“So what happened to him?” asked a boy in the back.
“Did you not do the reading, Tobias?” the priest demanded.
“No, I mean the shadow,” the kid said. “Rowdy Joss, he called himself once he was a Blight, right? Like, did they hunt him down?”
“Nothing about that was in the reading,” said the priest. “And we don’t need to waste the time of the staff.”
“I saw the video,” the kid said. “Online.”
The staffer smiled, although the smile had become slightly strained. “No one knows what happened to Arthur’s shadow after the Boxford Massacre. There was some speculation that the transfer of energy created memory loss, or that it was confused. But remember that Rowdy Joss wasn’t Arthur. Arthur died at the Boxford Massacre, a victim like everyone else that day.”
Charlie listened to the conversation follow the familiar pattern, as the teacher and staffer valiantly struggled to get it back on track. Fifteen minutes later, the class filed out, leaving Charlie hidden behind the bookshelf. She waited until the room was empty to scoot out and crawl beneath Arthur Thompson’s enormous desk.
She watched feet move back and forth, realizing she should have come in with the last group and not the third-from-last group. But it wasn’t like she had to worry too much about not making noise or moving or something. Sound was all around her, a cacophony of giggling and gum chewing and lectures.
And then the final group filed out. From the other room, she heard the museum staffers—all two of them—talking together. One of them laughed. Then, distressingly, the hum of a vacuum began.
But it wasn’t brought into the study and faded away after a few minutes.
Charlie breathed a sigh of relief.
She listened as the locks were engaged and the alarms set. Outside, night had fallen. Charlie crawled out, more nervous than she thought she’d be. Despite all the houses she’d walked through, this felt different. The slightest sound made her start.
Taking a few steadying breaths, she used her phone to give her enough light that she could pick the lock of the cabinet. It took her three tries before her fingers were finally steady enough to open the door.
Behind it, she found the notebook they wanted—it was one of the ones on display. She flipped through until she found a page marked “Shadow Energy Exchange,” then took a razor out of her backpack.
But as she got ready to slice, she felt guilty. It seemed wrong to hack up a book. When it was Rand doing stuff, she never had to think about morals. He was a bad guy, and they were doing bad stuff, and that was that.
Charlie ate a granola bar from her backpack, looking at the cabinet.
She walked around the room, looking at the photos. Arthur Thompson’s original sketches of the lightning farm. A congratulatory letter from the governor. And in one corner, a letter from someone claiming to be a Blight in a looping, spidery hand.
To A. Thompson in the City of Northampton.
You have been trying to contact me and I urge you to desist. Yes, there are ancient beings in the shadows, but you are better off letting us stay that way.
I have no interest in being studied. My origin may have been with your kind, but I am of you no longer.
Written on the 23rd day of April by Cleophes of York
She frowned at it, wondering if Arthur Thompson’s Blight was still hanging around, writing letters.
Finally, Charlie took out her phone and took a photo of the page from the notebook. It had the same information, and if that’s what they wanted, this ought to be enough. Even as she did it, she had the sinking feeling that she was screwing up, but she couldn’t bring herself to slice out the page.
Then she went to the windows, hoping there was a way out, but they were alarmed. Charlie sat down in the chair, spun it a bit. Played a game on her phone. Crawled back under the desk and napped.
And then she saw something in the window. A shadow in the corner of the room, sliding away from the wall. Charlie curled up more tightly and tried not to breathe.
It moved across the room, pausing at a strip of black tile that crisscrossed the floor. Then the shadow stepped over, becoming more solid as it did. For a moment, it took on features, as though of the gloom controlling it. Then it was past the onyx tiles and to the cabinet. It flooded through the keyhole and the cabinet door swung open.
Then the shadow became solid again, as though someone shaped the night into a human form. It must have to be like that to carry the book. Charlie’s heart thundered and she held her breath again as it passed her by. It left the book tucked into a corner of the room, in a basket of rolled-up architectural plans that might have been reproductions.