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“This house, the professor’s father built it?”
“Grandfather. If you ask me, it’s a Gilded Age monstrosity, but full of history and, before recently, pride.” Ms. Dillard caught herself bringing up the recent trauma of the household and pressed her lips into a thin line.
“Was he a whimsical man?” I asked, noticing yet another cluster of carved flowers teeming with miniature creatures from myth. Unicorns, sea monsters, and ethereal women climbing from their sealskins.
“No. He came from a very pious lineage that rejected whimsy, though not wealth, in all fashions. His wife was an Italian heiress, equally dedicated. They both despised what they called the eccentricity of simple folk.”
“Ah,” I said, insulted from beyond the grave.
“The flowers, the fairies—it was all Professor Hughes’s mother. They did considerable cosmetic renovations to the estate when their company expanded. She was in charge of it.”
I didn’t offer my opinion on this, unsure from her tone how she felt about the professor’s mother, but I was enchanted. I longed to linger and study each carving and relief, every bit and piece of wallpaper and carpeting that held magic like secret kisses.
“Does the professor spend a lot of time here?”Alonewas the word I omitted.
“This is the longest he’s been present in the house in the past two years. He’s been traveling extensively for business. He plans to remain here only until his research is done.”
This explained the short-term contract of my employment, the sum of money undeniably set to tempt a potential employee to take the position despite the environment they’d be working in.
“That’s impressive, to run a business and continue to teach,” I said.
“As I’m sure Dr. Hannigan mentioned to you, the professor is taking a sabbatical,” she replied, adding with a trace of sympathy that revealed her affection, “Though, someday soon, he’ll be forced to choose one or the other.”
We arrived at the doors of the library, two hulking slabs of oak that were unique only due to their lack of ornamentation. There were no carved faces, flowers, gilded animals, or fleur-de-lis. Its only adornment was the handles, bronze and glinting in the final daylight.
Ms. Dillard knocked sharply three times to announce our arrival, then pulled the door open with relative ease, the hinges well-oiled. The scent of cedar wood and polish invaded my senses in a rush, and a wonderland appeared before me. Herringbone parquet and damask carpets warred with mahogany bookshelves, trimmed in gold leaf and green marble, for the attention of the eyes. Though the room was not a full two stories high, track ladders were necessary to reach the topmost shelves, all packed tight with books and curiosities: jars of moss and lichen, bone-colored candelabras, bronze mantel clocks featuring cherubs and fauns, skeleton clocks under glass revealing their delicate innermost workings. Ruby brocade was the fabric of choice for the high-backed Victorian parlor chairs arranged around the fireplace that opened to my full height. A mantel matching the dark wood of the bookcases was carved to depict a conspiracy of ravens taking flight, extending up into the room, creating a lifelike quality that enthralled me. Above the fireplace was an oil painting of the same woman from the fountain, hair like the early sunrise, her magnificent birds perched on her raised arms as waves crashed at her feet. Unlike in the hallways, there was electricity here. Stained glass lamps flanked the chairs, warmly illuminated. A crystal chandelier the size of Mr. Dempsey’s automobile hung above head, light bulbs in place of candles, though for now unlit.
“Professor”—even Ms. Dillard’s voice was warmer in this space—“Miss Foxboro has arrived.”
“Show her in,” came the absent response in a velvet baritone that raised my brows ever so slightly.
In my awe of the library, I’d missed the man rifling through a stack of papers, shuffling them one after another, his back to us. He stood bent over the desk in a manner that made his imposing height evident. Over a starched white collared shirt, he wore a tailored tweed vest the color of flint, the cut of it bringing attention to the broad expanse of his shoulders. His slacks were still perfectly creased despite the hour, as though he hadn’t sat in them the entire day, and a matching business jacket lay discarded on a nearby chair, too warm for the room. Based on the tailoring alone, I deduced that the outfit had been ludicrously expensive. I smoothed the hem of my modest and much-mended sweater and stepped inside the library’s warm arms, relieved to finally meet the professor.
“Professor Hughes, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” I said, channeling every drop of my professionalism.
“Miss Foxboro,” he intoned, drawing my name into a rumination, not turning but instead discarding the paper in his hand onto the floor to join several others that had not proved useful to him. I perceived this as a fire hazard.
When he spoke again, his voice was a honeyed lilt, sending a tingle through me.
“Mé Líadain, rocarus-sa Cuirithir: is fírithir adfiadar.”
A log in the fireplace gave way, sending the flames high and casting a momentary bright light before dying down again, stretching the shadows.
“Sir?” I faltered.
“Translate it.”
I rushed to gather my wits. “Ehm, I am Líadain who loved Curithir: It is true, as they say.”
“Identify the origin.”
My brain kicked and sputtered, reviewing all the Gaelic poetry I’d stored in the ditches of my memory.
“The seventh-century poetess Líadain. She’s writing about her love.”
“Fluent?”
“Not at all, sir. I studied at school, and it was merely a pursuit of interest. I didn’t think I’d ever have need of it.”
