Chapter 3 - The Bookstore

A seagull passes by outside, its loud caws sharp against the otherwise peaceful sound of rain. It is stronger today, the heavy pitter-patter of it on the slate roof stirring Andrew awake. Ida must have left earlier in the morning, leaving some change for food on the desk and a small note simply reading “Thank you”. A half-cocked smile upon his face, and clearing the sleep-dust from his eyes, he rights himself on the couch and moves to sit back at the desk.

The neat piles of paper are a stark contrast to the earlier mess of the office; however, Andrew’s focus is elsewhere. He begins to fish through the waste basket off to the side.

“Oh, thankfully Ida didn’t empty the bins.” He sighs with relief, pulling out the sheet of paper, the small burn hole still dead centre.

The ink that was previously wet has since dried, it ran in multiple lines down the page making an odd pattern. He studies it for a while, thrumming his fingers across the edge of the desk, disbelief and concern all over his expression.

“It’s just a sheet of paper with ink and a burn, it can’t mean anything surely.” He mutters under his breath, pulling the red gem out once again, suggesting it is perhaps becoming a comforting presence for him.

Barely an hour passes, Andrew spending some time tidying himself up in the mirror, combing his curly hair out from his face before a gentle knock sounds on the glass door.

“Doctor, are you in, its Irene Baxter.” Her quiet voice warmly reaches out.

Andrew moves to the door, straightening out his shirt, opening it with a tired smile.

“Good morning, Ms Baxter, please come on in, luckily my sister cleaned the place up a bit, so you’ll have somewhere to sit.” He chuckles softly.

Irene steps in, she is wearing a dark grey blazer over a long, olive-green dress. Setting down a large bag, matching the blazer in colour, onto the couch and sitting next to it.

“I hate to cut greetings short, but I have been up all night worrying, do you still have the sheet of paper you told me about last night? I would like to place my heart at ease if possible.” Irene’s discomfort obvious in the faint red rings under her eyes, she clearly has not slept at all.

“Of course, Ms Baxter, I appreciate your concern.” Andrew picks it up from the desk, handing it over and sitting down at the other end of the couch. “I spent some time looking at it in more detail this morning, and as far as I can tell the onl-.”

The words are cut short by the fear on Irene’s face as she looks over the paper.

“Ms Baxter?” His voice timid, reaching a hand out to steady her as she looks almost close to fainting.

“Sorry, Doctor, I’m fine, it just took me by surprise.” Irene places her hand on her chest. “This is indeed the symbol of the Burning Shards, at least from what I can tell. You see how this ink has run off in these long lines?”

“Um… yes, I saw them, I was saying how they were the main thing I thought off about it.” Andrew eyes Irene, his hand still hovering as if he is waiting for her to faint.

“The lines are figures, Doctor, hundreds of people, surrounding the burning light. Trust me once you have seen this symbol once you will not soon forget it.”

“Good god.” Andrew, as if seeing it for the first time, takes the sheet of paper. Looking closely, the way the lines branch and fall off the edge, it looks like the silhouette of a large number of figures. They are stood shoulder to shoulder, all of them looking up toward the hole burnt in the paper. “What does this even mean? How could it be on my desk?” Panic slightly chokes his voice.

“I can only assume this means you are being watched, Doctor; the cult must have found out about your connection to William somehow and were threatening you.” Irene places a hand on Andrew’s shoulder, looking him in the eyes. “This is incredibly dangerous, if they know you work here it is no longer safe. The building we met at last night is something of a safe house, if you would feel better staying there.”

“I appreciate the offer, Ms Baxter, but I can’t just up and leave, this is where I have all of my research as well as this is where my sister knows to find me if she is in trouble.”

“I understand your concern, if you give me your sister’s details, I can warn her not to come here. To be honest, I am going to be continuing my research. It has been fruitless so far and I need help, if you are willing to give it, you could make the difference.” Her expression looks somewhat desperate. “I owe William a great debt, and I need to pay him back no matter what.”

Andrew’s face screws up, conflicted, he reaches down into a pocket, making a fist around the gem. He takes a moment before finally responding.

“I will need some help with my things, but trust me when I say, I will do anything to bring him back, Ms Baxter. Anything.”

“Sounds like a partnership to me. Call me Irene, let us get your things and get out of here, for now I will leave a note on the door for your sister. I will send something along a little later.”

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The sky is overcast, allowing only a dull, grey light to illuminate the fog that hangs in the midday street air. A caravan, with a patient, mottled grey horse, idles outside of the two-storey that Irene and Andrew had met outside of only last night. Now visible in the daytime, it is clearly revealed to be an old bookstore, the sign is painted over black although still has the visible decorative image of a pile of books adorning its side.

The front of the building is dark brick, with painted support beams bordering the windows on either side of the door. Harsh breaths cut through the otherwise silent atmosphere of Butcher’s Street, as Andrew is carrying in the last of a number of boxes from the caravan. He stops to hand off a few coins to the driver who begins rolling away shortly after.

“If that’s the last of them, Doctor, lock the door on your way in, I want to compare our notes.” The last box causes a dull thud onto the floor just inside, sending up a small cloud of dust.

In the light, the inside of the store is much easier to see, the standing aisles leading to the back are loaded with rows upon rows of books, mostly leather-bound and carefully ordered. The room beside the reception is now open to a set of tan, carpeted stairs that lead up and out of view.

“Should you need somewhere private to sleep, there is a spare bed upstairs.” Irene is sitting at the table in the corner, carving something into a wooden board with a short, thin knife.

“Right, yes, thank you, Ms Baxter.”

“Irene.”

“Yes, sorry, Irene. What is this place? It looks like a bookstore.”

“Well, it used to be, but it was purchased by William and myself to use as a place away from the Estate to conduct our research. Not that we did not trust the Estate, it was just to avoid too many prying eyes.” She pushes the board toward him, finished with the carving, several intricate and unique symbols now adorning it.

“Would you mind hanging this on the door?”

“Not at all, may I ask what it is for?” Andrew questions, taking the board and hanging it on a nail.

“William used to make me place these anywhere I slept, he never really did say why.” She meanders down the aisles toward the back of the store, her voice raising as she gets farther away. “I intend to go and investigate the neighbourhood around the Thackery house sometime next week, provided I feel prepared enough, if you’re interested in joining me.”

“I really don’t have any other choice but to follow you and hope we can find clues to bring him back at this point. How would we get past the quarantine? Also, will it be dangerous?” He opens his briefcase on the table whilst she is down the other end of the store, tucking the golden locket away into a shirt pocket quickly.

“I couldn’t say. Regarding the quarantine, I am hoping I can convince whoever is manning it that I work for the Estate.” The sound of shuffling leather against wood is met with an audible grunt of effort as Irene pulls books from the shelf. “I am going to make a trip to the Mayweather Estate later, I am hoping to procure some bits and pieces we might use to keep ourselves safe.”

“Like… a gun? I am not sure I’m cut out for that kind of thing, Irene.” Andrew’s face paling at the thought. “Although thinking about it, I recall William carrying his old Enfield pistol with him a lot of the time.”

“No, nothing like that.”

Irene returns, holding a tall stack of thin, dark-leather books, most of them appearing to be hand-written journals. Andrew takes one from the top, reading the author's note just inside the cover.

“William Hargrave, note journal three on the Burning Shards.” He murmurs under his breath. “I cannot believe he wrote so much on this.”

“Well, get used to it, you need to get caught up on his writing, I am going to busy myself reading your surprisingly in-depth notes on the Mayweather Estate. I must say, even had I not intervened when I did, I do not think it would’ve taken you long to uncover the truth.” Andrew’s face blushes in response as he settles down to read the first journal.

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