Page 30 of The Book of Lost Hours

AMELIA WENT BACK INTO the time space the day after her visit to James Gravel.

It was evening. She and Moira had spent most of the day not talking.

Amelia wanted to ask questions, but she didn’t trust the answers Moira might give her.

She wanted the truth firsthand. From her uncle’s perspective.

She was going to find his memories, even if that meant witnessing his death.

After she spun the crown of her watch, she stood on the threshold of her uncle’s room, hand poised over the knob. In her other hand, she held a kitchen knife. Going into the time space without something to protect herself no longer felt like an option.

With a final gathering breath, she stepped through the door.

The silence swallowed her instantly. She moved into the darkness, watching the light from underneath the door slip away until she was cast in shadows in all directions.

Shifting the knife in her hand again, she took precise, careful steps.

“Back again?”

Amelia jumped in alarm, raising the knife on instinct. The strangely behaved memory from before had materialized just behind her, his bright shadow dragging through the air.

“Easy now. You’ll frighten the dead acting like that,” he said in a low voice that might have been harsh if it weren’t for the laughter it hid beneath it. “Some of us died at the end of one of those, you know.” He pointed to the knife.

“I’m sorry,” Amelia said, tucking it out of sight.

“Still looking for that book?”

“Actually, I’m looking for my uncle’s memories.”

“Ahhhh, yes. Ernest Duquesne.”

“Yes, him. Can you help me?”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

Amelia let out a sigh of frustration. “Great. Thanks.” She started to turn away, but the memory called after her.

“Aren’t you supposed to be looking for the book?”

“Well, yes. But I don’t suppose you want to help me with that either?”

He gave her a bemused look that would have made her want to hit him if it weren’t for the fact that he was a ghost. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Amelia glared at him. “Who are you?” she asked.

“People call me Azrael.”

“People?”

“Well, one person did.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowed. “Try listening for them.”

“For what?”

“For the memories. Memories talk. So listen.”

“What am I listening for?”

He shrugged unhelpfully and she scowled at him.

He didn’t want to help, that was fine. She’d figure it out on her own.

She turned on her heel, this time scanning the shelves for any signs of blue while keeping an eye out for the specter of her uncle.

Listening against her better judgment. For footsteps.

For noises. For anything that might indicate she was going the right way.

Then suddenly, she heard it. A whispering.

A distant hush. Like a thousand voices speaking under their breath all at once.

She stopped walking, heart thudding. It came again to her left, a noise that almost sounded like her name.

Was this what Azrael had meant? Should she follow it?

She walked toward the sound. The farther she went, the louder the voices got.

Louder and louder and yet seemingly no closer.

She was certain that if she just kept moving, if she just kept following, eventually she would catch up to it.

When she rounded the corner, she immediately stopped in her tracks.

A little ahead of her, crouched between two shelves, was a person.

A young man made of flesh and blood, not the transparent shadows of memories.

Amelia ducked around the corner to hide, the mysterious whispers still ringing in her ears.

From where she stood, she could just make out the hollow features and wavy dark hair of Anton Stepanov, his head bent over a book.

He was holding it with great care, wrapping it carefully in a piece of tattered moleskin.

Before it disappeared, Amelia caught a glimpse of the cover: dark blue leather with a single flower stamped in the center.

She gasped. Anton’s head snapped up and she drew back behind the shelf, heart thudding.

There was a rustling, then footsteps. Amelia turned the corner in a panic, holding her breath until she heard him pass her by.

Only when his footsteps had faded did she dare make a move, stepping into the aisle and making a beeline for the place he’d been kneeling.

Her hands shook as she removed the moleskin-wrapped book from the lowest shelf, pulling back the fabric to stare at the stamped flower on the cover.

Why would he have left it here? The book itself was worn and battered, but the pages were intact.

A subtle whispering sound rustled from within, steady as a heartbeat.

She was opening the pages when a voice spoke.

“I thought I heard somebody.”

Amelia leapt to her feet, book in hand. Anton was standing at the end of the row watching her with a distinctly curious look on his face.

“I see you were not too scared to come back,” he joked. He was smiling faintly, his posture relaxed and casual.

Amelia took a step back from him, a single word repeating in her head. Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.

He frowned. “Is something the matter?” he asked, eyes trailing to the book in one hand, and then to the knife in the other. “What are you doing?” he asked, taking a single step forward.

Amelia ran. Clutching the book tight against her chest, she sprinted down the row of shelves.

“Hey, wait!” Anton called after her. “Stop! Not that way!”

His footsteps came fast and hard. Amelia fumbled the knife in one hand as she reached for her watch.

She ran down the rows as fast as she could, ignoring Anton’s shouts.

She didn’t notice the shelves turning to dust around her, didn’t noticed the gaping hole in the floor until one foot landed halfway over the edge.

Her arms flailed, dropping both the book and the knife to the ground.

She grabbed hold of a shelf, but it crumbled under her touch.

She felt herself falling, and then a hand caught her wrist.

There was a wrenching feeling in her shoulder, nearly pulling her arm from its socket.

A second hand grabbed her other arm, dragging her to safety.

They toppled backward. Amelia landed on top of Anton’s solid figure.

She locked eyes with him and for a split second, she wished she had taken her chances with the cliff.

“Are you all right?” Anton panted, his hands gripping tight to both her arms.

Amelia jerked away from him, ignoring the searing pain in her right shoulder. She scrambled to her feet, dragging herself upright against the dust-covered shelves.

“I was trying to warn you,” he said in his deeply accented voice, rising to his feet.

Amelia searched frantically for the knife and found it lying beside the book, a few feet from the edge of the…

what was that? A chasm between two rows of shelves, so shrouded in shadows, the only way to notice it was by looking down.

Around her, the shelves were filled with holes and dust, the books within them tattered beyond recognition.

This was nothing like the rest of the time space.

Something had happened here, was still happening here.

From deep within the chasm came the whispering sound she’d been following.

Movement out of the corner of her eye brought her attention back to the Russian boy.

He was moving toward the knife. Amelia lunged for it before he could and swung it at his head.

He ducked at the last second and the knife struck the shelf above him.

Dust and dirt shot out in all directions, coating them both.

She swung again and this time he caught her wrist. He twisted her arm and knocked the handle of the knife from her grasp with the adeptness of someone trained in combat.

It fell to the ground and slid over the edge of the abyss.

Amelia kicked him in the shin as hard as she could. His knees buckled but he didn’t let go. He slammed her back against the shelves, knocking loose more dust.

“What are you doing?” he demanded. “Why are you attacking me?”

“Let me go!” Amelia shouted, struggling to loosen his grip on her.

“No. First you explain.”

Amelia leveled a harrowing glare at him. “You’re Anton Stepanov. You’re Russian.”

“And that is so threatening to you that you would try to kill me? After I helped you? Typical American.”

Amelia’s fear morphed into anger. “You killed my uncle!”

“What? Who are you talking about?”

“Have you really killed so many people that you have to ask? My uncle, Ernest Duquesne.”

Anton leaned back to assess her more closely. His grip slackened.

“You are Amelia,” he said quietly.

Amelia swore her pulse stopped. He knew her name.

She responded violently, bringing her knee to his stomach so hard that he doubled over in pain.

She threw all her weight forward and shoved him back.

He fell against the shelves, snapping them on impact.

Amelia ran without looking back. Not stopping for the book, not daring to try with him so close by.

She spun the crown of the watch and sprinted for the door, pulling it open almost the instant it appeared.

Her knees hit the ground on the other side just as the clock downstairs was chiming out midnight.

She kicked the door shut behind her and collapsed to the floor.

Desperate, retching sobs racked her body.

She couldn’t stop. It was as if the dam had burst and all the confusion and grief and pain she’d felt in these past two weeks came flooding out.

A light flipped on in the hallway, footsteps stopping at the door, but Amelia didn’t look up.

“Oh dear…”