The Librarian's Spell by Patricia Rice (reading eggs books TXT) 📕

“Ah, Mr. Cadwallader,” he said in an amiable baritone. “I heeded your call, at last. Did you know your tower is leaning?”

Nearly invisible in the dark shadows before dawn, the gray-cloaked figure of his host glanced back at the tower. “You’re here to study the foundation?” the librarian asked in a low, husky tone.

The man was elderly, after all, and living here alone, he probably seldom spoke. That living alone part was the main reason Max was here. He didn’t have to worry about gossiping servants.

Maxwell Ives stretched his road-weary limbs and adjusted the pack beneath his head. “No, I simply thought to refresh my memory of the stars of home and must have fallen asleep. I hope my early arrival didn’t disturb you.”

“We had no word of your coming,” the monk-shrouded figure said in a voice almost certainly hinting of disapproval.

The only approval Max had ever known was his mother’s, so he was impervious. “Sorry. The train ran late. There were no horses or carriages to be had. So I walked.”

“All the way up the mountain?” Astonishment didn’t quite replace disapproval. “That had to have taken all night. Surely you could have stopped in the village.”

Explaining why he didn’t want anyone to know he’d returned shouldn’t be done before breakfast. He hoped to leave as soon as he accomplished his errands.

Aware of the damp seeping through his travel-worn clothes, Max scrambled up, hauling his pack over his shoulder. His host was a good height, but Max still looked down on the librarian’s hood. He was accustomed to that. “Oh, aye, but I’d forgotten how lovely a Scottish summer is. After the humid furnaces of other continents, the mist nourishes my soul.”

“More likely, you’re dehydrated,” the Librarian said pragmatically. “Come in. There’ll be tea ready at least.”

Max searched his weary brain for what little he knew of the recluse who lived here. Malcolm librarians weren’t known for their social skills. He’d exchanged letters upon occasion and knew Cadwallader was an older man devoted to his studies and the library.

The librarian’s last letter had been insistent that Max come home and take care of his mother and bring his journals with him. Max’s mother was a Malcolm. The family expected him to contribute to their Malcolm library of weird knowledge.

And therein lay the rub.

The only word Max could write with any certainty was his name. He’d been eight before he’d accomplished that, and even then, he’d reduced it to Max Ives for clarity.

“Tea, real tea?” he asked, with the pleasantry he’d learned to divert the inevitable disapproval. “You cannot imagine the bilge water that passes for tea elsewhere.”

“From that, I deduce your travels have not taken you to China or India,” the low husky voice said from the confines of the hood, still sounding like a disapproving schoolteacher.

“On the contrary, I’ve been to both, but the poorer parts near the mines don’t indulge in expensive niceties. They’d have drunk brewed coal had it been cheap. I learned to carry my own when I could, but the water was often like boiling mud.”

“Unhealthy,” the librarian concluded, leading the way through a side entrance and into a parlor so unused that Max could smell the must.

His host lit an oil lamp, and the light confirmed Max’s suspicion. Linen adorned most of the furniture. Dust covered all else. He was fairly certain there were immense cobwebs decorating the dark corners.

He’d lived in far worse.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone I’m back,” he finally admitted. “I’ll only be here briefly and don’t want to disturb the family.”

His host hesitated, then pulled an actual bell pull. Amazing. A medieval castle with amenities. And servants—damn.

“I had hoped you gathered from my replies that your mother is beside herself with worry.” Cadwallader removed a dustcover from a sofa and gestured before taking a wing chair across from it.

Beside herself with worry? Did men still talk like that here? It seemed odd after the rough, usually crude discourse in the places he’d been inhabiting. Max took the seat offered and put his road-weary boots on a heavy chest that appeared as old and sturdy as the castle.

How did he explain that he preferred that his family think him dead? He hadn’t been able to put it into the letters he’d dictated to the family librarian.

“My mother is prescient. She knows I’m alive. She simply wants me to come home and produce grandchildren.” He’d produced children, three to be exact, one of the reasons he was here now. His mother would prefer a wife to go with them. He didn’t have that.

A thickset woman with a limp, wearing a pristine apron, appeared with a silver tea tray. She scowled at Max’s boots on the furniture. He quickly removed them so she could set down the tray. An older woman, she didn’t seem perturbed by his presence, he realized with relief.

His mouth watered at the array of breads and pastries set before him. The place might not have a housekeeper, but it had a baker. He could live with that.

His host poured the tea while the cook lumbered away. “Your mother is about to lose her home, and the school that is her heart and soul. I wrote you about that.”

“And I sent funds,” Max retorted. “There is utterly no reason for her to be short of resources unless she’s frittering them away. That’s not like her. She simply wants me home. My uncle and cousin are far better executors of my father’s estate than I’ll ever be.”

Ominously silent, Mr. Cadwallader sipped his tea, probably with disapproval.

The librarian’s missives had been curt. Long distance arguments did not hold much persuasion. But Max had a favor to ask, so he tried to be patient. He was a patient man. He had to be.

Cadwallader set down his cup. “Your uncle is the one preparing to sell your mother’s home. He says the estate is bankrupt.”

“What?” Max almost jumped from his seat, but he wasn’t an impulsive youth anymore.