Page 19 of The Devouring Time

If only I could remember something, anything, that might explain why all of this is happening to me. What I could possibly have done to deserve it.

“Hey.” Adrian puts a cautious hand to my arm. When I don’t pull away, he firms his grip. “The last couple of days have been a lot, even for me. Without your memory, I’m sure it’s even worse. We’ll finish looking around here, then take the first train that pulls up at the depot. Get a sleeper car, and you can get some rest. All right?”

His gentle tone almost undoes me. “That sounds good.”

“Just a little while longer.” He pats my shoulder and lets his hand drop. “You said the library is through here?”

All of the cases are stripped of books, and the coating of dust on the shelves suggests they’ve been gone for a while. Adrian prowls the room, frowning. “Why leave the furniture and a stolen painting, but take the entire library?”

“Hart still needed the books,” I say, then immediately wonder where that thought came from. But Adrian nods.

“That must be it. But why? Unless they were more valuable than the painting?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t have time to really look.”

“Right.” Adrian stops his prowling. “Where is the hidden room?”

“Here, I think.”

The now-empty bookcase opens at my touch. The book that was on the altar is gone, but everything else remains, including the tapestry with the strange hourglass-and-moth design. Adrian crosses to it, studies it closely, then pulls it aside. There’s nothing behind it except a blank wall.

“This is where they injected you?” he asks.

My throat tightens at the memory of the needle stabbing into flesh. Of Myers’s bulk cutting off all hope of escape, Hart leering at me from behind him. “Yes.”

He examines the tapestry again, as if memorizing it. “I wonder if he belongs to some sort of secret society?” When I look puzzled, he adds, “Wealthy men love secret societies. Skull and Bones, the Zodiac Club, that sort of thing. They mostly gather to do favors for each other and talk about how much better they are than the rest of us.”

It does sound like the sort of thing Hart might find appealing. “Do you recognize the symbol?”

“No, but one of my contacts might.” He steps back. “Let’s take a look at Hart’s private chambers.”

“Good idea. Maybe he left some clue as to where he went. Or at least, why he wanted to drug a random bookseller.”

A little line springs up between Adrian’s brows. “It wasn’t random, though. When we first met here, Hart was surprised to see you. He was expecting your partner.”

I start for the stairs. “I know. All I can think is James must have crossed him somehow without realizing.”

Adrian follows me, and we climb to the uppermost floor. “Did he ever mention Hart before?”

“No. He received a letter, explaining Mr. Hart had a valuable collection and wished to sell some of the volumes. They arranged the particulars via telephone. Then James’s mother tripped over her dog and broke her leg. We tried to call and reschedule, but no one ever answered, so I came instead.”

Bitterness surges through me. If not for Mrs. Olden and her dog, James would be here right now instead of me. James would have lost sixteen months of his life, and I’d be safely in my apartment.

No. No, James is my friend, and I don’t truly wish this on him. Hart and his lackey Myers are the only ones to blame. If I’m going to feel bitter toward anyone, it should be them alone.

We pause at the landing, Adrian’s brow still creased with thought. “So he was expecting Olden, but made do with you. Why? Was he on some sort of schedule and had to take the bookseller he had, not the one he wanted?”

“I suppose? But why did he want either of us? What happened to my memories? The things you say I did—they don’t sound like me.”

“Hart clearly wanted someone who had ties to the rare book trade.”

“And James was the one who usually met with clients or went to auctions.” Something, at least, was starting to make sense. “He had more personal ties to people. Some buyers and sellers require that—they won’t deal with anyone they don’t know well.”

“Because they’re passing along books they’ve acquired through illicit means?” Adrian asks, giving me a measuring stare.

“Of course not!” I stiffen. “We would never deal in stolen books!”

He makes a noncommittal noise, which puts my back up even farther. The nerve of the man to suggest Forgotten Folios would ever stoop to such a level. Whatever Adrian thinks I did during the time of my missing memories, our shop had been perfectly respectable up to the day I stepped off the train here in Hart’s Leap.