Chapter 22

"What...what was that?" Ivy forced herself to ask.

"Come, let's go to the kitchen. I'll make some tea," Mrs. Hewitt said quietly.

Ivy didn't want tea. There was something sinister transpiring in the library, and as hard as it was to watch, she was desperate for the answers. But Mrs. Hewitt was already sweeping down the hall, and Ralph was taking Ivy by the arm, helping her as much as his limp would allow. She let herself be borne along like a leaf in a stream, too stunned to protest.

In the kitchen, they were met by Hewitt, who raised his head from a newspaper when they came in, a question in his eyes. Mrs. Hewitt nodded. "She knows."

"Knows what? I don't know anything," Ivy protested as Ralph helped her into a wooden chair. "Why were they talking about a manuscript? Why did they want the library? I would have given them access to it anyway if—"

Mrs. Hewitt stopped her. "Tea first, then questions."

"Do you really think we have time for tea?" Ralph said, eyeing the door. "They're already looking for the manuscript."

"There is always time for tea," Mrs. Hewitt said firmly, putting the issue to rest.

Ivy waited in miserable silence as Mrs. Hewitt bustled about the kitchen and prepared a plate of biscuits for which Ivy had no appetite. Traces of the engagement dinner were still evident in a scattering of pots and pans on the counters, and the lingering scent of roasted meat. It looked as if the kitchen staff had abruptly left after the last course, simply getting up and walking away.

When a steaming cup had been placed before her, Ivy's hands automatically went around it, the warmth seeping into her. At some point someone had draped a warm flannel blanket over her shoulders, and little by little some of the coldness that had overtaken her body began to thaw.

Settling into a chair across the table, Mrs. Hewitt took a sip from her own cup. "My lady, I wish that I did not have to impart this information to you, but it seems that I have no choice. I need you to listen to me, and listen carefully. What I am going to tell you will sound improbable, impossible even. But you must believe me and then be ready to act quickly."

Ivy had no choice but to nod. After what she had experienced and seen, any answers were preferable to the wild conjecture that was churning through her mind.

Hewitt cleared his throat and went to lock the kitchen door. "I suggest that whatever you tell her, you tell her quickly. We haven't much time."

Mrs. Hewitt gave a tight nod, then turned back to Ivy. "My lady, Blackwood is no ordinary library, and you are no ordinary heir to it."

"What do you mean?"

"There is a power, a dark power, that runs through the library, and at its heart, is a very old, very important manuscript. Ralph told me that you found it, saw it for yourself."

Ivy shot a look at Ralph, who was absorbed in scratching at a stain on the table with his fingernail. "I did?" she asked. There were many manuscripts in the library, but Ivy didn't remember finding anything particularly noteworthy.

"Yes, you did." Mrs. Hewitt confirmed. "For four hundred years, the Hayworth family have held the viscountcy of Blackwood, and their stewardship of the library has carried with it a curse." Mrs. Hewitt drew in a deep breath. "The library, it demands memories, dreams, from each and every heir. It adds them to its ever-growing collection, imbues the books with a dangerous kind of power that brings the words to life. Once the heir is drained and no longer of use, the next heir is sent for and the cycle begins again. You are the latest, and unfortunately the youngest, in a long line of Hayworth descendants."

There was a chip in the rim of Ivy's teacup, the dainty floral pattern interrupted by the chiseled clay beneath. Words were coming out of Mrs. Hewitt's mouth, but they held no meaning, made no sense. Ivy was still in her dream, that was it. The beautiful birds and flowers might be gone, but it was a dream nonetheless, surreal and nonsensical.

"The library is a living thing, hungry for new books, new stories," Mrs. Hewitt continued, "and the manuscript is the heart that circulates them. Every Hayworth heir has contributed a book, but they do not sate the library for long."

Ivy had to tamp down the urge to laugh; it was all so ridiculous. "Are you telling me that all my memories are in a book somewhere?"

"Your memories, your dreams, your every movement and thought," Mrs. Hewitt confirmed.

She swallowed, once and then twice before forcing herself to ask, "How do you know all this?"

"Because the Hewitts likewise are tied to the library. Our family has stood guard for those same four hundred years, ensuring that the library gets what it needs from the Hayworths, but never escapes beyond the confines of the abbey. We are immune to its powers, the result of an ancient pact made between our families."

When she was younger, Ivy's father had taught her about Occam's Razor—the simpler the theory, the more likely it was to be true, but the more complicated it was, the more likely it was to be false. What Mrs. Hewitt was telling her wasn't simply complex, it was full of downright fantastical details that simply could not be real. Ghosts and spirits were one thing, but magical libraries with sentient desires and hungers were simply a bridge too far.

"I don't believe you."

"I'm afraid that you don't have the luxury of disbelief," Mrs. Hewitt said with a grimace. She paused. "What, exactly, has Arthur told you about his family and the Sphinxes?"

Ivy pushed the cup away, crossed her arms as if that would offer some sort of protection from this new reality. "He said the library is special because it contains rare manuscripts, and that his club is committed to opening up the library for research and academic pursuits. They think it's a shame that it's hidden away and inaccessible to scholars."

Mrs. Hewitt nodded. "The Mabrys have long coveted Blackwood and its powers," she continued. "You see, the manuscript isn't just valuable, it contains secrets that have driven men to madness for centuries. How to bring back the dead and attain immortality. How to achieve eternal youth. They see it as a powerful tool that should be in the hands of the military. But they don't understand how dangerous it would be, how impossible to harness its powers for such a specific use. You saw for yourself what happened when you lent out the books. Now imagine that, but in the hands of men hungry for power and mass destruction."

"It's the Mad Monk's manuscript," Ivy whispered, as memories surfaced and pieces began to fall into place. She had forgotten about the ghost story, but now it tangled with memories of a hooded skull at the end of her bed, a hot, sour breath on her neck. And the manuscript, she could vaguely see the illustrations in her mind's eye, fantastical flora and fauna, and more disturbing tableaus of women in pools of blood. But the images remained indistinct and it was impossible to parse what was a memory and what was a dream.

"A fanciful name, but yes, the tale does have some truth to it. We don't know much about him, except that he lived here during Henry VIII's reign, and was fascinated with alchemy and the fabled fountain of youth. He was the author of the manuscript, and put all the dark magic that he studied into it. Whatever was in the manuscript is what imbues the library with its power. They feed off each other and hold the monk in half death."

Ivy took a sip of cold tea. Pushed it away again. The only sound in the kitchen was the clock ticking in the corner, yet her head throbbed as if a symphony had taken up residence in it.

"Arthur is only marrying you so that he can have complete control of the library." Ralph's low voice cut through her racing thoughts. "Do you see it now? I told you, you should have left."

Ivy bit her lip, unwilling to meet his piercing stare. She hated that he was right, but more than that, she hated that she felt as if she had somehow disappointed him.

"No, she shouldn't have," Mrs. Hewitt countered sharply. "You know what would happen if she were to leave."

Ivy barely heard them. Everything was falling apart faster than she could piece it together. Arthur didn't care for her, had never cared for her. Worse than that, he had used her for some dark and terrible purpose. She couldn't deny what she had seen with her own eyes in the library only an hour before.

"I can't marry Arthur," Ivy whispered, staring at the scarred and stained oak table.

Mrs. Hewitt grimaced. "I would not recommend it, no."

Ralph stood up abruptly, pushing back his chair. "She can't stay here."

"Why? What will happen to me if I stay?"

An indecipherable look passed between Ralph and the Hewitts. But Ivy already knew. She had seen the list of the Hayworths, had seen how they all died far too early.

"It has to do with what you said about the library taking memories, doesn't it?" A foggy recollection of her conversation with Ralph resurfaced, something about how she would start forgetting. "Is that what will become of me? I'll lose all my memories, and then die?"

"If you stay here, yes," Mrs. Hewitt confirmed. "As soon as you stepped foot in Blackwood, you bound yourself to the library."

"And if I leave?"

Mrs. Hewitt's lips compressed into a tight line. "You would need to find a replacement, a librarian who would live here, tend to the library. A small number of the lords in the past realized this, and brought on librarians to take their place. The library fed off of them instead, sparing the current holder of the title."

"For some time, anyway," Hewitt amended. "There's no escaping the library for good."

"So I would be condemning someone else to die." Ivy's shoulders slumped. It was hopeless.

Hewitt stood, clearing his throat. "We need to go make certain that they haven't found the manuscript. It's well hidden, but I don't want to leave anything to chance."

His wife nodded and began gathering up the tea things. "Most of the Mabry servants have returned but I don't trust Lord Mabry not to have left any spies or sentries."

Ivy moved to stand, but Mrs. Hewitt stopped her with a firm hand to her shoulder. "It would be best if you stayed here, my lady."

She didn't want to be in the kitchen by herself. The world was spinning away from her, the basic truths of her existence and what was real called into question. Now was not the time to sit with oneself and reflect on immortality and the vengeful nature of ghosts. She desperately wanted to be back in London, with bright city lights and the sound of motorcars around her, people going about their shopping and everyday errands.

"Ralph will stay with you. You'll be safe here." Mrs. Hewitt offered Ivy a rare smile, but it did little to assuage the feeling of dread which had taken root in her gut.

After the butler and housekeeper had gone, Ivy chanced a look at Ralph brooding across the table, arms crossed and jaw stubbornly set. His hair had grown just long enough to fall over his eyes, giving him the look of a moody schoolboy.

"You should have told me," Ivy said finally.

Ralph gave a grunt. "You wouldn't have believed me, and even if you had, you would have forgotten."

"You did though, that day I found the manuscript. You told me that I should leave. I remember that much now. What would have happened if I had left? Because it sounds as if someone else would suffer in my place."

He finally looked up, the flashing anger in his eyes almost enough to make her wish she hadn't said anything. "Does it matter? You would have been safe."

Her face heated. "It does matter, to me. I don't want people to die, and I certainly don't want to be the one to send them to their death."

Ralph tipped back in his chair, eyes trained on the ceiling as if searching for the right words. "That's the problem. You're too—"

"Too what? Too stubborn? Too independent? I assure you, I've heard it all before."

Tipping the chair back down with a thud, Ralph gave a long exhale. "Too good," he muttered. "The problem is you're too good, Ivy."

There were a thousand pressing matters that should have taken precedence, but somehow her name from his lips utterly undid her. It was resigned and angry all at once, and so, so tender. Every look at him tore her heart further, threw her already muddled mind into delicious chaos. She took a long sip of her cooling tea as the silence deepened around them.

"What will Mr. and Mrs. Hewitt do?" she forced herself to ask, desperate to steer the conversation in another direction, one that wouldn't leave her feeling strangely unsettled and stormy inside.

"Make sure that the Mabrys don't find the manuscript." He paused, darting a glance at her from under dark gold lashes. "In however many years, you're the only one to have found it."

"And then what?" she asked. Would there be a tug-o-war between the Hewitts and the Mabrys over the manuscript? Would military lorries come rolling in and confiscate it?

"You ask a lot of questions."

"You're right. I suppose I should just sit back and drink my tea while a convoluted plot to secure an old manuscript and let it destroy everything unravels around me."

Ralph tapped on the table, distracted. "Then they'll probably either move it, or stand guard with it," he offered with a shrug. "I don't really know."

Ivy considered this. "How come you aren't affected?" At his raised brows, she pressed on. "The Hewitts are supposedly immune to the library or the manuscript's powers, whatever it is. But you, you work here too and you don't seem to be affected. Same with Agnes. Why not?"

Draining his cup of tea, he set it down with a rattle and pushed it away. "I'm not in the house much. Try to stay out of the library. Same for Agnes, I guess."

Trying to tease out more information from Ralph was like asking a stone to spill its secrets. Eventually Ivy gave up and settled back into her seat, eyeing the door and trying to decide if it was worth simply making a dash for it and finding answers for herself. As she raised her cup to her lips, a tremor in her hand flared up out of nowhere, tea splashing onto her dress. It seemed her nerves were finally catching up with her. She reached for a cloth to wipe it up, when there was a violent shaking. This time there was no mistaking it for a tremor in her own body; it came from the very house itself. The floors rumbled as if they might open up, and the walls swayed, dishes clattering to the ground. Nearly toppled from her chair, she grabbed ahold of the table.

Ivy had read about the great earthquake in California in the newspapers, but England didn't have those, did it? "What was—"

She didn't have a chance to finish. "Ivy, come here," Ralph said in a low voice, eyes trained on the door.

There were no second thoughts, no hesitation. As quick as she could she slid from her chair and bolted around the table, taking Ralph's arm. "What is it?"

His mouth was set in a grim line, the muscles in his arm tensed and coiled. "The Mabrys found it. And they've released it."