Sparks in the Shadows
A second scream pierces the air before Cora and I can race to the archive door, both of us out of breath. In my heart, I know there’s nothing there that can hurt the girls. If there were, I would have remembered it and prepared for it. But Cora doesn’t know that, and Siobhan’s mother would blame her for anything a wayward teen might get into.
Inside the occult library, the air is thick with the scent of aged parchment and promises that
Spencer and I have long kept. Siobhan may wrongly refer to the smell of old books as “farty,” but the distinctive scent results from the chemical breakdown of old ink and bindings. Not so much the newer genealogy books that line the outer rooms, but the true aromatic treasures are hidden behind a bookshelf that opens into an invisible Daeganean library.
It’s the scent of secrets and forgotten knowledge. The kind that will save the world one day.
The hidden door to one of those rooms is wide open, and my younger self stands at the entrance, wringing her hands.
Why the hell did Siobhan go in there? Insolent little snoop. Hell, how did she even find the entrance?
I glide past Cora to step inside the hidden library. Our genealogy visitors would never guess that this room is the heart of the archive—a sanctuary where astrology texts and timeworn volumes lay open, their pages like portals into realms beyond mortal comprehension.
The hidden archive is a world of its own, my secret oasis amidst the mundane existence of the outside world and the prophecies of catastrophes to come. The room is adorned with floor-to-ceiling windows that are draped in luxurious black velvet curtains, casting a shadowy ambiance over the space. The walls are lined with shelves upon shelves of archaic tomes and texts, their worn spines and yellowed pages inviting exploration and discovery—or disaster. A lone chandelier hangs from the fifteen-foot ceiling, its now dusty but once glittering crystals and flickering bulbs casting an ethereal glow over the room. Dust motes float in the air like magic.
It’s a beautiful room that no one but Spencer and I have ever seen.
Until now.
Siobhan stands in the center of a room she has no business being in, her face pale and eyes glassy with shock. My younger self hovers behind me in the common area, peering from afar into a space she wouldn’t dare violate, her curiosity warring with her innate respect for boundaries.
The air in the room seems to sizzle with a faint shimmer, like tiny sparks of electricity darting between shelves and books. A subtle, crackling scent, like the aftermath of a lightning strike, lingers at the edges of the room. Or maybe a faint smell of ozone.
“I saw him!” Siobhan shrieks. Her voice trembles “A creepy old man, right there!” She points to an empty corner of the room, filled with more dusty books.
I can smell what she doesn’t see. It’s like breathing old attic air. The room tastes of history. Or prophecy. Definitely time travel.
“Old geezer grabbed a notebook right in front of me and disappeared. I mean, like, disappeared. He didn’t run out of the room. He just. . .vanished into thin air.”
Siobhan jabs her finger again at the empty corner, right next to the desk where I’d left a blue spiral-bound notebook open. In it, I had scribbled notes about portals and wormholes in a runic alphabet—concepts that Spencer and his friend Terre Vanderholt developed in the late 1970s, which the priesthood will weaponize in the twenty-first century. I’ve spent years collecting information on how these portals work, including how to seal them so no one else can use them. It’s vital we get this information to Veronica in the future.
“You didn’t touch anything, did you?” I ask.
Siobhan glares at me, her defiance masking a flicker of fear. “No!”
She’s lying, but the notebook is gone. Her clothes are skimpy enough so that I’m positive she doesn’t have it in her possession. She stands before the work desk with her hand outstretched, her clothes barely covering her body, looking like a thief caught in the act. Her eyes dart back and forth, fear and guilt clear in her expression, but not guilt over stealing the book. Possibly over planning to steal it, though.
Still, she’s seen something she wasn’t supposed to see.
My breath catches in my throat. Spencer. It has to be. He must have materialized in the wrong place at the wrong time, then quickly portaled out with the notebook on some alternate mission to the future. The thought of him making an unnecessary and physically taxing journey fills me with worry. I ignore the humor in Siobhan’s reaction to the frail and wrinkled version of the teenager she once chased and caught, but it’s a good thing she didn’t recognize him. His eyes are the only thing about him that hasn’t aged with a fury. “Oh, honey,” I say, forcing a calm I don’t feel. “This old place has been around since the late 1880s. Who knows what spirits might linger here?”
Siobhan’s eyes narrow to slits. She’s half-afraid, half-fascinated “You mean it’s. . .haunted?”
“Perhaps,” I reply cryptically, sharing a knowing glance with Cora. “This archive holds many secrets. Some are better left undisturbed. Especially ones behind closed doors.”
“Siobhan?” Cora wedges her thin body through the doorway for a better look. Between her, her meek student, and me, we’ve unintentionally blocked Siobhan’s exit. “What on earth were you doing sneaking around in here? I told you to mind your manners.”
“I wasn’t sneaking!” The girl frowns, her bravado returning. “Well, I wasn’t! I felt an energy pop and followed it to a bookshelf that had the energy of a door. Even if it didn’t look like it. It wasn’t hard to find the doorknob behind the books if I was following the energy.”
“Hmmm.” I flatten my lips into a thin line. She’s truthful, for once. Siobhan, even at this age, had always been talented. Reckless and arrogant, but undeniably gifted.
I’m fortunate not to have any other visitors today, but I still don’t want to spend this precious time babysitting Siobhan when she was a holy terror. Then again, when has she not been a holy terror? Good thing I remember her taste in books at that age.
“Say, Siobhan, you might be interested in some art books in the other room if you—”
“How do you know my name?” she demands. She knows that she, even at fourteen, is the most important person in the room. Or so she thinks. Given her destiny and the destiny of her unborn daughters, I suppose she’s right.
“Miss Cora told me,” I say. Yelled it repeatedly, I want to say but don’t.
My younger version nudges her way into the room, much like a silent cat wrapping itself around the curve of the door to slip inside unnoticed. She stares at the work tables and shelves of books on magic, witchcraft, astrology, and prophecy. I can feel the awe and giddiness in her aura—they’re the same as mine.
Siobhan laughs silently and points at Young Maeve. “You oughta shut your mouth before flies—or spiders or whatever’s in here—get in.”
My younger version stiffens and closes her mouth, then immediately lets her jaw drop open again as she gazes at the nearest bookshelf. Tentatively, she traces the spine of an astrology book on how to find the alcochoden and hyleg in an astrological chart in order to determine their death date. When she glances over her shoulder at me, she pulls her hand to her chest as if she’s in trouble.
“Astrology is more than just reading the stars,” I say, my voice as gentle as I can make it without whispering. “It’s about understanding the forces that shape our world and the pathways that connect us to the universe.”
My younger version nods eagerly, and I can see her mind racing with the possibilities. Her eyes sparkle with a thirst for knowledge that I recognize all too well. “I want to learn everything,” she declares, her voice trembling with barely contained excitement. She glances at Cora. “Can we come back on our way home?”
Cora smiles at her, then at me. “I think we can manage that. This place feels like your energy.”
“Ugh!” groans Siobhan. “Do we have to? I don’t need to learn any of this.” Contempt drips from every syllable. “I’m going to be the future leader of the priesthood. Why waste my time with musty old books?”
Young Maeve starts to speak but Siobhan makes a face, first at her and then at me standing by her side. “Ew! You two look alike.” She wrinkles her nose at me. “Are you her grandmother or something?” Then she laughs. “Maybe you are! Hey, Maeve, your parents may be dead, but I found your grandmother!” Then to Cora, “Is that why we’re here? Are we giving her back?”
Cora sighs. “No, we’re here because I promised your mother I’d give you a crash course in astrology on a road trip to—”
“Whatever. I’m not staying in this creepy room!” She pushes past us and heads for the selection of art books someone donated as part of an estate sale.
The moment she’s out of earshot, my younger self whispers, “I think this place is really nifty. I’d love to live here and work here. There’s so much to learn, and I want to learn it all.” Her voice quivers with excitement and longing, as if she’s found a home she never knew she was missing.
I chuckle and resist the urge to smooth the cowlick of dark hair that sticks out awkwardly above her brow. She’ll grow another inch taller and her body will shape into a woman’s curves rather than baby fat, but not until she’s nearly grown.
“I know exactly what you mean, Maeve,” I say. “I don’t think it’s possible to ever learn everything, but sometimes it’s possible to learn enough to get you by.”
I can tell she feels perfectly at home here. But worse, I can also tell that few people around her speak to her with kindness. She laps up the common decency I show her. I remember me through her eyes, the hero worship she had for an old woman in an astrology library with a willingness to share knowledge rather than hand power to a spoiled schoolmate. I seemed so much older then than I feel now.
“If Miss Cora has a little time and your friend isn’t too bored here, you and I can talk awhile about astrology and the ancient pathways of ley lines.”
She inhales loud and long. “Oh! Can we? Miss Cora, can we?”
I’d swear Cora’s eyes are twinkling. “All righty then. You have one hour. We’ll have more time on our return trip in two weeks.” Two weeks.
My heart aches at the innocence in my younger self’s voice. I know this seemingly innocuous visit has set in motion a countdown. I have to act fast to prepare for what is coming. I know I will die the day after their second visit, and the archive will burn to the ground.
Two weeks. That’s all Spencer and I have to finish the mission of a lifetime.
You’re reading Turn of Earth free, right here in the Library. Want a copy to keep on your Kindle or e-reader? Buy the e-book direct from me →
© 2024 Lorna Tedder. All rights reserved. Free to read here — please don’t repost elsewhere.