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The Hennigin Hall library is a huge room spread over two floors, with a carved wooden staircase leading up to the balconies. Bookcases line every wall, covering every inch from floor to ceiling, and huge windows stare out over the grounds—though in the dark it’s hard to see much more than the waxy moon peeking between thick clouds.
There’s another cobwebbed chandelier. More antique rugs, and stone gargoyles hunkering where the walls meet the ceiling. Mahogany writing desks and chintz armchairs.
There’s a reason this room is front and center on the hotel website.
“It’s a bitch to clean in here,” Penny says idly, flicking on a floor lamp.
My bark of laughter wins another smile. A real one this time, soft and apologetic, and I hate that Penny has been so quiet and sad since the attic. Hate that she’s clearly beating herself up over it, even though I loved every second and she was the real victim.
Her freckles stand out in the lamplight, and her olive skin looks smooth as satin. Bronze strands shine among her brown hair.
Can’t believe she was in my arms only a few minutes ago. Can’t believe she danced with me.
“Tell me something.” I watch as Penny strolls to the nearest bookcase, running one fingertip along the spines, and with her back turned, I can look my fill. Can stare at her with all the raw, desperate hunger that I feel. “Why do you want an encounter so badly?”
Penny shrugs, pulling the tops of several books down, like she’s checking for a secret passageway. That would be interesting. “It’s proof of something more, you know? Proof of mysteries that we haven’t unraveled yet. And sometimes, with work and cleaning and making dinners and washing plates, doing loads and loads of laundry into oblivion, cycling the same routes through town and having the same polite conversations with the same neighbors, hearing the same songs on the radio, over and over…”
“Life can get a little humdrum.”
Penny gusts out a breath. “Exactly. And the hauntings are the opposite of that. They dial everything up to eleven. Or I imagine they do, anyway.”
God, I want that for her.
“The attic was something,” I point out. “The unplugged record player. The silvery eyes.”
“It was definitely something,” Penny agrees, wandering away to flick through a pile of loose maps on a nearby writing desk. “More than I’ve ever experienced before. I already owe you big time, Arthur Carstairs.”
“It’s nothing.” The rug muffles my footsteps as I stroll to an ancient-looking rocking chair. The wood is gnarled and knotted, and a scratchy tartan blanket is draped over the back. I poke the chair with one finger and set it rocking. “You don’t owe me anything, Penny. Tonight means a lot to me too.”
There’s a long pause. Penny is so still, hiding behind her hair as she stares down at the maps. “Because of your research? For your next book?”
“Because it’s waking me up too. Busting me out of the rut I’ve been in. You wake me up, Penny Dreadful.”
She spins around, eyes bright, but I hold up a palm and nod at the rocking chair. It’s still creaking back and forth long after it should have stopped, and the faint clack, clack, clack of invisible knitting needles fills the silent library. The taste of warm shortbread spreads over my tongue.
“Wow,” Penny breathes, gazing wide-eyed at the rocking chair. She tiptoes closer, fingers twisting in the hem of her green t-shirt. “Oh, wow. This is really happening. It’s happening, right? You see it too?”
“I see it too.”
We both watch, spellbound and silent, until the rocking chair finally goes still. My ears pop, and a grandfather clock rings out in another room.
Penny flies into my arms, but I see her coming this time. I’m ready, arms spread, my heart lodged in my throat, and when her supple body presses against mine, when her warmth bleeds through my shirt, I could die and go to heaven right now.
Or die and haunt Penny.
Yes, I’d definitely haunt Penny. She’d like that too.
“Thank you so much,” she says, voice muffled against my chest. Her silky hair is everywhere: slipping inside my shirt collar to tickle my bare skin, snagging on my five o’clock shadow, brushing against my nose. I breathe in a lungful of lavender. “This is the best night of my life.”
I squeeze her closer. “Mine too, Penny.”
Mine too.
* * *
She chatters the whole way back to my room, clinging to my hand and swinging our arms between us. I’m thrilled and confused in equal measure, because in the attic she seemed so horrified at that kiss, and yet…
“Lucky charm!” she crows now, her voice echoing down the empty corridor. “I told you you’re my lucky charm, Arthur Carstairs!”
