Read Online The Spook's Blood (Wardstone Chronicles) by Delaney Joseph - Free Book Online
Authors: Delaney Joseph
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heard footsteps approaching the door. Then a key was turned in the lock and it slowly opened inwards. A girl was standing before us, holding a candle in one hand and a big bunch of keys in the other. She was slim and pretty and couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen years of age. She was dressed simply in a black dress that came down to her ankles; it contrasted with her long, reddish fair hair, which was pulled back from her forehead by a coronet in the current fashion of well-to-do County women. Her face was very pale but her lips were painted red, and at the sight of us they widened into a smile and all my former unease evaporated away.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said in greeting. ‘You must be John Gregory and his apprentice, Thomas Ward. I have heard so much about you. I am Mistress Fresque, but please use my first name. Call me Cosmina.’
I was immediately struck by her accent. She spoke English well but undoubtedly came from Romania, as Judd had explained. And despite her obvious youth, her eyes seemed to hold the experience and assurance of a much older woman.
‘We are pleased to be here,’ said the Spook, ‘and are very much looking forward to examining your store of books. Judd Brinscall guided us here but had to leave on business.’
‘Well, he is my guest, so we’ll see him later – and you are most welcome. I bid you enter . . . ’ With those words she stepped aside, and the Spook and I crossed the threshold into the gloomy interior.
‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘I will show you to the library.’
She turned on her heel and led us down a passageway lined with a wainscot painted a dark glossy brown. Right at the end, directly facing us, was an oval door. She selected a key from the bunch and turned it in the lock, and we followed her inside. Immediately I heard the Spook gasp in astonishment.
We were in a vast round tower and its walls were fitted with curved wooden shelves whose every inch was occupied by books. In the centre was a round oaken table, its surface highly polished, and three chairs. There was another door directly opposite the one we had come through.
This was an atrium, a circular space that extended right up to the conical roof. I glimpsed other floors – maybe six or seven – each furnished with books in the same way. The library must have contained thousands of books, and it was many times larger than the Spook’s one at Chipenden.
‘You are the owner of this vast library?’ he asked in astonishment.
‘Nobody can ever truly
own
a library such as this,’ Mistress Fresque replied. ‘It is a legacy from the past. I am just its keeper and preserver.’
The Spook nodded. He understood that. That was exactly the position he had taken towards his own library. It wasn’t about ownership; it had been about keeping it safe for the use of future generations of spooks. Now it was gone, and he felt its loss keenly. I was really pleased for my master: now he might be able to start restocking it.
‘I am the librarian, but I have the right to lend books or sell any which I consider surplus to requirements,’ the girl went on.
‘May I ask what percentage of this large collection of books actually relates to the dark?’ asked the Spook.
‘Approximately one seventh,’ Mistress Fresque replied. ‘In fact, the whole of this lowest floor. Why don’t you examine the books at your leisure? I will bring you some refreshments.’
With these words she gave a little bow and left the room by the second door, closing it behind her.
‘Well, lad,’ said the Spook enthusiastically. ‘Let’s get to work.’
So we went to opposite sides of the circular room and began to look at the titles on the spines. Many were intriguing: a large leather -bound tome caught my eye:
Speculations on the Dark: Its Achilles Heel
.
I knew that Achilles was a hero from Greek history. At birth his mother had dipped him into a cauldron to bestow upon him the gift of invulnerability.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said in greeting. ‘You must be John Gregory and his apprentice, Thomas Ward. I have heard so much about you. I am Mistress Fresque, but please use my first name. Call me Cosmina.’
I was immediately struck by her accent. She spoke English well but undoubtedly came from Romania, as Judd had explained. And despite her obvious youth, her eyes seemed to hold the experience and assurance of a much older woman.
‘We are pleased to be here,’ said the Spook, ‘and are very much looking forward to examining your store of books. Judd Brinscall guided us here but had to leave on business.’
‘Well, he is my guest, so we’ll see him later – and you are most welcome. I bid you enter . . . ’ With those words she stepped aside, and the Spook and I crossed the threshold into the gloomy interior.
‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘I will show you to the library.’
She turned on her heel and led us down a passageway lined with a wainscot painted a dark glossy brown. Right at the end, directly facing us, was an oval door. She selected a key from the bunch and turned it in the lock, and we followed her inside. Immediately I heard the Spook gasp in astonishment.
We were in a vast round tower and its walls were fitted with curved wooden shelves whose every inch was occupied by books. In the centre was a round oaken table, its surface highly polished, and three chairs. There was another door directly opposite the one we had come through.
This was an atrium, a circular space that extended right up to the conical roof. I glimpsed other floors – maybe six or seven – each furnished with books in the same way. The library must have contained thousands of books, and it was many times larger than the Spook’s one at Chipenden.
‘You are the owner of this vast library?’ he asked in astonishment.
‘Nobody can ever truly
own
a library such as this,’ Mistress Fresque replied. ‘It is a legacy from the past. I am just its keeper and preserver.’
The Spook nodded. He understood that. That was exactly the position he had taken towards his own library. It wasn’t about ownership; it had been about keeping it safe for the use of future generations of spooks. Now it was gone, and he felt its loss keenly. I was really pleased for my master: now he might be able to start restocking it.
‘I am the librarian, but I have the right to lend books or sell any which I consider surplus to requirements,’ the girl went on.
‘May I ask what percentage of this large collection of books actually relates to the dark?’ asked the Spook.
‘Approximately one seventh,’ Mistress Fresque replied. ‘In fact, the whole of this lowest floor. Why don’t you examine the books at your leisure? I will bring you some refreshments.’
With these words she gave a little bow and left the room by the second door, closing it behind her.
‘Well, lad,’ said the Spook enthusiastically. ‘Let’s get to work.’
So we went to opposite sides of the circular room and began to look at the titles on the spines. Many were intriguing: a large leather -bound tome caught my eye:
Speculations on the Dark: Its Achilles Heel
.
I knew that Achilles was a hero from Greek history. At birth his mother had dipped him into a cauldron to bestow upon him the gift of invulnerability.
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