I heard it, too. Some kind of chant or incantation. I couldn’t make out the words, but it was a man’s voice. “Mr. MacDougall?”
Mr. Wyck straightened, his shoulders squared to the door. “Maybe.”
I pulled the handle by inches and peeked inside. My gaze shot to the inner sanctum beyond the towers of books, where a cloaked figure knelt between us and the divining pool. His arms outstretched in a worshipful pose.
But it wasn’t the man who sent a shot of fear through me as much as the pool itself. The whole thing, from the bottom of its footed pedestal to the wide alabaster rim glowed red. Not lavender or violet as it had during Mrs. Crossey’s Converging, but a deep pulsating red with a crimson cloud rising above it.
The chanting stopped.
Before the figure could turn our way, I hid behind the nearest tower. Mr. Wyck did the same.
He moved his finger to his lips, but I didn’t need the warning. His wide eyes told me he was as panicked as I.
After a moment, the muttering resumed. I breathed more easily, but I knew without a doubt this was what my dragonfly had wanted me to see.
I leaned around the tower’s corner and tried to listen to what was being said. Tried to determine what was happening. Tried to identify who it was beneath that robe.
It didn’t help that I couldn’t understand a word being said, if they were even words at all. I stared at Mr. Wyck until I caught his eye.
“Who is it?” I mouthed.
He hiked his shoulders, a silent I don’t know.
It was all I could do not to step out and put a stop to whatever this was for I knew with every ounce of sense within me that it couldn’t be good. Or was it just me rushing to judgment again? Could I risk another reckless act? I’d already caused so much trouble.
I leaned against the tower, closed my eyes, and tried to think: what would Mrs. Crossey have me do?
Don’t be rash.
I opened my eyes and stared at the row of robes hanging on the wall, with one lonely black coat hanging among them. A gentleman’s coat, not a servant’s.
I caught Mr. Wyck’s eye again and pointed to it.
His lips twisted. He didn’t understand.
But he didn’t need to. I knew how to get the answers we needed.
I peeked around the tower again. The robed figure was still facing the pool, away from us. The figure stood transfixed, and I could see it was certainly a man, though too short and too stout to be Mr. MacDougall.
At that instant, wispy tendrils emerged from the cloud and stretched toward the man’s outstretched hands. I watched as the streaks wrapped around his fingers, working their way over his wrists and his arms.
My heart lurched. I remembered those streaks. I remembered them winding around my own limbs, holding me captive in the woods.
I thought of the shadow creature again. That furious red gaze that had snaked into my soul.
But I had to move.
I shook off that painful reminder, pulled off my gloves, and tucked them into a skirt pocket, then dashed across the aisle to the black coat hanging among the robes.
Mr. Wyck lunged at me, trying to stop me, but I was faster. I yanked the coat from its hook and sank back into the safety behind the tower.
Instantly my panic slipped away, replaced by a powerful surge of something that started in my fingertips. Even before I could pull the Faytling free from my neck, images emerged. Not just a face, but a life. A whole world of thoughts and feelings and intentions.
I swooned with the amount of information that flowed into me.
I opened my eyes and Mr. Wyck stood over me. His mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear a word. Then with a whoosh! the sound returned.
He tugged my arm. “We have to go. Now!”
“Who’s there?” the man called out from the divining pool. “Show yourself.”
I scrambled to my feet, but it was too late. Fast and heavy footsteps echoed through the hall.
I dropped the man’s coat, grabbed an indigo robe, and threw it around myself. I was pulling the hood low when Mr. Bailey rounded the corner of the tower.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “No one should—”
Whatever he meant to say next died on his lips as he fell to his knees and slumped to the floor.
Standing behind him, tall and proud, was Mr. Wyck holding one end of a scroll like a cricket bat.
He stared at me. I stared back. Then he threw the scroll to the ground with a crash, and we ran into the tunnel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
With only my Faytling’s light, Mr. Wyck and I didn’t stop running through the tunnel until we reached the row of doorways. My heart pummeled my chest as he approached the first one. I knew he was thinking the same thing I was. “Which one do we take?” I asked anyway.
He shook his head, his expression lost. “They all look the same. I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“Do we take one or keep going till we reach Mr. MacDougall’s office?”
He stared at the door.
A rattle and slam rang through the tunnel.
“He’s coming,” I said.
“If he sees us, he’ll recognize us.”
I couldn’t let that happen. I’d seen what he planned to do. I knew his desperation.
Mr. Wyck pressed on. “I know it wasn’t the first door, or the second. We passed four, maybe five on our way to Fayte Hall.”
“At least five,” I added, the memory trickling back.
He paced in front of me, stopping at the sixth door and eyed it.
I passed him, grabbed the handle, and pushed it open. To my surprise, it gave easily. I stepped through. It wasn’t the same tunnel we had come in. These walls were made of brick not earth.
Mr. Wyck grabbed my elbow before
