The atmosphere in the grand library was tense. All eyes were on Jenkins. He kept his head down, focused on the slip of paper in his hands, rapidly committing its contents to mory while straining to overhear the hushed conversations around him.
"It grows by absorbing moisture? Is there no way to kill it? With fire, for instance? I seem to recall at least three types of special flas sealed behind the Gate of All Things. That demonic fire from last ti—surely we kept a few samples?"
That was Papa Oliver's voice.
"There's no ti," another voice replied. "The preservation thods for those flas are far too complex, and the temporary seal won't hold long enough. Mr. Williams, are you finished?"
"I am."
He gave the note one final glance before handing it back to the old man. The man clapped his hands, and three nuns entered swiftly from the doorway, each carrying a part of a ceremonial outfit: a robe, a headdress, and shoes.
People in this era understood that air contained moisture, which was why the golden sphere sealing the skeleton was also designed to be airtight. But the bizarre skeleton had grown to such a degree that it now possessed spatial abilities of its own. It was slowly drawing the inorganic matter it needed for growth from the air of so unknown, separate dinsion.
Once Jenkins was dressed, all non-essential personnel filed out of the library. One by one, the gas lamps and candles were extinguished, plunging the room into shadow. Jenkins saw Papa Oliver give him a slight nod. He spread his arms wide and began to walk toward the center of the room, into a shaft of golden light that pierced the darkness from above. As he walked, his voice bood:
"The Sage walked upon the barren lands, witnessed people trading their children for food, and cried out, 'Great Sin!' The Sage walked upon the frozen peaks, witnessed people burning books for warmth, and cried out, 'Great Sin!' The Sage..."
He matched his steps to the rhythm of his chant, moving deliberately until he stood directly beneath the golden sphere. He raised his right foot and stomped firmly on the floor three tis. Then, raising the scepter Bishop Parrold had given him, he repeated the motion, tracing a large, complex rune on the floorboards with its tip. He then declared in the common tongue:
"The Sage declares, 'You are not of this realm!'"
A sudden gale swept through the sealed library. Jenkins knew this ant the ritual was proceeding correctly, so he imdiately began tracing a second rune:
"The Sage asks, 'Why are you here?'"
He felt a warmth spread across his forehead, a sensation that seed to forge a connection to so distant, unseen place.
Through his Eye of Reality, he saw two chains composed of glowing runes erge from the void and latch onto either side of the golden sphere. To the naked eye, however, there was nothing. The skeleton began to thrash against its prison, and the golden sphere's brilliant surface started to darken, turning black at the edges.
"The Sage proclaims, 'You are guilty.'"
As the Spirit within him surged violently upward, the runic chains pierced the golden sphere and wrapped themselves tightly around the skeleton.
Everyone could hear the grating, tallic shriek of chains scraping together, and then they all felt it—a palpable gaze descending upon them from the heavens above.
A soft white light began to glow from the library's dod ceiling. The wind howled through the hall, rustling the pages of countless books. The chains tightened, dragging the skeleton upward, inch by inch, into the brilliant white light.
A deep, guttural roar echoed through the hall.
It was the first and only sound the creature made, its sole attempt to resist the chains.
But it was futile. As the cry faded, the humidity in the air plumted. Jenkins felt his mouth go dry, his throat suddenly parched.
The skeleton abruptly swelled in size, growing large enough that its basic form—that of a four-legged beast—beca clear. From what must have been its spine, a series of terrifying bone spikes erupted, jutting out in all directions.
The bone spikes scraped against the chains, producing a high-pitched shriek that made Jenkins's ears ring. He winced, digging a finger into his ear. When he looked up again, the white light and the monster had vanished.
No one ever reached an official conclusion about what, exactly, they had dealt with that day. As for Jenkins, who had conducted the ritual, he was utterly exhausted. He exchanged a quick word with Papa Oliver and headed ho to rest.
Papa Oliver gave him the next day off, but not without reminding him of his evening engagent with Hathaway.
He slept soundly and didn't wake until the grandfather clock on the wall showed it was nearly noon. The mories of the previous night felt distant and unreal, like a dream. He stared at the ceiling for a long while before finally rembering he needed to make lunch.
Anticipating he'd sleep late, he had prepared Chocolate's breakfast the night before, right after he got ho.
The cat, having been bored all morning, was still perched on the sofa, its head resting on its paws as it watched the sleeping man. Whether it had slipped out for a morning stroll, Jenkins couldn't say.
Hathaway had said a carriage would arrive on St. George Avenue to collect him at six, so Jenkins had no plans to go out that afternoon.
His original plan had been to finish the final proofs of his manuscript and then read the two books Papa Oliver had assigned him. But then he rembered it was already December, and the steam and water bills were due.
He had to scrap his plans. Taking advantage of the pleasant afternoon weather, he took Chocolate and headed out. After settling the bills, he stopped by the post office to buy this month's issue of 'Advances in Tropical dicine'—his thod for confirming the ti of the Corpse Gentleman's next gathering.
Since his return from Bel Diran, he'd already confird via Magic Miss—using their prearranged signal of potted plants—that Mr. Hood hadn't held a gathering during his week-long trip. With the next eting date still unconfird, he wouldn't have to risk any late-night excursions for the ti being.
His gift for the evening visit—a bottle of expensive wine—had been prepared for him by Papa Oliver several days prior. With his errands done, he and an unusually energetic Chocolate started for ho.
Just as he rounded the corner, he saw Mary lifting the hem of her skirt as she alighted from a carriage. She held a book and a letter in her hand; clearly, she was also headed for the post office.
"Jenkins!"
She spotted him from across the street and waved, beckoning him over.
This was the first ti Jenkins had ever run into a mber of his family on the street. He froze for a second, then hurried across, sidestepping an old man with a walking stick to reach the carriage.
"Oh, wonderful! I can't believe I ran into you here," she said, her face lighting up. "I have to pick up your father's formal wear from the cleaners in a mont. Could you do a favor and take this book to John? He left in such a rush this morning."
She handed the book to Jenkins. She must have co to mail her letter before heading to the dry cleaner's. Jenkins recalled his father, Robert, ntioning last night that he had an important reception to attend on Monday.
"Oh, of course. No problem at all," Jenkins replied.
Jenkins took the blue-covered book, 'An Introduction to chanics'. Tucked between the pages were two sheets of scratch paper covered in hastily scrawled formulas, apparently calculations for torque.
"So, his address is...?"
"It's an apartnt in the South District of Nolan. Yes, Number 9, Salstar Avenue."
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