Long Lost, стр. 28
Everything that would happen next—more lecturing from her parents, a family dinner that was taken up entirely by talk about Arden and her competition, being sent off to bed early—didn’t matter.
Fiona had found something. Something huge. Something world-changing. She felt like Howard Carter peering through the door of King Tutankhamun’s tomb.
She was on the threshold. And inside, there was more to find.
Chapter Fifteen
Fiona was grounded for the entire week.
On Monday morning, her parents headed off to work, leaving Arden and Fiona in the house together. Arden stayed so icily silent, Fiona might as well have been there alone. Fiona knew there was no point asking Arden what she’d done with The Lost One. Her sister would only lie, if she spoke to her at all.
They finished their breakfast in stifling quiet. Arden cleared her dishes and stalked into the living room.
“I’ll be upstairs!” Fiona shouted after her.
Arden didn’t answer.
That was fine with Fiona. Her words weren’t a peace offering. They were an alibi.
Shut in her bedroom, Fiona pulled the curtains and switched off the lights, making everything as dim as possible. She wadded a pile of dirty laundry under the bedspread, so if Arden happened to glance in—which wasn’t likely—she’d think Fiona was curled up in bed, taking a sulky nap. Then Fiona waited.
At last, when she heard her sister’s footsteps on the stairs, followed by the closing bathroom door and the pipe-creaking hiss of the shower, Fiona took her chance.
She slung her backpack over her shoulder, bolted out of the house, and biked away as fast as she could ride.
A funny feeling struck her as she climbed the steps of Chisholm Memorial Library.
These were the steps that Pearl had bounded up while being chased by the Searcher. This was the doorway where Pixie had waited, keeping guard. This was Pearl and Hazel’s house.
No—Margaret and Evelyn’s house. When Fiona stepped across the threshold, she felt like both a guest and a trespasser, like she was stepping into the past and the present at the very same time.
The librarian with the bow tie—it was a purple one this morning—smiled at her as she slipped by. “Can I help you find anything today?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Owens,” said Fiona.
Today she wasn’t looking for a book.
She was looking for that blond-haired boy.
She knew he lived on Church Street, but she didn’t know his house number, or even his name. Her only real option was searching where she’d found him in the first place.
Fiona had just finished checking the upstairs rooms and was padding back along the walkway when, in the central chamber below her, a familiar figure caught her eye.
It wasn’t the blond boy.
Someone with swirly brown hair topped by a little bouquet of violets had just emerged from the research room.
Fiona watched as Ms. Miranda glanced carefully around the room, making sure that Mr. Owens was busy helping a patron at the computers before ducking behind the circulation desk. Once more, the librarian glanced to either side. But she didn’t look up.
From above, Fiona watched as Ms. Miranda crouched behind the desk. The librarian pulled something dark green and book-shaped from under her arm, stuffed it into a canvas shoulder bag, and hid the bag behind a wastebasket. Then, with one last look around, she rose and strode away, leaving the desk unoccupied.
Fiona sucked in a gasp that felt full of static electricity.
Her book—The Lost One—was here.
But how? And why? And did it even matter? Did anything matter more than getting that book back in her own hands?
Fiona flew down the staircase. Mr. Owens was still busy at the computers. No one else was watching as she dove behind the circulation desk. She landed on her hands and knees, yanking the canvas bag out from behind the wastebasket.
The Lost One was waiting for her inside. Its soft cover fit into her grasp like a familiar hand.
Clutching the book to her chest, Fiona whirled around—straight into someone’s pink silk shirt.
“Whoa,” said Ms. Miranda, taking an off-balance step back. “Well, hi there, Fiona Crane.” Her clear brown eyes flicked to the book in Fiona’s arms. “I guess the two of us need to have a chat.”
The storage room down the STAFF ONLY hallway was tile floored and dim. One glance around reminded Fiona that this had once been the kitchen. Wooden cabinets still lined its walls, and the faintest scent of cinnamon and cloves haunted the air.
“We can talk in here,” said Ms. Miranda, flipping on a light. She stepped past Fiona toward the middle of the room.
Fiona hung back in the doorway. She gripped The Lost One tight, trying to crush a hundred questions into the back of her mind, where they couldn’t flood out all at once and give her secrets away.
Ms. Miranda perched on a heavy table, facing Fiona. The bouquet of violets in her hair nodded softly. She reached into the pocket of her shirt.
Fiona’s first thought was that Ms. Miranda was pulling out a gun.
But that was ridiculous. A librarian would choose a quieter weapon. Something like poison, or a nice tight gag.
Fiona stepped backward. Her spine struck the door.
Ms. Miranda took a cardboard package from her pocket. “Chocolate-covered raisins?”
Fiona blinked. “What?”
“Chocolate always helps me think.” The librarian leaned forward, holding out the box. “Want some?”
Cautiously, Fiona stepped closer, one hand out. Ms. Miranda poured several chocolates into it before eating one herself. So the raisins couldn’t be poisoned, Fiona thought. That seemed like a good sign.
“Okay,” Ms. Miranda began. “You’ve read the library’s strangest book. What did you think?”
“It was . . . interesting,” Fiona answered carefully. “Except for the missing ending.”
“Annoying, isn’t it?” said Ms. Miranda. “It might be the worst misprint I’ve ever seen. Except you can’t really have a misprint if a book was never printed.”
“Never printed?” Fiona echoed.
“I’ve done the research. There’s no record of The Lost One ever being published.” Ms. Miranda pointed at the book