Page 63 of The Devouring Time

“The library, I think.” Adrian turns to me. “Is that all right, Sterling?”

I still doubt a copy of the Lettere Segrete is conveniently waiting for us, but there’s only one way to know for sure. “Of course.”

Soon enough, we once again find ourselves standing before the stone arch leading onto the university grounds. Helen clearly knows her way around, so we follow her lead, stretching our legs to keep up with her quick pace. The library turns out to be a gothic revival structure made from solid granite, whose soaring spires and lancet windows cause me to at first mistake it for a cathedral. On the arch above the massive entryway are carved the words: K.W. ABBOTT LIBRARY—Let no hand hold me back.

Just inside the entrance is a pedestal with a large glass box on top. In it, affixed upright on a frame, is a shriveled human hand.

“What the hell!” Adrian exclaims at the macabre sight.

“It’s the hand that held Kindred Abbott back,” Helen says, and continues forward with no further explanation.

Adrian looks at me, as if asking if her words make any sense. I shrug, as confused as he is.

The lancet windows let in great swathes of light, which drape over the long rows of tables that fill most of the first room. Students crowd them, bending over books and feverishly scribbling notes. One group seems to be in a heated argument, carried out in whispers and wild gestures.

Helen makes for a massive desk in the center of the room which bears a plaque reading Reference Librarians. The nearest librarian behind the desk, a thin man with skin the color of fine leather, looks up as we approach.

“Can I help you?” he asks in a quiet voice suitable for a library.

“Yes.” Helen withdraws a card from her purse. “I’m an alumni, and wanted to know if there’s a copy of the Lettere Segrete in the library.”

“It’s always a pleasure to serve one of our fine alumni,” he says after glancing at the card. I wonder if he’s hoping the interaction will lead to a donation. “If you can write down the title and author, I’ll check for you.”

He slides a paper and pencil across the desk, and Helen gestures to me. I scribble down the information, and he bids us wait a moment before departing. Helen fidgets impatiently and I try to distract myself by looking around the room. Some of the windows have stained glass at the very pinnacles, set with strange symbols I don’t recognize.

This is a fool’s errand, but hopefully with Helen by our side we can get an interview with Dr. Dane. It’s far too late to pretend to be someone else, but if I can just get the chance to explain…

Someone is watching me.

The sensation—no, certainty—hits me all at once. I scan the tables filled with busy students, but none of them seem to be staring our way. Even so, it’s hard to tell—there are too many of them, the place too crowded.

Or I’m imagining things. Everything that’s happened has made me paranoid…though considering how many people seem to be out to get me, the paranoia is justified.

Before I can say anything to Adrian, the reference librarian returns, a slip of paper in his hand. “The Lettere Segrete is held in the upper gallery, row ninety-eight, stack twenty-two, shelf one.”

My jaw falls open in shock. “You actually have it?”

“Yes?” the librarian says, clearly confused.

Helen tosses me a triumphant look. “Never mind him. Thanks for your help—you’re the cat’s pajamas.”

She hastens away toward the rear wall of the room, which is pierced by an enormous archway whose old oaken doors are currently propped open. Beyond lies heaven.

Well, heaven to me, anyway. A long gallery runs ahead of us, stretching the entire length of the building. To either side are row upon row of shelves, all stuffed with books. Twin staircases curve gracefully up to the second level, which bears even more rows of books. The scent of leather, paper, parchment, and ink fills the air, and something inside me loosens as I breathe deep.

Adrian grins at me. “I take it this is your kind of place?”

“You could say that.” I smile back, resisting the urge to take his hand. If only we could wander among the stacks at our leisure.

Helen is already halfway up the stairs to our left. Reluctantly banishing my pleasant thoughts, I start after her, Adrian at my side.

We walk almost the length of the room to find row ninety-eight, then plunge between the stacks. My heart quickens at the titles I glimpse—this place is a treasure trove of old, rare tomes. There doesn’t seem to be anyone keeping a close eye on them, either. How on earth have they not been robbed blind by unscrupulous book runners?

“Here we are.” Helen stops at a stack with the number twenty-two neatly marked in bronze letters. She cranes her head back, looking up, up the tall bookcase. “And the shelf we want is at the very top, of course. Someone get a ladder.”

Tall ladders of black iron stand at regular intervals along the row, affixed to rails that allow them to slide left or right. Adrian rolls the nearest over.

For the first time, Helen seems uncomfortable. “I, ah, I’m not good with heights.”