“Work gloves,” I told the teenager, grabbing his sleeve before he passed me. “You know that.”
“Forgot.” He excavated a pair from the pocket of his hoodie and put them on.
I backed up, regretting that my power games with Alaric had made me wear the suit again. I looked like a douche type of manager, standing back and letting other people do the hard work, but I didn’t have the money to replace my good clothes. “Miranda knows where everything goes,” I said. “Alaric, wait a second.” There were work gloves stashed all around the store, and it took me fifteen seconds to find a pair that would fit him. “Here, put these on. The old wood almost always has splinters that’ll jab you. Come find me up front when you guys are done. Jack, c’mon with me, let’s get your donation slip printed up.”
Jack had a list of what he’d brought, because this wasn’t his first rodeo. I checked the descriptions for any outliers, but truthfully, for a regular supplier, I wasn’t going to wait to count old solid-wood doors to make sure there were ten and not nine. That was between him and the tax man. The list seemed reasonable with what I’d scanned in the truck, nothing so valuable I needed to go and confirm the details, so I printed a copy and signed off on the donation.
He folded the receipt into his pocket and waved to the back. “I’ll go help get everything off-loaded.”
“Thanks, man.” I wanted to help too, but if I did, I’d end up carrying bulky and dusty stuff and guaranteed, something would kill this jacket.Jeans tomorrow.
In the meantime, I headed back to my workshop and unlocked the door. The tall armoire from the so-called sorcerer’s housestood near the front, somehow catching my eye in a way a dozen projects behind it didn’t. Standing in front of the closed doors, I noted that the decorative upper rail reached almost to the top of my head, putting the cabinet around five feet tall. While I was familiar with most types of wood, I didn’t recognize this one, a dark brown with a coarse, almost black grain. Near the top, exposure to sunlight had lightened the edges of the doors and rail to a redder shade.
The front was composed of two pairs of rectangular doors, upper and lower, supported on brass hinges. Each door sported a large brass knob shaped like a lion’s head for a handle, and was secured with an ornate inset lock for which all the keys, annoyingly, were missing.Unless they’re in the boxes of stuff donated along with this. Maybe I could make Alaric hunt for them.
I wanted those doors open with an urgency that surprised me.
What does it matter?Most likely the cabinet was empty. Or the compartments might hold faded and yellowing towels or linens, something soft and bulky. I hadn’t heard anything solid shift inside when we’d brought the armoire in on a hand truck and tipped it upright.
But my logic couldn’t make a dent in my sudden intense curiosity.
I need to know!
Urgency flooded me. I jiggled the upper doors, gripping each brass handle in turn, yanking and twisting, then tried the lower two. Despite the numerous scratches and dents, that cabinet had been well crafted. The doors barely shivered.
I had tools of all kinds on my workbench for prying and cutting, but as eager as I was to see the interior, I hesitated before reaching for them. I didn’t want to damage the wood further or break the fancy locks. Maybe I could unscrew the hinges, although I didn’t see obvious screwheads. I squatted totake a closer look. The decorative brass hinge plates seemed bonded to the wood with a technique I couldn’t make out. No antique glue would do that job between wood and metal— “Shit.” I’d jabbed my finger on that same obnoxiously sharp hinge corner.Another blood smear on the wood.I sucked my fingertip. Luckily, the dark-colored grain meant any marks would probably be hidden once sanded—
The lower cabinet door with the damaged hinge swung open.
Must’ve shaken something loose.I peered inside. The interior of the cabinet seemed strangely shadowed, given the bright workshop lights overhead, but I could make out a shelf dividing the lower space. On that shelf sat a massive, leatherbound book. A hint of gold lettering glowed at the top of the spine, but I couldn’t make out a title.
My fingertip had stopped bleeding, but I moved the Band-Aid from my knuckle and covered any chance of causing more stains, before kneeling and reaching in to ease out the book. The dusty tome slid into my hands. I’d expected the back cover to be stuck down with dust or old varnish, with how nothing had shifted when we tipped the cabinet around, but no. If anything, the book was lighter than its thickness suggested, and the leather seemed pristine beneath the dust.
I straightened and eased the cover open to a random page. A puff of dust emerged, sparkling a little in the fluorescent light. My nose itched. I held my breath so I wouldn’t sneeze on the glorious layout, full of odd calligraphic script and little sketches, some painted in bright colors. The words floated before my eyes, dancing on the paper. I squinted, unsure if the problem was an unfamiliar language, an overly ornate style, or my eyes watering from the dust.
A bang and rumbling crash from out in the store yanked my attention away from the book. Instinctively, I slammed the cover shut, stuffed the volume back into place, and closed the cabinetdoor before realizing my mistake.What if it won’t open again?That felt like a huge disaster, but another distant crash got my feet moving. I sprinted out of the room, yanked the door shut behind me, and ran for the loading bay.
I was met by the sight of a dropped oak door leaning on a toppled pile of lumber that in turn had knocked down a shelving unit. The truck was gone, the rolling door closed. “What happened?” Alaric stood rubbing his wrist and, despite trying to keep my distance from the tempting man, I was responsible for my employees’ safety. I hurried over, reaching for him. “Alaric, are you hurt? Let me see.”
“Just a scrape.” He held out his arm to show me.
I dug a clean tissue from my pocket, pressing it to his skin where blood slowly welled from a gouge in his forearm. “Keep that covered.” Our fingers brushed as he took over applying pressure and a static shock leaped between us. Alaric jumped and stared at me. “Sorry,” I told him, then turned to Minerva. “What do you need?”
“Rat-proofing?” She sighed. “There was a sound overhead. Sheldon looked up, saw a rat in the rafters, and jumped a bit. Lost his grip.”
“I hate rats,” Sheldon muttered. “Had one run over my bed once. When I was in it.”
I shuddered in empathy. “I’ll call an exterminator.” Although we occasionally had small birds get in and spend days flitting about the high trusses before they found their way out. Mouse droppings in hidden corners were a fact of life. Vermin-proofing this warehouse was an exercise in futility. “And we should all be careful about leaving food out. If the rat has nothing to eat, hopefully it’ll move on.” I sighed. “So you dropped the door? Understandable.”
“I guess.” Sheldon stared at the destruction. “Sorry. You’re not going to take the damages out of my paycheck, are you?”
Not if you don’t sue me for unhygienic working conditions.I decided not to make the joke. Sheldon wasn’t the slacker or opportunist some of the teens I’d employed had been, but better not to put ideas in anyone’s head. “No, of course not. It was an accident. They happen.”
“Oh. Okay. Thank you.” He squatted and touched the door. “I don’t think this was damaged.”
Minerva said briskly, “Help me get it put away, then.”
I told Alaric, “Go get your arm cleaned up. Do you remember where I showed you the first aid kit in the office?”
