The Shadow in the Glass by JJA Harwood (any book recommendations txt) 📕

job, no money to rent a cheap little room. If she left Granborough House she’d be sleeping in the penny doss-houses in Whitechapel and the Old Nichol, slumped over an old clothesline because it was cheaper than paying for a bed, and even then she’d be begging for the pennies, or worse.

Mrs Fielding was watching her. Her dark eyes flickered all across Eleanor’s face, sharp despite the shadows and the lines beneath them. Her mouth was pressed into a thin, disapproving line, her square jaw set.

‘Or perhaps you would prefer not to discuss this with the master,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘Telling tales at your age is hardly appropriate.’

‘But I—’

‘That’s enough, Ella! Go to bed. I’ve had a long day and I don’t need you to make it any longer.’

She closed the door. Eleanor stared at the wood, the varnish gone after years of scrubbing, and began to climb the servants’ staircase again. She felt as if something had been scraped out of her, leaving her raw and smarting.

There was nothing she could do. Mrs Fielding didn’t even believe her. If there was any justice in the world, all those stolen coins would burn like glowing coals, and Lizzie’s thieving fingers would sizzle when she tried to spend them.

But they wouldn’t. Lizzie had taken her money, and Eleanor had nothing.

She opened her bedroom door, stared into the crimson sunset and fought back the urge to scream.

The library. She needed the library.

Eleanor ran through corridors striped with moonlight, the library key clutched in her hands. She couldn’t breathe through the tears. She needed her books, a comfortable chair, a lockable door. She had to get out of Granborough House somehow, even if it was only in her head.

Her feet skidded on the carpet as she ran into the library. Forcing herself not to slam the door, she locked it, leaning against the wood and sobbing silently into her hand. She couldn’t be heard. She couldn’t let anyone take this from her, not when she’d lost so much already.

She stalked along the shelves. Fairy tales? No – they were for children, and she wouldn’t be allowed to be a child much longer. Travelogues – what perfect torture those would be. A book of martyrs? She almost laughed. Her thoughts flitted from subject to subject, and every one of them felt wrong. None of them would help her forget herself tonight; she’d read them all before. Oh God, Eleanor thought. Would this library be the only escape she ever had?

Eleanor retched. Shaking, she leant against one of the bookcases, and slapped herself hard across the face. She couldn’t lose control now. If anyone heard her, they’d tell Mr Pembroke. She wasn’t going to let him take this place from her.

Eleanor pressed her forehead against the cool wood and forced herself to breathe deeply. Lizzie had robbed her, cutting her off from the easiest way out. Well, tomorrow she would search Lizzie’s room, and take whatever money she found there. A mad plan sparked into life. She could steal the laudanum from the kitchen cupboard and slip a few drops into every decanter in the house. Not much – just enough to keep Mr Pembroke in a haze. If anyone caught her, she could be accused of poisoning her employer and guardian. She could be sent to prison, or hanged, if she was caught. Until now, it had never seemed worth the risk.

Eleanor was still trembling, but her breathing had slowed and her stomach was beginning to settle. The library key made deep ridges in her palm; she forced herself to set it aside. Tomorrow she would set her plan in motion. All she had to do now was get through tonight. She could make it through the next few hours.

Something caught her eye.

It was a small, unfamiliar black book, on the edge of her favourite armchair. Eleanor snatched it up at once. This was what she needed. She’d never seen the book before, and she’d read every other one within arm’s reach. It had been so long since she’d had something new. It was about the size of her own hands, the leather-bound cover slightly warped with age. It fitted perfectly into her palm, cool in the stifling heat.

She eased herself into her seat, the book sliding into her lap. She kept her eyes closed, squeezing the arms of the chair until she felt less like a hunted thing. When her hands began to cramp, she opened her eyes, picked up the book and forced herself to read.

‘The Tragicall Hif … History,’ she began, ‘of the Life and Death of Doctor Fauftus. Faustus.’

She frowned at the book. If the letter s was going to look like an f all the way through, she wasn’t going to get very far. She flipped to the frontispiece. There was a squat little man in a triangular sort of outfit standing inside a magic circle, pointing a book at a creature that had been scribbled out. The ink bled into the paper, hiding the thing in a dark haze. She caught a suggestion of horns.

She settled down to read.

The rhythm of the words tugged at her like a lullaby as Faustus planned to summon his demon and dreamed of all the treasures it would bring. Eleanor knew it wasn’t going to end well. She’d read enough fairy stories to know that selling your soul to the Devil rarely ended happily ever after. The just would be rewarded and the wicked would be punished, as they ought to be, but until then she’d enjoy the thrill of watching other people consume forbidden fruit. Her limbs uncurled and she leant back into the chair as the infinite possibilities of magic sprawled out before her. Her finger caught on the edge of a page as she turned it and a bead of blood welled up. She’d smeared red across the beast on the frontispiece before she noticed it.

She put her finger in her mouth and went back a few