall table. He lifts the handset and clicks the switch a few times before hanging back up. “No signal, damn it.” With a sigh, he turns toward the stairs. “What do you want to do first? Search the uppermost floor, look in the hidden room in the library, or see if there’s anything in the basement?”

“Library,” I decide. “It’s the last place I remember being before waking up in Widdershins.”

We take the stairs to the second-floor library, and I pause a moment to peer up the grand stairwell, trying to discern what might be on the top floor. Bedrooms and other private spaces meant only for the inhabitants, I assume.

I don’t see anything but stairs and a chandelier hanging high above, so I start down the corridor toward the library. Drop cloths cover the paintings lining the wall, and the sound of one of them being pulled down brings me to a halt.

Adrian has thrown aside the cloth and is examining the first painting with a critical eye. “Looking for stolen artworks?” I guess.

“Exactly.”

“But surely Hart wouldn’t have just hung it in the hall. Myers led me right past all of these—what if I’d recognized it?”

He snorts. “You’d be surprised at how careless people can be. Hubris has been the downfall of many a thief. When a man is convinced he’s smarter than everyone else, he’s inclined to make fundamental mistakes. Or is an easy mark when it comes to forgeries and the like.”

“Do you find many forgeries?” I ask as he moves on to the next painting.

“Not my area of expertise. The company has appraisers who take a close look before any policies are issued. My cousin is one of them—she’s the one who got me the job with Grayson and Bell when I got home from the war. My role comes after a claim is filed, if the bosses think something suspicious might be going on.”

We continue down the corridor, Adrian uncovering the paintings as we go. Soon a cloud of dust fills the air, shaken free from the drop cloths. “Here’s the door to the library,” I say when we reach it.

“Just let me take a look at these last two.” He gestures at the covered paintings further down the corridor.

“Might as well be thorough,” I agree, glancing at the library door with more than a little trepidation. The last time I’d walked through it, my biggest concern had been whether or not I could find anything valuable enough on the shelves to justify my visit. I’d imagined I was going home, that night if I was lucky and first thing in the morning if I wasn’t.

It just happened yesterday, my mind insists. Yet somehow I feel as if that Sterling was almost a stranger, as if a vast gulf of experience separates me from him.

“Holy shit,” Adrian blurts.

I snap out of my reverie and hurry over to him. The drop cloth from the final painting hangs limply from his hand as he stares up at it. When I reach his side, he says, “This is it. The Wheel of Aion.”

13

“I knew he had the damn painting! If only I’d been able to sneak back in at the time.” Adrian’s jaw clenches and his eyes flash righteous fire. Somehow, it only enhances his good looks.

Heat rising to my face, I fix my gaze on the relatively small painting. Though my expertise is in books, I’ve picked up some knowledge of art through the tomes we handle. At a guess, it dates from the Renaissance.

A naked young man—well, except for a tiny fig leaf—stands inside a circle divided into several parts. He holds onto the circle with one hand, as though it’s a giant hoop he has to keep upright. On the left side, the sun rises in a chariot drawn by lions, while on the right, the moon sets in a chariot pulled by bulls. Grass sprouts beneath the figure’s feet, and constellations decorate the sky above him.

“The god is Aion, I think?” Adrian says. “At least the painting is called Wheel of Aion, by Bianca Giuliani.”

“I’ve never heard of either god or artist,” I admit. “What do we do now that you’ve found it?”

“I need to place a call to my employer and the police, in that order. As soon as possible.” Adrian carefully hangs the cloth back up over the painting. “Let’s see what else we can find.”

At least some good is coming out of this trip. Hopefully the police don’t think I’m involved with the theft.

Strike that—hopefully I’m not involved with the theft. Because Adrian thinks I participated in stealing the Key of Mithras, and I can’t remember one way or the other. I can’t imagine myself doing such a thing…but I can’t imagine turning my back on Forgotten Folios, either.

Damn it. What happened to me? What is still happening?

“Sterling?”

I look up and find Adrian watching me with concern on his face. The rain and mud has left us both shabby: suits rumpled and stained, hair in disarray. I haven’t seen a mirror yet, but I can picture the awful state I’m in.

I was supposed to be done with mud and death and violence. But here I am, filthy and exhausted. I’ve been shot at, chased, and almost turned into a cannibal’s dinner.