Page 62 of The Devouring Time

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“I do—thank you!” She hurries off across the great hall, and we have to take long strides to keep up. I’m starting to wonder if she knows how to walk at a normal pace.

“So you’re familiar with the museum,” Adrian says as she opens a staff door and steps through with confidence.

“Parts of it, at least. I have three uncles and an aunt—Irene—who work in the library. She deals with the Limited Access Collection, so I thought she would be the best to ask.”

I’d ask what the Limited Access Collection is, but I’m starting to lose my breath due to our pace. From what little I have time to see, the architecture is even odder than the mismatched outside would suggest, with halls taking abrupt turns and stairs leading up, then back down, with no apparent reason. I can’t imagine who designed such a thing, let alone signed off on its construction.

We finally reach a pair of heavy wooden doors, which for some reason are reinforced with steel bands, as if expecting a siege. Though the hall outside is of normal size, beyond the door is a vast space with a high ceiling, rows upon rows of stacks leading away. My heart leaps at the sight—so many books!—and I take a deep breath of air scented by old pages, leather bindings, and dust.

There’s a desk near the door; in front of it, waiting for us, stands a woman perhaps in her mid-forties. She has dark bronze skin, her black hair in a stylish bob. Her dress is fashionable, though the cut is slightly altered to make the most of her unfashionably plump body.

She smiles upon seeing Helen; her teeth are very white, and her eyes very dark. “Helen! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need your help, Aunt Irene.” Helen beckons the two of us forward. “Someone is using magic on bootleg liquor, and these two gentlemen are looking into the matter, as am I. Do you know if the library has a copy of a book called Lettere Segrete?”

A small line pops up between Irene’s brows as she considers. “It’s not in the Limited Access Collection,” she says, and my spirits sink once again. “But let me check the catalog.”

A massive row of card catalogs faces the desk, and she leads the way to it. “What about the Key of Mithras?” I ask.

She stops in the midst of flicking through the cards. “Now that I have heard of.” Her voice grows noticeably cooler. “Why do you want it, Mr…?”

“Sterling Caine,” I say. “And this is Mr. Adrian Evans. He’s an insurance investigator—a copy of the Key was stolen by the same people poisoning the liquor.”

“And doing other unsavory things,” Helen adds. “What do you know about it?”

“I’ve never seen a copy myself.” Irene gives us a piercing look, then returns to her search. “Supposedly, it contains a ritual to let one see across time. As opposed to through time.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I confess.

“Neither do I, and rumor has it everyone who has tried has gone mad. Though often such rumors are wild exaggerations.” She closes the card catalog drawer. “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t look like we have a copy of the Lettere Segrete.”

“Damn.” Helen doesn’t bother to conceal her disappointment. “Thank you for checking, anyway.”

“And for the information on the Key of Mithras,” Adrian adds.

“I hope it will be of use.” Irene turns to Helen. “Tell your mother I said hello, and I’ll stop by next Friday.”

“She’ll be glad to see you.” Helen gives her aunt a kiss on the cheek, before zooming off toward the doors. We hurry to catch up with her.

She slows once we reach the steps leading down from the museum. “What do you think seeing across time instead of through time means?” I ask.

“I can’t imagine.” Helen frowns as she thinks. “It doesn’t make sense, though perhaps that’s due to an error in translation from whatever language it was originally written in. Assuming it wasn’t English, of course.”

“And do you think people go mad from reading it? Or are they…like me?”

Adrian puts a steadying hand to my elbow, and I cast him a grateful look.

“You mean, not actually mad but they sound like a lunatic when they try to tell someone else about it?” Helen asks.

“I wouldn’t say I wasn’t mad, after Emerson and everything else.” My mind tries to shy away from that time, but I force myself to recall it. “I felt disconnected from reality, but also unable to escape from memories…my thoughts were rather disordered, to put it mildly.”

“I’m sure they were, after everything.” Thankfully her tone is matter-of-fact rather than pitying. “You might not have been hallucinating when you saw something wandering about in your friend’s corpse, but I can’t imagine that would be good for one’s mental state, even aside from the ordinary horrors of war.”

“True enough,” I agree.

“So should we try the university library?” Helen asks. “Or go back to my apartment and see if any of my contacts have reached out yet?”