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Isobel had often wondered why his mother had left. Always, her presumed answer pointed at one individual: Varen’s father. But even if she—Madeline—had needed to escape, even if she’d had to get away, how could she have left her son behind? She must have known about him, that he was different. Special.
Hadn’t she cared?
Lost in her thoughts, Isobel hadn’t realized that she’d flipped to the last photo in the stack, one that showed a solitary stone face that peered out from an alabaster wall.
Isobel looked closer, realizing that she knew that face. She recognized it from one of the houses on Varen’s street. It was one of the “green men” he had told her about, the group of gargoyle busts said to act as protectors against evil.
“Sleeping on the job,” Isobel muttered at the photo.
The face of the gargoyle glowered up at her. He looked almost human, except for the oversize, orblike eyes that stared sightlessly forward.
Isobel sighed and gathered the photos. Before tucking them back into the box, she took a moment to sift through the remaining contents, a collection of bits and pieces strewn along the violet crushed-velvet lining. Broken typewriter keys lay intermixed with antique jewelry, buttons, and brooches, and folded slips of . . . sheet music?
Isobel snatched up one of the papers. She was about to unfold it when she noticed the glimmering object that had lain beneath, concealed.
A lady’s elaborate hair comb, encrusted with amethyst gemstones, winked at her in the candlelight. Isobel dipped her hand back into the box and lifted the comb free. She held it up for inspection and it sparkled in her grasp, as if each jewel held its own glowing ember within.
She had seen this comb before, but where?
Isobel’s phone began to buzz in long pulses from within her pocket. She pulled it free and answered.
“Yeah?” she said, keeping her voice at a whisper.
“He’s gone,” Gwen said. “Just left. But he did something weird before he drove off.”
“What?”
“He put something in Varen’s car.”
Isobel paused. Varen’s dad had put something in his car?
“What was it?” she asked. “Did you see?”
Isobel returned the comb to the box. She laid the stack of photos on top and then closed the lid. Carefully she slid the box back into its original place against the wall.
“No,” Gwen answered. “I was trying to make it look like I was busy reading. Which is hard to do when all you’ve got laying around are road maps and gas receipts. But I thought I saw him open the glove compartment.”
Dusting herself off, Isobel stood.
“I’m coming out.” With that, she closed her phone, blew out the candle, and went to the narrow hole in the stairs.
She pulled herself out, replacing the plank before hurrying to the door.
It was still open. She poked her head out first, though she didn’t see Bruce behind the counter. Maybe, she thought, she could slip out while he was occupied somewhere amid the stacks. She listened another moment for coughing or heavy breathing. When she didn’t hear either, she took a cautious step out.
“I don’t know how you did that,” a voice behind her said.
Isobel stopped midstride. She glanced over her shoulder to find Bruce sitting on a stool and facing one of the wall shelves. A cardboard box half-filled with books sat near his feet.
He turned his head to look at her with mismatched eyes, one brown, one ghostly gray.
“Nor do I want to know,” he added. “I’d prefer you keep it to yourself. I get in trouble when I know too much. And just for future reference, it’s this one that’s glass,” he hissed, and aimed a finger at the gray eye.
Isobel gulped. She shrank to press her back against the wall behind her and waited awkwardly for whatever would come next. She wanted to make a break for the front door, but she couldn’t decide whether it would be better to stay and try to conjure up some excuse for herself.
She started to speak, but he cut her off.
“No,” he grunted, holding up a hand to silence her. “Don’t say anything. I’m glad you’re here. Even if I feel like he could do better.”
