The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(28)

"You'll see. Just cough loudly if you see anyone coming, all right?"

She unbuttoned her breeches, ignoring Sandy's curious gaze, and thrusting a hand into her drawers retrieved a small canvas roll about four inches long and an inch thick. She untied the cord holding it closed then with a practised flick of the wrist unrolled the bundle across the desk, revealing a set of miniature skeleton keys, perfect for opening desk drawers and other small locks. Smiling to herself she set to work.

The locks were old and of a simple design, but rather stiff. She cursed her ill luck in having no oil to ease the movement, but it would only leave telltale stains anyway. Instead she patiently probed the wards until she found a skeleton key that fitted, then twisted with all her might. After a few moments' grimacing and cursing, the key turned in the lock.

The desk drawers contained a number of letters addressed to the duke, but none in the same hand she had seen on the letters of introduction written by Lady Frances. If Grey were indeed pursuing the lady, either their negotiations had not reached the stage of exchanging love-letters, or he kept them somewhere more private than his library. An absence of evidence was not evidence of absence, Mal had often told her. Still, it eliminated one line of enquiry.

Just then the bell rang for dinner. Coby carefully rolled up her lock-picks and stowed them in her drawers, along with the folded sheet of transliteration. Best not to leave it lying around for inquisitive servants like Dunfell to find, or the game would be up.

After dinner they returned to the library and Coby retrieved the sheet of paper from her codpiece. Sandy took a beaded pouch from his pocket and shook the contents onto the table. It was the skrayling necklace that Mal had said protected him from the guisers as he slept. Sandy fastened it about his neck and drew a deep breath. His features softened, as if another soul looked out of his eyes. Not Erishen, but Alexander Catlyn once more. Her throat tightened in sympathy for Mal.
She swallowed and looked away, pretending a sudden interest in the contents of the bookshelves. Her mother had taught her to read and write – a useful skill for a tradesman's wife, and an essential one when Coby had worked in the theatre – but reading for pleasure was a luxury she had never picked up the taste for it. She drifted around the library, running her fingers over the leather bindings.

Sandy coughed. She looked round, but he had gone back to his reading. She made another circuit of the room. Another cough.

"Sorry, am I distracting you, sir?"

"Only a little."

She went and stood by the window. The library was positioned about halfway along the southernmost range of buildings, where its tall windows could catch the best of the daylight. From here she had a fine view of the gardens sloping down to the river, the palace of Whitehall and beyond that the delicate stonework of Westminster Abbey. Spring sunlight glittered on the water and warmed the panes of glass that separated her from the outside world. She watched the boats heading downstream towards the sea, and wondered where Mal was, and what he was doing. Being seasick, no doubt. She smiled to herself and tried to pretend it was only the dazzling light that made tears well in her eyes.

"No. Oh no no no no no." Sandy leapt to his feet and backed away from the desk as if the book were about to burst into flames. "No. Not that."

"What's wrong, sir?"

Sandy muttered something in a garbled mixture of English and Latin.

"Here, let me take that off," Coby said, remembering Mal's warning. "You've been wearing it far too long."

She thought he was going to fight her off, but he stood meekly and allowed her to remove the spirit-guard. Just in time she thought to pull up a chair as Sandy's knees gave way.

"Sir, are you ill?"

Sandy was as white as a sheet, and looked as though he was going to faint. Coby ran to the door and called for a servant.

"Quickly, fetch some wine! My master is unwell."

She returned to Sandy's side and hurriedly stowed the necklace in her pocket, then took his left hand in her own. His flesh was cold and unyielding as marble.

"I'm sorry, sir," she whispered, though it was not the man before her she was apologising to.

A few moments later the servant arrived with a flagon and a silver cup. The look he gave Coby as he left suggested he thought she might run off with it if not watched.

She filled the cup and held it out to Sandy. When he did not respond, she lifted it to his lips and urged him to drink. He took a sip, and then another.

"Erishen?"

Dark eyes turned upon her, solemn and thoughtful.

"I have found what I sought," he said. "And now I wish I had not."

"What do you mean?"

"This is not just any guiser's journal. This is a copy of a much older document, a record of the journeys made by the Birch Men, five hundred years ago."

"Birch Men?"

"From your northern lands, or so they said." Erishen closed his eyes for a moment. "Tall, fierce men, with white skin and yellow hair like birch trees in autumn. Men like you."

Coby frowned. The Dutch had not travelled to the New World so long ago.

"You mean the Danes? Master Catlyn told me how they sailed to the New World and brought back stories of the skraylings."

"Not just stories," Erishen said. "They took some of our kinfolk with them. This book was written by those captives, after they escaped. Several lifetimes after."