Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 49
There was no subterranean vault of gilt splendor, no books, and no evidence that any such library had ever existed. Emma was, instead, staring at an empty warehouse with clouded windows dressed only by tattered curtains of lacy cobwebs. The floor was covered in a layer of thick dust interrupted only by the small tracks of insects and rats. No one had set foot in this place for years.
Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the old railing to steady herself, her eyes starting from their sockets in abject disbelief. She knew what she’d seen before, could still see the beautiful frescoes and pillars and gilt trimmings. In her other hand, she cleaved Vampyris to her chest as some sort of anchor. The book was real and the book bespoke the reality of that magical library, so she knew she couldn’t be all mad.
Slowly, Emma backed away from the railing, her heel catching momentarily on the first step. She turned suddenly and fled up the stairs and back along the corridor, stumbling out into the daylight as though the building itself had given her a shove for good measure. The door slammed to behind her.
As she rushed into the waiting carriage, she tried to recall if she herself had slammed the front door or if the damnable thing had shut itself. The niggling chill at her back suggested the latter.
Emma was awaiting her sister in the vestibule as the last of their traps were secured by the driver of the bright yellow chaise that had arrived promptly at six o’clock. It had all been arranged by the Winterlys for their private use, which was fortunate indeed, for Milli, who’d demanded punctuality in her sister, had not seen fit to observe the time or meet her sister at the appointed hour. Not that Emma minded—her mind was turning and puzzling through yesterday’s misadventure.
It had occurred to her to question the driver, to ascertain if he’d confused the address somehow. All those buildings looked more or less the same in the dark and perhaps, in daylight, he mistook the address entirely. However, the man had staunchly insisted that he’d deposited her at the very same door as before.
Emma blinked and leaned her head backwards as a hand appeared before her nose, waving vigorously.
“Are you all right?” asked Milli. “You’ve been acting very peculiarly since yesterday.” She then stopped suddenly and shrugged, her glove halfway on. “More so than usual, mind.”
“And you,” said Emma, glancing down at her watch, “are behindhand, my dear, more so than usual. Come along.” She herded her sister out the door and down towards the waiting chaise where they dutifully kissed their guardians farewell.
Milli beamed at the driver as he shut the door behind her. “An avant!” she cried and then kissed her hand to her aunt and uncle as the horses were roused to action. Their uncle shook his head as they sped off.
The hiring of post-chaises were for those that preferred the convenience of a journey disembarrassed by strangers, or worse, the bourgeoisie; it was only the wealthy that could afford to indulge such inclinations. The sisters, however, could ill afford it, and they’d have ended up going by post had it not been for Victoria’s generosity. Traveling to Whitby by the diligence would have been a harrowing prospect indeed, for the stagecoaches were usually very uncomfortable, unsafe, and overcrowded. No, they were very fortunate in Victoria’s intervention on their behalf.
Their private chaise was to make the entire journey in under thirty hours, without an overnight stop, and that was, in actuality, to her preference. She was sure that sleeping in the carriage was far more agreeable to risking the bedbugs that one was sure to find in the inns along the way. A more leisurely drive, no hurried stops, and better vittles—yes, she could well get used to private travel.
The thunder of the iron tires, the powerful, clamoring hooves of the four-in-hand, and the jingle of the little bells on the harnesses soon lulled Milli into slumber as they finally left London and were whisked along the old Roman thoroughfare, Ermine Street. Even Boudicca, curled up on Milli’s lap, was fast asleep. Emma was once more left to her thoughts.
Aside from bedbugs, the only peril she considered with any real fear, as the scenery transformed from city buildings to open fields, was the danger posed by highwaymen and footpads, and she wondered if the two postilions were carrying pistols or blunderbusses like the stagecoach guards were known to do. Whilst she ruminated over these morbid thoughts, the coach flew past a gibbet, from which were hung three lonely bodies. Emma shuddered, turning away from the carrion eaters picking at their easy fare.
She drew the window blinds against the gallows and kept them drawn as the morning sun flooded the Great North Road in harsh light and heat. With the sunlight barred, Emma soon found herself transferred from Pasithea’s arms into those of the winged daemon, Morpheus, where thoughts of wicked viscounts and vanishing libraries could plague her no more.
It was hours later when she awoke again, owing to the chaise slowing to a halt so that the horses could be changed. Realizing that they were already in Royston, Emma wondered how many other stages they’d stopped at. To have slept through all the staging stops between here and London, for they would have stopped every fifteen miles, was very unlike her. She was usually a light sleeper, or had been before coming to London.
They partook of a light tiffin at the inn in Royston but did not linger and were soon underway again. Milli was garrulous after filling her belly and interrupted Emma’s reading again and again with postulations about the Solstice Ball, all aflutter at the possibility of seeing Mr. Valko