Page 25 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

Inside lay books. Dozens of them. Their shapes were familiar and welcome, cracked leather spines, gilded titles faded with time, corners softened by years of careful hands.

They should have been wrapped carefully in oilcloth and twine, for that was how they had been packed.

Instead, there was a snarl of twine off to one side and the books were stacked in a random way.

She took care to wipe her hands on a clean cloth before lifting one carefully. Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica.

She knew this book, and every other in this crate. She brushed her fingertips lightly over the embossed letters on the spine before placing it gently on the table.

Another followed, then another. Titles in Latin, French, Arabic. Symbols that seemed to twist and writhe on the page if she stared at them too long.

“That’s an awful lot of books,” Peg said. “And those just from a single crate.” She looked around at the piles on the floor. “So many books.”

“These belonged to my father,” Isabella murmured.

“They look old. Older than books ought to look.”

“They are very old,” Isabella said, memories of Papa summoning a bittersweet smile.

Peg set down her feather duster and lifted the heavy bucket of dirty water, her arms straining with the weight. The water sloshed as she adjusted her grip.

“I need to fetch fresh water,” she said.

Isabella nodded. “Of course, Peg. Take your time.”

The maid hesitated at the threshold, her freckled face pinched with worry, her gaze darting around the room.

“You’ll be alright, miss? Alone in here?”

Sweet girl. Whatever ghosts she imagined in the dim corners of the library, they were no worse than the wraiths that had been Isabella’s companions all her life, certainly no worse than the wraith she had encountered her first night here.

“I will. Go on,” she said.

Peg cast one last wary glance around the library before slipping out the door. The echo of her footsteps faded.

Isabella turned slowly, her eyes sweeping across the room. The silence stretched around her, vast and unyielding, like the weight of the centuries pressed into the stone walls and carved wood panels.

And in that silence, something moved.

Not footsteps. Not the creak of settling wood. Not the whispers of unseen wraiths.

It was more a shift in the air, like breath stirring dust. She felt that breath on her cheek, stone cold, cellar damp. Heat without flame licked across the floor. The scent of roses filled the air.

Then came a thud as a book tumbled from the shelf across the room and struck the floor.

Isabella froze. All the spirits she had seen her entire life were insubstantial remnants, unable to influence the physical world. All save the girl in the moonlit hallway who had looked so very real.

Was she here now? Had she tossed the book to the floor?

Isabella turned, her gaze searching every nook and cranny for signs of a wraith. She saw none.

The book lay sprawled open, its pages twitching in the draft that curled through the room. Slowly, cautiously, Isabella stepped toward it and bent until her fingers brushed the leather cover.

A whisper.

Not a voice, not quite, but something else. A sound that slithered through the silence like cold breath against the back of her neck.

The book’s pages fluttered. The library door slammed shut.

Isabella turned sharply and crossed the room. The door handle was icy beneath her touch. When she tested it, it would not turn.

She gripped it tighter and twisted. Still, it held fast.

The air around her was frigid now, her breath puffing white before her lips.

She rattled the handle and yanked.

Then something brushed against her wrist. Not the air. Not a draft. Something slithered, cold and damp and solid, smelling of soot and wet stone, the aroma of roses turning sulfur sharp.

On instinct, she yanked her hand back, a strangled gasp catching in her throat. The sensation lingered, wet and slippery, a phantom touch that should not have been there.

Her heart beat hard and fast. Her breathing turned ragged.

And then the door swung open on its own.

Isabella stumbled back, her pulse stuttering. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

“It will take more than that to frighten me,” she muttered, hating the tremor that betrayed her. Her gaze swept across the crates, the shelves, the desk. The quiet was unnatural. The cold doubly so. But it was the brief blast of heat that unsettled her.

Wraiths were cold, always. Yet this wraith seemed determined to alter the rules.

Isabella took a step toward the door, but her limbs felt sluggish, heavy, the very air resisting her progress. A shiver traced down her spine on centipede legs, pooling in her stomach, heavy as lead.

With a sharp inhalation, she shook off the feeling and stalked toward the now open door. But as she crossed the threshold into the hallway, she could not escape the feeling that something did not want her to leave. That it would wait here for her return.

Then came a whisper. Not a breath. Not a voice. Something else.

“I…s…a…b…e…l…l…a….”

Papa’s voice.

But Papa was dead. Gone.

Grief and horror tangled in her breast until she could scarce draw breath. The syllables crawled along her skin as though the malevolent thing that shaped them meant to sink claws and drag her back through the library door.

Always had she heard the whispers but never had they called her by name.

The air in the hallway felt warm against her chilled skin. Too warm, like the unnatural heat of a fever. She paused, crossing her arms and rubbing her palms up and down.

Her wrist prickled. She glanced down and froze.

Both her skin and the hem of her sleeve were slippery and wet. A single droplet slithered along her pulse and fell. As it hit the floor, the air turned sour with the reek of water thrown on a fire…wet ash and scalding steam.