Lord of Shadows
Page 90

They moved forward, past the gate and onto the path leading up to the front door. Emma imagined the glamour as a curtain, as something she could touch. She imagined drawing it aside. It was hard, like lifting a weight with her mind, but strength flowed through her from Julian, through her fingers and wrist, up her arm, into her heart and lungs.
Her concentration snapped into focus. Almost casually, she let herself draw the glamour away, lifting it lightly aside. The cottage sprang into clearer view: The windows weren’t boarded up at all, but clean and whole, the front door freshly painted a bright blue. Even the knob looked recently polished to a shiny bronze. Julian took hold of it and pushed and the door swung open, welcoming them inside.
The sense of something ordering them away from the cottage was gone. Emma let go of Julian’s hand and stepped inside; it was too dark to see. She took her witchlight out of her pocket and let its light rise up and around them.
Julian, behind her, gave a low whistle of surprise. “This doesn’t look deserted. Not by a long shot.”
It was a small, pretty room. A wooden four-poster bed stood beneath a window with a view out to the village below. Furniture that looked as if it had been hand-painted in blues, grays, and soft seaside colors was scattered about among a profusion of rag rugs.
Two walls were taken up by a kitchen with all the modern conveniences: a coffeemaker, a stove, a dishwasher, and granite-topped counters. Neat stacks of firewood rose on either side of a stone-bound fireplace. Two doors led off the main room: Emma investigated and found a small office with a hand-painted desk, and a blue-tiled bathroom with a tub and shower and a basin sink. She turned the shower faucets half in disbelief and yelped as water sprayed her. Everything seemed to be completely in working order, as if someone who lived in the cottage and took loving care of it had only just left.
“I guess we might as well stay here,” Emma said, returning to the living room, where Julian had flicked on the electric lights.
“Way ahead of you, Carstairs,” he said, opening a kitchen cabinet and starting to put the groceries away. “Nice place, no rent, and it’ll be easier to search if we’re here anyway.”
Emma set her witchlight down on the table and looked around wonderingly. “I know this seems far-fetched,” she said, “but do you think Malcolm had a secret second life as a renter of adorably furnished holiday cottages?”
“Or,” Julian said, “there’s an even stronger glamour on this place than we realized and it only looks like an adorably furnished holiday cottage, while actually it’s a hole in the ground full of rats.”
Emma threw herself down on the bed. The blanket felt like a cloud, and the mattress was heavenly after the lumpy one in the London Institute. “Best rats ever,” she announced, glad they weren’t going to have to stay in a bed-and-breakfast after all.
“Imagine their tiny, furry bodies wiggling around you.” Julian had turned back and was facing her, a half grin on his face. When Emma had been small, she’d been horrified by rats and rodents.
She sat up and glared at him. “Why are you trying to ruin my good time?”
“Well, to be fair, this isn’t a holiday. Not for us. This is a mission. We’re supposed to be looking for anything that might give us an idea where Annabel might have gone.”
“I don’t know,” Emma said. “This place looks like it’s been stripped down and totally renovated. It was built so long ago, how do we know what’s left of the original house? And wouldn’t Malcolm have taken anything that was important to him to his house in L.A.?”
“Not necessarily. I think this cottage was special to him.” Julian hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans. “Look at the way he’s taken care of it. This house is personal. It feels like a home. Not like that glass-and-steel thing he lived in in L.A.”
“Then I guess we should start looking around.” Emma tried to sound excited at the prospect, but she felt exhausted. No sleep the night before, the long trip on the train, her worry about Cristina, had all sapped her energy.
Julian looked at her critically. “I’ll make tea,” he said. “That’ll help.”
She crinkled her nose at him. “Tea? Tea is your solution? You’re not really even British! You spent two months in England! How did they brainwash you?”
“You don’t like coffee, and you need caffeine.”
“I get my caffeine the way right-thinking people get it.” Emma threw up her hands and stalked into the office. “From chocolate!”
She began to pull the drawers out of the desk. They were empty. She examined the bookshelves; nothing interesting there, either. She started to cross the room to the closet and heard something creak. She turned back and knelt down, shoving the rag rug out of the way.
The floor was stripped oak. Just under the rug was a square of lighter wood, and the faint black lines of seaming where the square outline of a trapdoor was visible. Emma took her stele out and placed the tip against it.
“Open,” she whispered, drawing the rune.
There was a tearing sound. The square of wood ripped away and crumbled into chunks of sawdust, tumbling into the hole she’d uncovered. It was slightly bigger on all sides than she’d thought. In it were several small books, and a large, leather-bound tome that Emma squinted at in puzzlement. Was it some kind of spell book?
“Did you just blow something up?” Julian came in, his cheek smeared with something black. He glanced over Emma’s shoulder and whistled. “Your classic secret floor compartment.”
“Help me take this stuff out of it. You get the giant book.” Emma picked up the three smaller volumes; they were all bound in worn leather with a stamped MFB on the spines, their pages rough-edged.
“It’s not a book,” Julian said in a slightly odd voice. “It’s a portfolio.”
He retrieved it and carried it into the living room, Emma hurrying after him. Two steaming cups of tea stood on the kitchen island, and a fire was blazing away. Emma realized that the black stuff on Julian’s face was probably ash. She pictured him kneeling here, starting a fire for them, patient and thoughtful, and felt a wave of overwhelming tenderness for him.
He was already standing at the island, gently opening the portfolio. He caught his breath. The first picture was a watercolor of Chapel Cliff, seen from a distance. The colors and shapes leaped out vividly; Emma could feel cool sea air on her neck, hear the cry of gulls.
“It’s lovely,” she said, sitting down opposite him on a tall stool.
“Annabel did it.” He touched her signature in the right-hand corner. “I had no idea she was an artist.”
“I guess art runs in your blood,” Emma said. Julian didn’t look up. He was turning the pages with careful, almost reverent hands. There were many more seascapes: Annabel seemed to have loved capturing the ocean and the curves of land that bordered it. Annabel had also drawn dozens of pictures of the Blackthorn manor house in Idris, lingering on the softness of its golden stone, the beauty of its gardens, the vines of thorns that wrapped the gates. Like the mural on the wall of your room, Emma wanted to say to Julian, but she didn’t.
Julian’s hand stopped on none of those, though. He paused instead on a sketch that was unmistakably of the cottage they were in at that moment. A wooden fence surrounded it, and Polperro was visible in the distance, the Warren crawling up the opposite hill, crowded with houses.