Page 10 of The Evil Twin
I didn’t need to ask which brother he meant. “I’m not here about Hamish.”
I made a mental note to ask what that was about later, though I could take a fairly educated guess.
“I will not let any book out of this library that may come into contact with him.”
I shrugged. That seemed fair, honestly.
“Althea Wilde is super ill,” I said, trying for an angle that might budge him.
“I am aware.”
I sighed. “Look, I’ve got this lodestone thing, and if I can use it to get my powers back, then I think I can heal her, but I don’t know how to use it or where to start looking for something to help, like a handy user manual or something.”
Slowly, he closed his book and set it aside.
“A lodestone?”
I nodded.
“A lodestone, or the lodestone?”
I shrugged. “No idea. Is there a difference?”
He opened his mouth as if about to explain, but then snapped it closed, probably remembering I was related to Hamish. I felt in my pocket and took out the lodestone to show him.
The curator drew in a sharp breath and pushed back, the chair legs scraping against the stone floor.
“You walk around with that in your pocket?”
I shrugged again. “Honestly, I forget it’s there half the time.”
He shook his head. “Figures,” he muttered. “I suppose you’d quite happily stow an atomic bomb in your knapsack as well.”
He stood up so quickly that I was startled. He was much, much taller than he seemed while seated.
“Follow me,” he said, turning abruptly, then vanished through the stacks of books.
I hurried to keep up with him. He moved stiffly, awkwardly, as if the cold of the dungeon had seeped into his bones. Still, he was fast. He twisted and turned so quickly through the stacks that I almost had to jog to keep him in sight. By the time he stopped, I was out of breath.
“You are not to remove this book from this area,” he said sternly. “There is a desk at the end of this row, you may read it there. Once you’re done, leave the book on the desk and notify me that you are finished. Show me your hands.”
I furrowed my brow in confusion. “Huh?”
“Your hands,” he repeated, then held his hands out, palm up.
I copied him, then turned them over when he prompted me to.
He sniffed. “Clean enough. Be incredibly gentle when turning the pages. Only turn one page at a time.” He pulled a few bits of string from his pocket and handed them to me. They were heavier than I expected them to be. “Use these to hold the pages open. Don’t touch the pages except to turn them; the oils from your skin or the slightest pressure can damage them. This book is over a thousand years old and contains information not available in any other known text. It is worth more than your life, or the lives of your family.”
He gave me a very pointed look. Sheesh, what had Hamish done? I’d assumed he'd drawn some rude pictures in a book, but would that warrant this level of animosity? Well, maybe. This guy really loved books a lot.
The curator turned back to the shelf. Reaching up, he took down a large box, decorated with intricate patterns in silver. He held the box close to his chest, as if it were a newborn baby, and gently carried it over to the desk at the end of the row. He placed the box on the desk.
“This is a book cradle,” he said, pointing to a large wooden V on the desk. “I will place the book in the cradle. Under no circumstances should you remove the book from the cradle.”
Slowly, reverently, he opened the box.
After all that, I’d expected the box to be something impressive, with gold lettering hand-painted by medieval monks and all that, but it just looked like any old book that you’d find shoved at the back of a shelf in a thrift store. Maybe a little bigger. There were no markings on the worn leather cover, unless you counted the scuffs around the edges.
