Undertow (Whyborne & Griffin #8.5)(4)

If Persephone kissed me, I rather thought I’d kiss her back.





Chapter 2





“The Undertow,” Oliver read the marquee aloud. “What a strange name for a theater.”

The Undertow occupied an old church, abandoned long before any of us had been born, now gutted and rebuilt as a theater. Posters proclaimed that the opening night performance would be of an original play, The Siren.

“Widdershins is a port town,” Irene replied. “I imagine New Bedford has its own peculiarities.”

“True enough,” he agreed with a smile. “And the electric lights on the marquee are most impressive, I must say.”

“Oh, aren’t they, though?” I asked with a touch of civic pride. Most of Widdershins was electrified now, save for the poorer parts of the town near the docks. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

The interior was equally impressive, carpeted in red with a great chandelier providing illumination. A large crowd milled about in the lobby, people purchasing refreshments or chatting with one another. The women wore colorful frocks, and the men sack suits and stiff hats.

There was something glamorous about the theater, even a small one such as the Undertow. With her love of song, Persephone would adore it. If only I could show it to her.

The thought brought an unexpected ache with it. How fun it would be, to have her here with me. We’d share a glass of wine and sit together in the balcony, where we could see the audience as well as the performance. And after, we’d laugh and talk until dawn, then find a restaurant serving waffles.

Or maybe we wouldn’t laugh and talk. Maybe we’d do other things. If she kissed me…

“Mr. Burton!” Irene called, startling me from my musings. “Excuse me, Maggie, Mr. Young, but I see a friend I need to have a word with.”

She scurried away, leaving me alone with Oliver. “A nice crowd for opening night,” he remarked. “Don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes,” I agreed, surveying the lobby with him. A bit to my surprise, I spotted the familiar figure of Mr. Quinn. Though on reflection, perhaps I shouldn’t have been shocked. Surely he had a life outside of the Ladysmith museum, just as I did.

Mr. Quinn dressed much as he did in his role as head librarian, though in truth his costume would have been equally suitable for an undertaker. A somber black frock coat clad his thin body and made his white skin look nearly unnatural in its pallor. He held a small glass of cordial in one long-fingered hand, the liquid inside a dark red that reminded me uncomfortably of blood.

I hesitated, uncertain whether to offer a greeting. I was only a lowly secretary, after all, even if I did work for Dr. Whyborne. Before I could make up my mind, Mr. Quinn drifted over to us.

“Miss Parkhurst,” he said in a slightly dreamy fashion. Silvery eyes blinked at me, then fixed on Oliver. “And who is this newcomer to our fair city?”

“This is my childhood friend, Mr. Oliver Young,” I said. “Oliver, permit me to introduce Mr. Quinn, the head librarian at the museum.”

“A pleasure,” Oliver said, holding out his hand.

Mr. Quinn ignored Oliver’s hand. “I see,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling up just slightly. Turning his attention away from Oliver and back to me, he said, “This should be quite the spectacle.” His gaze wandered to the stone ceiling above our heads. “Though not as grand as that which rendered the church empty in the first place, alas.”

Oliver followed his gaze rather uneasily. “What happened?”

“First Esoteric,” Mr. Quinn replied. His eyes shone oddly in the electric lights of the chandelier. “The priest here was fool enough to speak out against our city’s finest sect. It could not be tolerated, of course.” Mr. Quinn swallowed the last of his drink. “It’s said no one ever found the priest’s body. Well, not all of it.”

I cast a sideways glance at Oliver, who looked rather shocked. “How fascinating,” I said hastily. “I didn’t realize you know so much about Widdershins’s history, Mr. Quinn.”

Oliver frowned in disapproval. “I’d say morbid, and not the sort of story one should relate in front of a lady.”

I suppressed a sigh. Oliver meant well, of course. “It’s quite all right.”

“The incident was over a century ago,” Mr. Quinn said, apparently under the impression that Oliver would find old horrors somehow more suitable for my delicate ears. “The other sects learned their lesson.”

Thankfully, the lights dimmed at that moment. “The play is starting,” I said, gripping Oliver’s arm. “We should find Irene.”

Mr. Quinn gave Oliver a chilly little smile. “Enjoy the show,” he said. A last drop of red lingered on his lip; his tongue darted out to catch it, before he turned away.

Oliver’s gaze followed him. “There’s something off about that fellow. You don’t work closely with him, do you?”

“No, not at all.” Dr. Whyborne usually went to the library himself rather than sending me to fetch books.

“Good,” Oliver said shortly.

I shifted uncomfortably. “Mr. Quinn is a bit eccentric, but he means well.” He and the other librarians had risked their lives during the battle last July. But I couldn’t say that to Oliver. Even the denizens of Widdershins only spoke of such things in whispers and innuendo. If I tried to explain it to an outsider, he’d never understand.