The Invisible Library (The Invisible Library #1)(36)

‘Irene,’ Kai said. He went down on one knee beside her. ‘Are you all right?’

Irene looked at her hand. It was red all over the fingers and down the palm. ‘Oh,’ she said, in deep comprehension. ‘Kai. I think I’m . . .’ The buzzing was getting louder. ‘I think I have to lie down for a bit.’

‘Irene!’

The world slipped sideways. She felt him catching her as it all went dark.

When the lights came on again, they did so slowly and blearily, through a haze of smoke and a drift of odd smells. She was propped at a strange angle, her skirts carefully draped to hide her ankles. The back of a sofa dug into her shoulders and her head was tilted to one side, hat still pinned to her hair. Someone had pushed a cushion under her cheek. It was horsehair. It prickled.

From under her eyelashes, she could make out a room that had been forced into ruthless order by someone who believed in making large piles of things. Books. Documents. Clothing. Glassware. A dream-catcher in Lissajous lines of wire and ebony spun in the window, turning slowly in a drift of breeze and fog. The walls were also crammed with books, and someone had hung paintings and sketches in front of them, and piled small objects on top of the shelves. The place was crammed with . . . with stuff. She was surprised there was room for her on the sofa.

Her hand ached less now. Someone had slathered it in something wet and wrapped it in bandages, and it lay like a foreign object in her lap. She twitched a finger, stifling a scream, and was pleased to see that it functioned.

‘Irene!’ Kai said from behind her, far too loudly. ‘Are you awake?’

‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘but please don’t shout.’ She pulled herself upright and managed to knock the horsehair cushion to the ground. ‘Sorry. Where are we?’

‘In my rooms.’ Peregrine Vale stepped forward. ‘Mr Strongrock brought you here an hour ago. Miss Winters, you have been the victim of an appalling assault. Do you feel well enough to speak?’

Irene put her undamaged hand to her head. ‘I’m so sorry. I have a dreadful headache,’ she said, not entirely untruthfully, ‘and I don’t know what’s going on. The last thing I remember is touching this door handle which was booby-trapped . . .’

‘It was some sort of electric shock,’ Kai said helpfully. He went down on one knee next to her, looking up into her face. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to try to get somewhere safe while we worked out what to do next, Irene. The only person who I was sure we could trust was the Earl of Leeds here—’

‘Please,’ Vale interrupted, ‘call me Vale. The title is unimportant. What is important now is locating and arresting the fiends who set this lethal trap.’

‘Well, I . . .’ Irene tried to think what to say next. ‘I . . .’

Vale held up a commanding hand. ‘Say no more. I am aware that Mr Strongrock here is your subordinate.’

‘Oh,’ Irene said.

‘It was blatantly obvious,’ Vale went on. ‘Your signals to him in the restaurant, your ability to handle yourself in combat, and his unwillingness to speak while you were unconscious – these all made it quite clear that you were in command of the mission. Miss Winters, I realize that you have your own agenda, but I ask you – I appeal to you – to trust me. I believe that our aims are congruent. I think we can help each other.’

‘Then Kai’s told you . . .’ Irene let the sentence trail off meaningfully. This wasn’t what she’d wanted. The man was a near-total stranger to her. However impressive his skills were, and while he fitted the character type of nobleman, so he should understand the principles of noblesse oblige well enough, there was still risk. There was always a risk. She was supposed to be manipulator, not manipulated.

Her hand hurt. It was distracting her.

‘He has told me nothing,’ Vale said, and Kai nodded in agreement. ‘He turned up in a cab on my doorstep with you unconscious in his arms, and he asked for shelter until you were awake again.’

Irene pushed straggling tendrils of hair back from her forehead. She didn’t have to feign pain or confusion. ‘I don’t think that we’re the only ones keeping secrets here, Mr Vale. The attack on you last night was too deliberately timed to be coincidence.’ It was a guess on her part, but it hit a mark; his eyelids twitched very slightly. She looked up at him. ‘I think there’s more to all this – the murder, the theft of the book, Belphegor – than just a simple crime of greed. When we met last night, you referred to “thefts of occult material”. This isn’t the only book that’s gone missing, is it?’

Vale threw himself down into another armchair. ‘You’re correct, Miss Winters. Oh, sit down, sit down, Strongrock. To be frank, I need people that I can trust. The Fair Folk have contacts at every level of society. My enemies have even more. You two are strangers in London, and though you have no apparent links to the Fae, you have nobody to vouch for you or speak in your favour. I may have reasons to believe that you are reliable . . .’ He frowned. ‘No. Leave that for the moment. I will explain my part in this affair, and then perhaps you will explain yours.’

Irene looked down at her hand. She wished she could rip off the bandages and see just how bad it was – surely not a permanent injury? It was that infernal urge that came with any injury, wanting to see how it ‘looked’ every minute of the day, as if she’d actually be able to see it getting better or worse. And if it did get worse, if she’d damaged herself for life? She couldn’t stand the thought of being crippled . . . but investigating would have broken the flow of Vale’s confidences, and she needed his information. ‘Please,’ she said softly, looking up from her hand and trying to stop herself fiddling with the bandages. ‘Please, do go on.’