I glance at Mathilde, suddenly less certain of our plan to search through the Barnard archives after hours. “Are you sure it’s okay for us to be here?”
Mathilde quirks an eyebrow, “I’m a librarian and you’re on staff. We’re hardly students sneaking in for illicit activities.” She doesn’t wait for any further comment, striding towards a bank of computers. “I’ll fire up the online catalogue. Can you find us a comfortable alcove to set ourselves up?”
Nodding, I step into the aisle, passing the first row of shelves. They’re over three meters tall. I have to crane my neck to see the top of them. Fortunately, there is a narrow ladder attached to the top of each bookcase, wheels allowing it to glide to wherever it is needed.
The only sound I can hear is my breathing, occasionally interrupted by the click of Mathilde’s fingers on the keyboard. I hate to admit it, but the place feels creepy. I give my head a firm shake, putting a stop to any further thoughts in that direction. I’m sharing a flat with a wyvern and I regularly chat with ghosts. How can an empty old room possibly scare me?
I look over my shoulder, calling out to Mathilde, “I see some sofas at the far end of the room. Unless you want to camp out at one of the tables, I think they’re our best bet.” She nods her agreement, still engrossed in her search through the online catalogue.
I step past the first row of shelves, a quick glance confirming their only occupants are leather-bound books. The spines face outwards, their titles barely legible.
Strangely, the one thing I don’t see is any hint of an Eternal. You’d think in a building as historic as this one, at least a few ghosts would be walking along the hallways. Who knows? Maybe they take the holidays off.
I march onward, closer to the the abandoned textbook lying on the ground. It’s weird that it’s lying there in the middle of the floor. Leaning over, I scoop it up, thinking to return it to its rightful home, but the leather spine, much abused by its fall, flakes off into my hand. Mathilde isn’t going to be happy about this.
As I turn right into the nearest aisle, I spot a mountain of books on the floor. They lie in a tumble, pages open and spines cracked. A shelf lies bare, its empty space no doubt their rightful home.
“What the???” My eyes scan over the pile, trying to make sense of the scene: ivory pages, leather spines, a few scroll cases added to the mix. And at the very bottom is a pair of Louboutin heels, their cherry red soles a pop of colour against the dull background.
“EEEEeeeppppp!” The squeal slips out of my mouth when I realise the heels are attached to a deathly still pair of legs. Mathilde comes rushing over, passing by me as I stand frozen in place, and going straight into the aisle to unearth the person buried underneath.
“Quick, call an ambulance!” she implores, tossing the rare texts aside as though they were discards in a discount bin. I drop the book to the floor when a familiar face and body emerges, completely still and devoid of any signs of life.
This snaps me out of my numb state. I reach over, grabbing Mathilde’s shoulder before she can do any further damage to the crime scene.
“I think it’s too late for that, Mathilde.”
She follows my finger past the still form to see a bloody brass candlestick rolled up against the base of the bookshelf.
Mathilde gasps as the implications set it. “Oh god, Nat, another murder!”
“That’s not our only problem,” I say, shaking my head. “I’d recognise that candlestick anywhere. I spent weeks looking at its matching partner at one end of High Table and wondering where this one had gone. Unless I’m mistaken, this candlestick is the one that went missing from St Margaret.”
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Acknowledgments
Writing a paranormal cosy mystery requires two things: a vivid imagination and an audience willing to follow along with you.
I’ve got imagination in spades, but I owe an incredible thanks to my earliest audience members: my children. When I looked at them one morning and said, “What if our cat could turn into a wyvern?” they didn’t bat an eyelash. They didn’t grab a thermometer and check my temperature. They nodded their heads and asked what would happen next. That was all the encouragement I needed to put my fingers to the keyboard.
I have to thank my husband as well. He may have grumbled at the start, but he quickly got on board with my dream of being a full-time writer, helping us juggle the family finances to make it happen. When I needed to get out of the house, he opened the door to his office at one of Oxford’s illustrious colleges, providing me with endless inspiration.
Next on my acknowledgements is my brilliant editor, mentor and advisor: Inga Kruse. I literally could not have written and edited this book without her help. Despite a nine-hour time difference, she was always at there when I needed her. Even when I forced her brain into action before the first cup of coffee hit her veins, she didn’t complain. She edited every single chapter of this book, sometimes multiple times, never withholding her honest opinion. She coached me through writer’s block and made me believe I could go beyond good and into great. I will love and thank her forever, even though she made me cut out the chicken dance scene.
Anne Radcliffe, grammar goddess, took on the final copyedits, asking critical questions like, “Is H supposed to have a cockney or a Scottish accent?” When I confessed I had no idea, she didn’t throw a book at my head. Inga and I could focus on the big picture edits knowing that Anne would make sure we didn’t lose track of grammar guidelines along the way.
My
