Page 20 of The Devouring Time

Was that why I’d left? Had some sort of criminal alter-ego taken me over as a result of the injection Myers gave me? Perhaps I’d suggested dealing in stolen books, and James had rightfully insisted I sell my part of the business in response.

Three doors lead off the landing. Desiring to put an end to the conversation, I go to the one on the left and open it. Adrian follows without comment.

The room beyond is decorated in the same out-of-date style as the rest of the house. Sheets drape what appears to be a couch, chairs, and dresser. Moth-eaten carpets cover much of the wooden floor, and an enormous bed sits atop a small dais, as if the master of the house might need that extra few inches of height to feel important as he sleeps. Scarlet curtains hang from the canopy, matching the dust-laden coverlet on the bed. A second door stands open, revealing a tiled bathroom.

“Look through the dresser,” Adrian orders. “I’ll check elsewhere.”

As I cross to the dresser, he goes to the fireplace opposite the bed and begins to inspect the ornate marble surround. Looking for secret hiding places, I assume.

A dusty mirror hangs above the dresser, and as I approach, the movement of my own reflection brings me to a halt. My eyes focus just below it, on the few inches of brown-painted plaster between the top of the dresser and the mirror frame.

I don’t want to look up. Everything in me recoils from the thought of seeing myself in the glass. My throat constricts, and sweat breaks out across my brow. My hand trembles as I wipe it away.

What is wrong with me? Is this some new phase of my shell shock?

Swallowing hard, I force my gaze up to the mirror.

The irrational fear evaporates at the sight, replaced by a more ordinary dismay.

I look terrible.

My hair has grown out, only the tips bleached, leaving the rest its original dull brown. The cut is indifferent and uneven. My eyebrows are a shaggy thicket, unplucked and unshaped. Shadows ring my eyes, and my cheeks are hollow.

“My God!” I exclaim, touching my hair helplessly.

“Have you found something?” Adrian calls hopefully from where he’s now searching the couch.

“No, but look at me! I look like a hobo.” My barber would be in despair to see me like this. If it turns out I’ve alienated him as well as James, I might just fling myself into the East River.

Adrian sighs. “The dresser, Sterling?”

“Oh. Yes.” Putting the tragedy of my appearance aside, I pull off the sheet, revealing a dresser of golden oak that looks to have been last polished sometime around the turn of the century. The drawers squeak as I pull them out.

The only thing stored in the top three drawers is dust and a few scattered mothballs. At Adrian’s instruction, I remove them from the dresser entirely, but nothing seems to be hidden in the space behind.

As I slide free the bottom drawer, however, a pale rectangle of paper catches my eye. It’s tucked in the very back of the drawer, one corner caught in the join between the back and side panels, which is probably why it was overlooked when the dresser was emptied. I hold it up to the light.

It’s a business card, reading:

Howard Davis, Ph.G.

Licensed Pharmacist

184 Waverly Place

Manhattan

New York, New York

“Look here,” I say. Adrian leaves off his investigation of the bathroom and takes the card from me, studying it carefully.

“You were drugged, and here’s the card for a pharmacy,” he begins—then both of us freeze as the sound of a motor penetrates the closed windows.

14

I flatten myself against the nearest wall, heart pounding. Adrian does the same, then motions toward the window.

While I slide along the wall, he drops to the floor and crawls on his belly so as not to cross the line-of-sight through the window. The motor grows louder, and is joined by others, tires crunching over fallen limbs and other detritus of the abandoned grounds, until they come to a stop.