Page 9 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

The small gifts Papa had loved to bring her—a ribbon, a book, a bag of sweets—had grown infrequent and then absent.

She had thought it was because he was ailing and left the house less often.

They had not hired an upstairs maid to replace the one who left.

She had told herself it was because they had no need of an upstairs maid in their small and comfortable household, that their maid of all work was adequate.

Most telling, Papa had stopped purchasing rare books, even when she heard whispers of the availability of an original English translation of a Cornelius Agrippa text from 1670.

He had explained away his uncharacteristic disinterest with a wave of his hand and the excuse that his shelves were full.

Isabella had known that they had grown ever more careful with their money, but she had not known— or was it that she had not acknowledged? —the whole of it. There had been coin to pay the bills. No creditors had knocked at the door. She had allowed herself to believe that was enough.

“If the books were sold, why are they still here?” she asked.

“Mr. Caradoc agreed to let your father keep them here until the collection was fully catalogued.”

Isabella stared at him as the name registered. Mr. Caradoc.

After a moment, she gathered herself and said, “The collection is fully catalogued. I completed the work myself.”

“Yes. And with your father’s demise…” Mr. Christopher cleared his throat. “Mr. Caradoc has already contacted me to arrange for transfer of the collection.” Mr. Christopher waved a hand to encompass the shelves that lined the walls and the stacks of books on the floor.

Isabella’s thoughts spun to the locked trunk in Papa’s chamber. Not all his books had been catalogued; not all had been sold. Not the ones in that trunk.

They had titles like Petit Albert , Dragon Rouge , and Grimorium Verum . Some had no titles at all and were more journal than tome, diaries of spells and conjuration, written by souls long passed from this earth.

The key she had taken from Papa’s closed fist the night he died hung around her neck. Cold and impossibly heavy, its presence was a dark whisper against her skin.

“Do you know Mr. Caradoc well?”

His gaze slid back, open and honest. “Well enough. He is a gentleman.”

Not according to Papa.

“You invested the funds paid to my father for the collection,” Isabella said.

“At your father’s instructions. Without that, you would have nothing.” Mr. Christopher paused. “What will you do, Miss Barrett?”

“I shall seek employment,” she said.

“So you will accept the position Mr. Caradoc offers?”

Did he sound eager? She did not know him well enough to say for certain.

“Other employment,” she said. “Here in London.”

Mr. Christopher’s lips drew in a tight line, and his expression was one she could not interpret. Then he sighed and said, “I can make some inquiries, see if someone is looking for a governess or companion.”

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger.

She knew nothing about children, nothing about being a governess, and even less about the activities and obligations of a companion.

But she knew a great deal about being a secretary, cataloguing books, repairing them, restoring them.

Unfortunately, women were not usually hired for such positions.

Unless the employer was Rhys Caradoc.

She opened her eyes, feeling defeated before she even began.

“Thank you,” she said. “I would appreciate that. I will send letters to my father’s colleagues, as well. Perhaps one of them will know of a position.” And perhaps one of them knew how to fly and another knew how to breathe underwater.

There was nothing else to be said and Mr. Christopher soon took his leave.

After closing the door behind him, Isabella paused by the basket of food on the console table.

She removed the checkered cloth that covered it and examined the contents: bread, a wheel of cheddar, a small clay pot of butter, dried figs, a handful of fresh eggs wrapped in straw, a piece of salted pork, some carrots and turnips, a twist of paper containing candied almonds, and an oval chemist’s tin, japanned black, with a thin gilt rule circling the rim.

She opened it to find a pleated rosette of waxed paper cupping pale yellow lemon drops dusted in sugar.

She stared at the basket, feeling no temptation to sample this bounty.

When had she eaten last? She could not recall. The hunger that gnawed at her was not for food. It was for answers, for certainty, for a clear path forward.

Absently, she tore a small chunk from the edge of the bread and nibbled at the crust. She tasted nothing, but she forced herself to chew. She swallowed then turned and walked along the dim hallway. From behind her came a soft sigh. Then a whisper, like sand sifting. She did not turn.

Her throat grew tight; her shoulders tensed. She hung her head and for an instant, just an instant, allowed herself to acknowledge her despair. Then she drew a breath, drew herself upright, and went to her father’s desk to write letters.