Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 33
Emma gathered her wits and stepped forward with the invitation. “I believe this was dropped—”
The woman snatched the invitation with shocking speed. The eyes that had, until then, frozen Emma to the stairhead were a peculiar tawny color. They were now bent sharply over the invitation. Her brows gathered in bemusement when she lifted her gaze from it, then she stood aside to admit Emma. “Enter.”
Emma was so appalled at the woman’s curtness that she nearly turned on her heel and marched off. Instead, she glanced over her shoulder at the carriage driver and bade him return for her in an hour.
“Very good, miss.” And off he went.
Emma all but scrambled after the woman who, as soon as the door was shut, marched off down a long corridor and then a flight of stairs that was very poorly lit. Emma was on the verge of retreating when another door was shoved open to reveal a sight so unexpected that she nearly tripped over her own jaw.
They had emerged into a vaulted room of ancient grandeur and iron chandeliers. There were soaring walls of twisting pilasters and book-lined shelves ornamented with gilded stucco and strange statuary. The ironwork staircases spiraled up towards the upper gallery like stairways to heaven where yet more books were lit by golden candlelight. All was shadow and light and mystery. And it defied reality, for she had seen the drab lines of the building from without and there had been no hint of the magnificence and magnitude disguised within.
There were not very many patrons milling about the area, and those that were—bibliographers and book collectors, no doubt—seemed to have purpose, their heads bent and their eyes scanning deliberately over the catalogues.
“Wait here,” said the woman, handing the invitation back to Emma. Without waiting for a reply, she stalked off. Emma nodded, staring about her in wonderment.
In fact, she was so absorbed in her surroundings that she did not notice the man who approached her until his voice dispelled her awe. It was as though he’d dropped down from some hidden espial, quite out of nowhere and silent withal. “Good evening, mademoiselle.” He was a striking man with long locks of unbound silver and eyes so strange a shade of mahogany that Emma misgave herself they were red. His features were as beautiful as the churlish red-haired woman who now stood behind him. Although, his countenance was a welcoming contrast to hers. “Welcome to our little collection.”
“Monsieur De Grigori is the curator of our family collection,” said the rude woman.
“And this delightful creature,” said he, “is my…sister, Minerva.”
“Mina,” she said, peering down her nose at Emma.
“Emmaline Rose.” Emma’s smile was almost apologetic as she held out the invitation to him. “I’m afraid, Monsieur De Grigori, I have come here uninvited.”
It was not, however, the invitation that seemed to interest him. He ignored the card and took Emma’s hand in his, fixing his gaze to hers as he brushed a light kiss over her knuckles. It was most irregular and unexpectedly bold. A queer energy thrummed over her skin at the point of contact. She might have dismissed it as fancy had not his eyes widened with intrigue, and then narrowed with something akin to wrath. But the latter was so fleeting an impression, gone too soon, that Emma questioned its ever being there in the first place. The smile had never really left his face. “We are delighted you’ve come at last, Miss Rose.”
It was an unusual thing to say and though she wanted to snatch her hand back she was obliged to smile. “I have never seen such a library. It is so beautiful.”
“You are most kind.” He released her hand at last. “Is there a particular breed of literature that brings you here tonight?”
“Well, I…” She wished she had the nerve to declare her interest in supernaturalism, but that was not a subject a refined young lady ought to take interest in. Refined young ladies also did not have unexplained, mouth-shaped bruises on their necks, nor did they confer with incubi. “Something rarified, I suppose,” she said. But that was not the right word. “Something…”
“Recherché, perhaps? We have many books on the occult.”
“Yes, exactly!” It was her very heart’s wish, as though M. De Grigori had divined the desire imprinted there.
“You must permit me to introduce you to my sister, Ana—the occult is her particular expertise.” He nodded at Mina who took it as a directive, for she instantly disappeared down one of the many arched corridors that lead off from the main hall.
At length Mina returned, trailing another woman whose features were so similar that it was impossible to mistake them for anything other than sisters. Only their hair contrasted, the newcomer’s being nearly black—even their eyes were similarly chlorotic. The lady was then promptly introduced as Diana De Grigori. However, she too corrected her brother and insisted on being called Ana.
“Now I shall leave you in Ana’s capable hands,” said her brother, his eyes flashing at his sisters with some tacit message.
“This way.” Ana’s similarity to Mina’s, fortunately, did not extend towards discourtesy. Smiling, she lead Emma away down the same corridor she had emerged from with Mina. This artery soon spilled them into a much smaller hall, though no less dramatic.
Mademoiselle De Grigori forthwith invited Emma to browse the thick volumes at her leisure. “I think you shall find what you seek here.” The room was empty except for the two of them. Once Emma had assured Mlle. De Grigori—“Please,” the lady insisted, “call me Ana”—that she required nothing more, Emma was left alone entirely with an indomitable little candle and a marvelous wealth of marble bookshelves populated by bizarre little gargoyles.
How perfectly gothic! The thought made her smile, for she felt just like one of the heroines from her novels. But underneath that distinct bouquet that all the very best and most