Of Monsters and Madness (9 page)

W
ith my head full of strange thoughts, I walk slowly up the stairs.
What’s going on in this house? Why are there mysterious shadows at night, and clandestine deliveries in the courtyard? What made Grand-père so nervous and why did Madame LaFleur say she did not want to be associated with Father?

It isn’t until I’ve settled beneath the covers once again that I realize I’ve forgotten Mother’s book downstairs.

Leaving the lamp behind, I instead take one of the candles from the hallway to light my path downstairs.
When I reach Grand-père’s study, the doors are closed but I hear a faint noise from my left. The dining room door is slightly ajar, and I approach it slowly. Placing my ear against the solid wood, I hear a thump. And then another. Then voices.

I back away. The voices are getting louder. They’re right on the other side of the door now, and it sounds as if whoever is there is going to come through at any moment.

I glance over at the stairs. I don’t think I’ll have enough time to reach them. The door will open any moment and I will surely be seen. A long hallway to my left offers another chance at escape, and even though I have not been in that section of the house, I have no choice. I’m going to be discovered if I stay here.

I hurry down the hallway only to come to a set of double doors. Struggling to pull one open, I finally slip behind it. The room I find myself in is a library with so many books that even if I were to read one every day of the year, it would surely take me a lifetime to get through them all.

There are two levels of bookcases, and they wrap floor to ceiling all the way around the room, from one side of the door to the other. A balcony with a railing
separates the upper portion from the lower portion, with the only connection between the two a spiral staircase in the far right corner. The middle of the room is filled with freestanding bookcases.

Closing the door quietly I hold up my candle to read the titles on the books closest to me. It’s a section of law books, each one at least five or six inches thick. I move past them, taking note of the dust and cobwebs collecting on the shelves. No one has cleaned in here for quite some time.

As I make my way around the room, I come to an unlit fireplace with two club chairs in front of it and a small table between them. An empty glass sits on the table.
Someone has been sitting here recently
. I continue on, and find an enormous round window on the back wall that takes up almost the entire space. But it’s what’s next to the window that draws my attention.

Set in a small glass case, completely free of dust, are several books that look very old. Each one has a covering made from thinly stretched, tanned leather, and the bindings are hand-stitched with crude black thread that greatly resembles sutures.

I lift the glass lid to examine the books more closely. What I find inside the first one is a mystery. Crazed
drawings fill the pages, along with symbols and words that I don’t understand.

Returning the book to its shelf, I pick a different volume. This one is filled with words that I
do
understand. Words of science. But as I read further, my stomach turns. The text speaks of unnatural things and terrible experiments on animals. Things that no one with a conscience should ever attempt to dabble in. The implications are monstrous.

A creaking sound draws my attention away from the book, and I glance up. I’m aligned perfectly with the edges of the bookcases in the middle of the floor, and I have a clear view of the door. It’s wide open.

I lift my candle. A figure stands there. The flame is shaking, and I realize my hand is shaking, too. “Who’s there? Please announce yourself.”

The figure does not answer but instead comes slowly toward me. His gait is strange, and a tapping sound accompanies every step he takes. For a moment, I think it might be Father. But then I realize it cannot be him. Father has never used a cane in front of me.

When he moves out of the shadows, I see it’s a young man. “Allan?” I call out. “Is that you?”

He takes another step, and immediately I realize
my mistake. Brown hair hangs loose, grazing his jaw-line, and his face is deeply lined like Father’s. His jaw is shadowed with the early stages of a beard. Although his eyes are dark, there’s something sharp and cold about them. I wonder if I was wrong about his age.

“Who are you? Why do you roam this house at night?”

One side of his mouth lifts into a smile. “I work here. Who are you?”

“My name is Annabel.”

“Ahhhh, yes. The inestimable Annabel Lee. I’ve heard all about
you
.”

He stares at me, and something in his tone makes me touch my scarf, making sure that it’s still wrapped securely around my neck.

“I’m Edgar. Your father’s assistant.”

“My father’s assistant is named Allan. You look remarkably like him.”

“He has two assistants, and we are cousins. Thus the resemblance. But I’m delighted to hear that you think I’m remarkable.”

“That’s not what I—”

Suddenly, Edgar notices the book in my hands. “What strange taste in literature you have, Annabel.”

I glance down and see the open page. The perverse
drawings are in full view, and I quickly close the book. “Thi—this is not mine.” Realizing that it’s highly improper to be alone with a man while wearing my nightclothes, I return the book to the case and pull the edges of my dressing gown more tightly around me. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go. It’s late.”

He suddenly reaches for my arm and pulls me toward him. I’m taken aback, and don’t resist. He turns my hand so that my palm is facing up. There’s a faint stain on the inner part of my wrist from where the cherry juice splashed earlier, and he traces it with his thumb. His touch is warm.

“Sleep well, Annabel,” he says, pressing down slightly.

The sensation makes me light-headed.

With fear
, I tell myself.
You are light-headed with fear because he is accosting you
.

He abruptly lets go of my hand and turns on his heel to leave. Something falls from his pocket as he walks away, but he does not notice. I wait until the library door has closed completely behind him and then wait a moment longer to make sure he will not return, before I look to see what it is he’s dropped.

It’s a crumpled piece of waxed paper.

Eight

I
sleep poorly that night, and my lessons with Mrs. Tusk do not go well the next morning. Though I try to concentrate on what she’s saying, my mind is preoccupied. With Father not seeming to have known, or care in the slightest, where I have been for most of my life, to murderers roaming free and strange happenings in the dark, Philadelphia has not been what I expected.

Mrs. Tusk raps loudly on the arm of the chair she’s standing next to when she notices my attention has wandered again. “If you are not going to concentrate
on the lesson at hand, then we shall adjourn for the day. There are plenty of other students who would not be so ungrateful for my time.”

I lower my eyes. “Forgive me. I had trouble sleeping last night.”

She just sniffs and glances away. Picking up where she left off, she continues reading and I force myself to concentrate on every word she says. We go on for several hours, until the lunch hour is upon us. She dismisses me with a curt “Let us hope we have a more productive afternoon session.”

When I’ve finished my meal, I hurry back so that I may apologize to Mrs. Tusk for letting my attention wander. But she’s not in the dining room as I expected she would be, so I return to the sitting room to wait for her there. As soon as I hear footsteps, I rise to greet her.

I pause when I realize she’s speaking with someone else outside the room.

“You were to meet with me yesterday at three o’clock, Markus. Why were you not available?” Her voice sounds angry. “We have an urgent matter to discuss. It’s time for you to deliver what you’ve promised. Williams and I are waiting.”

“I told you, I don’t have time for this right now,” Father says.

“When will you have the time? We had an arrangement.”

“If we had an arrangement, then why is it
your
price has changed?”

“I no longer have a husband, and I must find a way to survive. It’s only fair. What you’ve done isn’t natural. Would you risk your secret getting out?”

Her voice is low, and I am conflicted. I should not be listening to their private conversation. Yet my curiosity is overwhelming.
What has Father done?

I hear the thump of Father taking a heavy step. “You should be careful whom you threaten, Mrs. Tusk. You might regret it.” He takes another step and his voice sounds farther away. “In fact, now you shall receive nothing.”

“Unacceptable. It is you who will regret this. You owe me!”

At the sharp rise in her tone, I quickly return to my seat. Their conversation is clearly over and I do not wish to be discovered. Reaching for the French primer we were studying before lunch, I bury myself within the pages. Several minutes pass before Mrs. Tusk sweeps
back into the sitting room. Her cheeks are flushed, and she smooths a strand of loose hair into place.