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Drummond Fox, once the Librarian but now a wanderer, woke up that morning with the women he had seen the previous evening in his mind. He felt an urgency to find them, to save them from whatever fate might befall them. He showered and dressed and then took his three books from the bedside table—the Book of Luck, with its golden cover and golden pages; the Book of Shadows; and the Book of Memories. He lingered on the Book of Memories again, opening the cover and looking at the neatly penned text on the first page, just as he had a thousand times before over the years.
This is the Book of Memories.
Share it, to share a memory,
Give it, to give a memory,
And take it, to take a memory.
Drummond had often thought about taking his own memories, forgetting all about the special books and the woman and the Fox Library and just starting a new life. It had been tempting, but he had always resisted. He resisted again now, because he had a purpose. He had to find the women with the Book of Doors.
He slipped the Book of Memories into his pocket alongside the other two books. They formed a slight bulge against his hip, but he was comfortable with that, it was how he knew they were always there—they were so light and insubstantial normally, it was easy to forget he had them. He stepped out into the cold morning, the wind burning his cheeks, and walked the snow-covered city without direction, down the long avenues in the shadows between the tall buildings, along streets wide and narrow. He bought a hot dog from a street vendor, washing it down with a Coke, and then he walked some more, trusting to his luck.
It was lunchtime when he saw them. He was standing at a crossing in the Upper East Side, waiting for the lights to change, and he spotted the two women on the opposite corner. The blond one saw him, glancing across the street and meeting his eyes with a serious expression. They held each other’s gaze for a few moments but by the time he had crossed the street, slipping on the snowy sidewalk and stumbling and falling, the women were already at the end of the block. When he reached that corner only moments later there was no sign of them. The only place they could have gone was a deli, the first door along the street. Drummond entered the store, but it was empty other than the old woman behind the counter.
He returned to the street and stood there, breathing heavily, looking around to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. There was nothing but doorways to apartment buildings, nowhere for the women to have gone unless they lived on that particular street.
But Drummond didn’t think that was the case. He thought there was a different explanation, and he was even more sure than he had been the previous evening.
It was the Book of Doors, as unbelievable as that seemed.
Dr. Hugo Barbary kept one block away from Drummond Fox all through the man’s morning wander. Hugo had been a hunter before he had become a book hunter, and it had been easy for him the night before to follow the man’s tracks in the snow, all the way from Washington Square to the Library Hotel. Barbary had booked his own room in the same place, and a sizeable bribe to the concierge had made sure he was notified whenever Drummond left the building. Barbary had followed him all morning, wondering what the man was up to.
Barbary knew that Drummond Fox would have books. Nobody survived for ten years without being found, without some sort of help. Especially given the kind of people that were looking for Drummond.
Barbary had only two books himself, more than enough to fill his life with the sorts of pleasures and riches he enjoyed. And they were powerful books too, certainly powerful enough that he had been left alone so far. But someday, sooner or later, people would come for him, he knew: the bastard Okoro from Nigeria, or someone like him. Or the woman herself. It was an arms race to see who could collect the most books and the most power. Hugo was confident in his own abilities, and knew he inspired fear in others. But he also knew that it would be wise to have more books in his possession if he could. Books the like of which the Librarian had used to evade detection for ten years. Such books might be very useful indeed.
Barbary watched from across the street as Drummond Fox stood on the corner, a slightly puzzled look on his face, as if he had just lost something important.
Then the man walked again, heading south from the Upper East Side back toward Midtown.
Hugo didn’t mind. He liked walking, it kept him healthy.
At about the same time in London, where it was early evening rather than the middle of the day, Marion Grace was waiting for her sister at a busy Italian restaurant in Covent Garden. Marion hadn’t seen her sister for over five years—she rarely met anyone, anymore—but her sister had emailed asking for an urgent meeting. So Marion had left her apartment in the Docklands and made her way to Covent Garden. She had felt nervous and uncomfortable during the journey and had only really relaxed a little when she had reached the restaurant and had been given a table in the back corner.
“When the booking was made,” the waiter explained, “a quiet table was requested. I hope this will do?”
Marion smiled her thanks, grateful that her sister had been considerate enough to think of her fears. She had settled in to wait. The waiter had brought bread in a basket and then a drink, and then Marion had been distracted by her phone for a minute, wondering if there was a message from her sister, and when she looked up again the woman was there, watching her from across the table with her very dark eyes and her beautiful face.
Marion gasped. The woman stared at her without expression.
Marion turned her face toward the restaurant as if looking for help, but nobody else would know who the woman was. None of them would have seen anything other than an attractive woman in a flowery dress.
“You,” Marion said, her voice trembling.
The woman met her gaze, saying nothing.
Marion swallowed and her throat felt very small.
“I was meeting my sister,” Marion said.
The woman held her gaze, then slowly shook her head.
“You,” Marion said. “My sister, is she...”
“Your sister is gone,” the woman said simply. Her voice was quiet, her words almost whispered. Marion looked away in dismay.
She thought about running, but how could she run? She was an old woman who had spent five years in hiding. And who knew what books the woman had?
