Looking once more over her shoulder, she blew out the candle, and darkness flooded the reading room. A wisp of smoke twisted underneath her nose: the dying breath of a once-eternal titan. On an average evening, she might have lingered a while there—gazing out through the cloudy window panes, examining the surrounding gardens and orchards, wondering what terrifying ghouls or odd creatures would pass through its mazes at midnight—but there wasn’t a moment to waste. Not tonight.
The book was hidden under her petticoat. No one would dare look for it there, since no one would even think of laying their hands on her, no matter how desperate they might be to retrieve this particular tome.
At least, that was what she was counting on. If this didn’t work, and they ripped her apart piece by piece and layer by layer to get what they wanted—then she supposed that all was already lost.
She hesitated a moment, despite herself. She was thinking of how grand and dramatic it might have been to throw open the shutters, leap out the window, land upon a flawless white stallion, and ride away into the ever-growing night. But Edgar didn’t much care for her theatricality—not explicitly—and thus refused to incorporate it into their plans. She’d chide him for the missed opportunity upon her arrival. This gave her something to look forward to, and with this in mind, the young woman slid into the hallway.
As rehearsed, she waited there noiselessly until her vision adjusted. The morbid glory of the mansion was reflected in its glorious lack of natural lighting; the many chandeliers of Bottridge Manor were as lifeless as a decaying corpse. Everything was silent, and frozen, and dead.
She crept forward, and at the landing of the ornate, oaken, and creaky stairs, she pulled herself onto the bannister. A glance about told her that the coast remained clear, and she slid down. She hid under the staircase, took a breath in, wiggled her bare toes, and waited for the signal.
Edgar did not keep her waiting for long. There came a knocking at the front door. It persisted for approximately twenty seconds, as they had known it would, before a frenzied servant hurried to the door, as they had known he would.
She did not wait to hear the pleasantries (or unpleasantries, as was more likely the case) being exchanged. For the kitchen was now unguarded, and she glided across its marble tiles to the side door. Once outside, she breathlessly pressed herself against the manor’s wall and looked up at the windows.
There was silence, and there was darkness.
She ran—sprinted—as hard and as fast as she could—across the ghostly fields—until she reached the distant line of trees—and she ran just a little beyond that, into a clearing.
Edgar waited for her there, adjusting the saddle on his horse. He looked at her, and at her muddied white frock, and he frowned.
“You know,” he said, “I don’t think that this needed to be quite so dramatic.”
After fidgeting about for a moment under her skirts, she procured the book. It had begun to radiate warmth and glow a deep green. They stared at it reverently, unable—or perhaps simply unwilling—to read the words sprawling on its face.
Adelaide caught his attention, her eyes taking on the same radiant sheen as the book, and she replied, “Then you must not understand what you’ve gotten yourself into.”