Page 7 of Love Immortal

Six

A s expected, my weekend is uneventful. I spend it nursing my sore back and catching up on my coursework. Finishing the Gothic lit assignment takes up most of my Sunday. I should start reading ahead whenever I have free time to keep up with the long list Mr. Bathory has given us.

I’m almost looking forward to his class now that I know he spoke with the library staff for me. Maybe he doesn’t hate me after all. Perhaps he just despises my name. I sigh at the hefty copy of The Mysteries of Udolpho in my hands. Jonathan is such a common, boring name. What is there to hate? Maybe it isn’t Gothic enough for Mr. Bathory. Would he cringe the same way if I were named Valancourt instead, like the love interest of the kidnapped heroine from this novel? I chuckle to myself. Dacian Bathory, on the other hand, sounds very Gothic. Too conveniently Gothic, if you ask me. Is that even his real name, or did he pick it to match the class’s aesthetic? I like the sound of it, though: Dacian . Especially the way he said it, with his aristocratic accent.

I wonder what it means. Maybe I could find its etymology in the library, along with something about that wolf-dragon symbol on his signet ring. I don’t recall seeing anything like it in any of my art history courses. I make a mental note to investigate before powering through the remaining seventy pages of Ann Radcliffе’s novel.

“How strange it is, that a fool or a knave, with riches, should be treated with more respect by the world, than a good man, or a wise man in poverty!” These are the words that Dacian Bathory opens our Monday class with. He’s quoting from the book I just finished reading— The Mysteries of Udolpho . Once again, he hasn’t brought any notes with him, just a stack of library books. They must be ones he intends to read for pleasure, as none of them are related to this class.

“Did you know that in her time, Ann Radcliffe was compared to the Bard himself?” he continues with a flourish, standing in the center of the auditorium. “She was no less famous than Shakespeare, I assure you. Reverently called the Mother of Gothic, Ms. Radcliffe was the highest-paid and best-selling writer and poet of her time, which was quite an accomplishment for a woman in the eighteenth century. With her fine language and vivid imagination, she held enormous influence over not only her contemporaries but also those who came long after her, including the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen, Lord Byron, and even the master of the macabre himself, Edgar Allan Poe. So why, then, you might ask, is Ann Radcliffe so little known now?

“After publishing five vastly popular novels in the span of just nine years, Ms. Radcliffe suddenly disappeared from the public eye, sparking wild rumors about her fate that could rival the fantastical plots of her own stories.”

“What happened to her?” a girl in the front row asks with a mystified frown.

Dacian’s mouth curves up into a devious smirk. “No one truly knows. Some speculate that she was driven mad, haunted by ghostly apparitions from her own novels. Others suggest it was the evil doings of her husband—perhaps he forbade her from publishing any further. After all, when she died, he burned Ann’s papers as though he didn’t want the world to see what was in them.”

When Mr. Bathory says this, he glances in my direction. There is exhaustion in his face, as though he didn’t sleep well either; perhaps he’s plagued by nightmares of his own. But with enormous relief, I see that there’s no hostility toward me in his tired eyes.

I honestly wasn’t sure what to expect from class today; would he ignore me, or treat me like I did him some terrible injustice? But now I’m convinced that what I said to him at the meeting last Wednesday has changed his mind about me. I need to thank him for speaking to the library on my behalf.

After a brief moment, his gaze returns to the rest of the students, who listen with rapt fascination as he continues to lay out the mystery of Ann Radcliffe’s life.

“But perhaps it’s the third theory that is most plausible. Despite the abundance of supernatural phenomena in Ms. Radcliffe’s books, at their core, her novels interrogate the unfairness of the power structures dominated by men and the abuse of women. It is no wonder they faced heavy criticism from those whom such power imbalances benefitted most. At the time, Gothic romance novels were painted as both frivolous and dangerous to the young and impressionable. Women writers, who now were not only paid for their books but, in some cases, paid more than their male counterparts, were a source of envy and a sign of societal change that many fought to extinguish before it became a blaze of revolution. By the mid-nineteenth century, Gothic romance was almost entirely replaced by Gothic horror, and Ann Radcliff’s works slowly descended into obscurity. Now, let us discuss what was so dangerously corrupting about The Mysteries of Udolpho .”

After class, a line of students, mostly girls, wants to talk to Mr. Bathory. I tell Fiona I’ll see her later at the dining hall, resigning myself to waiting patiently. Even though a couple of people dropped the class, probably intimidated by the amount of reading, six enthusiastic new students have signed up. Shockingly, Eric Stockton didn’t join the ranks of the dropouts. The jerk once again slept in the back row as Mr. Bathory lectured. He’s got to be delusional to think that he can coast through this class without doing any of the work.

After ten long minutes of waiting, it’s finally my turn, and I approach Mr. Bathory’s desk.

“Mr. Evergreen,” Dacian Bathory says with a light lilt in his melodic voice that suggests surprise. It does strange things to my thoughts. I almost forget why I’m here.

“I…I wanted to say thank you for putting in a good word with the library,” I manage, amazing myself by not stumbling over the syllables.

“Oh.” His perfect eyebrows arch, and he smiles slightly with just the very corners of his mouth. “Do not mention it. Seems to me you are the one who truly deserves the position.”

Unexpected warmth spreads through my chest. After everything that happened last semester, it’s nice to get some validation. I want to thank him again, but before I can say any more, he adds, “Maybe if you’d been there last summer, a book wouldn’t have gone missing from the Rare Books Collection.”

I blink, startled. “What do you mean, a book went missing?”

Mr. Bathory’s dark gaze flickers briefly to the side. “Regretfully, I was informed that one was stolen from the collection, a truly one-of-a-kind book,” he explains.

“That’s horrible,” I say, appalled.

“I quite agree, Mr. Evergreen.”

“Do they suspect who took it?” I ask, hoping that perhaps the perpetrator has been caught.

But Mr. Bathory shakes his head somberly. “Local police and campus security don’t seem to have made much progress in their investigation. If it were up to me, such crimes would be punishable by—” He pauses suddenly, and there’s a glint in his eyes that bears the sharpness of a thousand blades. My heart skips a beat. His silence stretches for another moment as he sits frozen, consumed by his thoughts, and then he continues, “Whoever the thief may be, they should consider themself lucky that such punishments are not for me to deliver.”

I clear my throat. “Well, I definitely won’t let anyone steal any books while I’m there,” I promise a little too eagerly.

“I trust you will not,” he agrees, a surprising fondness smoothing the dangerous edges of his words. It’s probably because we’re talking about books, which he seems to be quite passionate about, not because of me or my daring declaration. But I quite like hearing him talk this way. It’s such a relief that he isn’t glaring at me with hatred anymore.

Now that I’m standing in front of his desk, my curiosity about what else this man reads gets the best of me. I glance down, spotting Hesse, Toni Morrison, and even Tolkien in his stack of books. That’s quite a variety. Is he reading all of them at once?

“Shouldn’t you be somewhere right now, Mr. Evergreen?” he asks.

Right! Fiona is waiting for me at the dining hall, and it’s at least a fifteen-minute walk from here. “Sorry. Yes. I should get going,” I blurt. “I just…I wanted to tell you that I’m meeting the library director today so she can show me around.”

“Then I wish you luck on your first day, Mr. Evergreen,” Dacian Bathory says with an enigmatic smile.

A flutter of nervous excitement hits me as I approach the library later that afternoon. Sure, I’ve been here many times before, but this feels like taking an important step toward getting my dream job after graduation. Most positions in conservation and archiving are based on carefully built relationships. That’s why it’s so important for me to have this experience on my résumé. It will be an invaluable opportunity to make connections within the industry, as Camden’s Rare Books Collection is one of the most visited in the United States. Not to mention that it hosts several annual events that attract scores of researchers and scholars from all around the world.

The special collection takes up the entire east wing of the main library. People often call it the glass box because it’s a room within a room: a three-level glass-and-aluminum enclosure that was built in the 1960s to keep sensitive books and manuscripts in a temperature- and humidity-controlled environment.

I make my way across the main floor, furnished with rows of heavy wooden tables, cozy armchairs, and green reading lamps, toward the special collection’s circulation desk. A girl with a Duran Duran T-shirt and a side ponytail is working the desk. She dials the special collections director, Ms. Tarnow, who comes out to greet me several minutes later.

Ms. Tarnow is a tall woman with a mop of curly red hair, likely in her late forties. She’s dressed in a checkered suit with a little gold pin on the lapel in the shape of an open book. I like her immediately.

“Nice to meet you, Jonathan.” She shakes my hand, smiling. “Mr. Bathory spoke highly of you.”

A flush creeps up my cheeks. “He did?”

“Indeed. You are very lucky to have such a charming advisor. So young, but he already possesses such a deep knowledge of literature,” she says dreamily.

“He certainly does,” I murmur, still blushing over the fact that he spoke highly of me. I wonder what he said.

“Shall I show you around?” Ms. Tarnow asks, interrupting my musings.

“I would love that,” I say eagerly.

She gestures at the round circulation desk. “You will mostly be stationed here, answering calls and assisting patrons when they need a particular item brought out. For security reasons, only library staff has access to the glass box. We do not allow items in our collection to be checked out, and all research must be done in this reading room. It’s part of your job to make sure the materials are handled with due care. Jessi, our other student employee, will fill you in on proper handling procedures and teach you how to use our computerized cataloging system once you officially start.”

Jessi, the girl in the Duran Duran shirt, gives me a thumbs-up. I smile at her in return.

“I don’t have a lot of hours,” Ms. Tarnow continues somewhat apologetically, “so for now, it’ll just be three days a week. Are you able to work evenings?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “I can take the closing shift if you need me to.” In truth, there’s no place I’d rather be. Besides, I want all the hours I can get.

“That’s great!” She beams. “This time of the semester is a bit slow, but many researchers are coming for this fall’s symposium, and we have several classes and exhibits scheduled to start in October that are open to the community, so it’ll get a lot more crowded. Now, let me show you the glass box.”

Ms. Tarnow leads me to the entrance and shows me the key card entry system. I will be issued my own card once I start. Ms. Tarnow scans hers, unlocking the door, and we go in. Inside, it’s noticeably colder and the air smells like old books. It instantly gives me a feeling of comfort, like I’ve finally returned home after a long journey.

“We have more than eighty thousand manuscripts and documents here, about three linear miles of archival materials collected over the last twenty years,” she says proudly. “As you probably know, we have some very special books here: autographed first editions, illuminated manuscripts, rare photographs, and materials related to the history of Camden itself, of course.”

“That’s amazing,” I say, gazing at the rows of shelves.

“It will take you a while to get familiar with where things are located, but the cataloging system will help. Besides, we always have librarians on duty who specialize in various disciplines, and they’ll be happy to assist patrons with their research. Just dial them from the front desk if you have any questions.”

“Will do,” I say dutifully.

“Mainly, your job is to make sure that at the end of each day, every item is undamaged and back in its place.”

“Um, Ms. Tarnow,” I ask, recalling what Mr. Bathory told me after class, “is it true that a book recently went missing?”

Ms. Tarnow’s mouth twists in disappointment. “Yes. It is very unfortunate—the first time something like this has happened since I took this job almost ten years ago.” Judging by the tone of her voice, it’s clear that Ms. Tarnow considers herself partially responsible.

“Was it very valuable?” I ask.

“You know, not particularly,” she says, surprising me, “which makes it all the stranger that someone would steal that one. Don’t get me wrong, it was one of a kind, but we have titles here that would fetch hundreds of thousands of dollars if they were auctioned off to private collectors. Fortunately, they are not for sale, and we get to keep those books in a place where citizens of any means can read them. Provided they’ve made an appointment with us, of course. Preferably at least two weeks in advance.” She laughs.

I chuckle too. “Do you have any clue who stole the book?” I’m not sure why I’m so curious about it. Maybe it’s the fact that Mr. Bathory expressed interest in it.

Ms. Tarnow sighs. “Sadly, there’s no real way to investigate.”

I frown. “But isn’t there security footage?”

“We do have cameras,” Ms. Tarnow says, “but the tapes get deleted every two weeks to save money, and we didn’t realize something had gone missing until it was too late. You see, the title wasn’t on display. It was deemed of modest interest to our patrons and therefore kept in the vault, which is underground, a level below us. So we didn’t find out it was gone until someone asked for it. Just between you and me, the contents were a little scandalous.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, puzzled.

“Well, the title in question wasn’t strictly a book. In fact, it was more of a diary. It seemed to have belonged to a nineteenth-century nobleman, most likely from Eastern Europe, based on the dates and places mentioned in it—although oddly enough, the owner wrote it in English. We never successfully identified who he was, exactly. But a lot of it was centered around a forbidden affair. The nobleman, you see, had a gay lover,” Ms. Tarnow clarifies conspiratorially.

“Oh,” I say, as my gaze instinctively falls to my shoes.

She mistakes my reaction for embarrassment. “I know, right?”

For a moment, I’m afraid that my face might give too much away. While a fair number of people in Camden know I’m gay, I don’t necessarily want to tell the person who just hired me, even if Ms. Tarnow doesn’t seem to have a moral objection to it judging by her carefree attitude toward the diary. “Have you read it?” I ask, trying to keep my voice level.

“Oh, no,” she says, waving her hand. “As I said, there are thousands of books here; a whole lifetime wouldn’t be enough to read them all. I’m merely going off its catalog information and the sample I reviewed back when it first arrived here. But the gay affair wasn’t the only controversial aspect. While it was structured like a personal journal, it was full of such occult, fantastical stuff that either the aristocrat who wrote it was an aspiring fantasy author or a true madman.”

“Wow. I must admit, I’m really curious,” I say, trying to process this information. I’ve never encountered a book like that before. It’s the kind of niche historical stuff that belongs in museums, otherwise it will never survive the brutal churn of history. Not to mention that it’s gay . “Is there a digital copy I could look at? Even a sample?” I ask.

Ms. Tarnow shakes her head. “Unfortunately, it was never digitized. I keep bugging the IT department to devote more resources to our library. It’s the rarest items that should take priority in terms of preservation, but alas, it’s already too late for that book. The only thing we have left is a short description of it. Hopefully, whoever has it now will take proper care of it so it may see the light of day again. Speaking of the light of day—or should I say, rather, the absence of it,” she adds with a chuckle, “let me show you the vault before I let you go. It’s mainly used as additional storage for whatever we can’t fit on the shelves in the box, but you will need to access it from time to time. Now, don’t be scared—I know closed-off underground spaces make some people uncomfortable, but it’s just a room like any other. As far as I know, no one has ever died in it, which cannot be said about some other basements on this campus.”

I follow Ms. Tarnow down a set of stairs as she tells me an unsubstantiated but nevertheless juicy legend of a haunted passage that connects the old chapel with the administrative building. Supposedly, it served as a secret meeting space for those who wanted to keep their illicit affairs discreet. That is until some lady turned up dead inside it. I struggle to pay attention to the story, though, because my mind is on the mystery of the missing diary. Who stole it, and why?