We searched each of the rooms thoroughly—which was easy. There wasn’t anything in any of them besides a bed, an empty chest of drawers, an empty nightstand, and the bookshelves. Warren did his thump-producing pratfall to search under all of the beds. We’d stopped checking individual books, but we’d looked behind the books for papers. Each room had a safe behind the painting above the bed. Like the three larger safes we’d found in the lower levels, they were all unlocked and empty and had the combination taped on the outside.
The door at the end of the hall led into a master bedroom suite.
There was a bathroom, a bedroom, and a small office off to the side. The ceiling was taller than the other bedrooms had been—maybe around twelve feet. A huge chandelier hung from a fancy medallion in the middle of the room. About half of its lightbulbs were out, maybe because it would take a ladder to change the bulbs. Maybe because no one cared.
The bed was the only piece of furniture in the room, and I probably could have described it pretty accurately before we opened the door. It was a huge thing, built of mahogany, and framed with velvet curtains. It might have walked off the set of a 1950s Zorro movie and was exactly the bland sort of choice that a decorator would have picked for this house.
“I’ll check the office,” Warren said, surveying the room. “You do the bathroom. Then we can go downstairs and lounge in the kitchen and wait for the others to get back.”
“And you can grab that Lovecraft book and keep reading,” I said.
He gave me a shamefaced grin but didn’t deny it.
The bathroom, like the bed, was exactly the kind of bathroom that I expected to find in a house that looked like this one. There must be a decorator somewhere who specialized in creating rooms that looked exactly like they should.
“Maybe this is a room from the world of forms that Socrates talked about,” I murmured, knowing Warren would get the reference.
He’d told me once that he’d carried Plato’s Republic in a saddlebag for two years and read it every day. I’d had to read it for a college class and pass a test on it. He had passages memorized, and all I could remember was the bit about the world of forms. And that Socrates liked to teach people by asking them questions.
“The form that all other Spanish-style mansions are modeled on,” intoned Warren from the office on the opposite side of the bedroom.
There was a huge antique claw-footed bathtub in the corner of the room, surrounded by small tables holding trays of empty handblown glass bottles that should have been filled with soaps and bath oils. White fluffy towels were piled on a wire rack, close enough that a person bathing could just reach out for them.
I turned and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My face was filthy from where I’d touched it. I looked at my hands.
“Marsilia sure has a vast collection of dirty books,” I said.
There was a pause. “You are in a bathroom,” Warren told me, a hint of laughter in his voice. “I’d guess you could wash your hands.”
“Do you suppose she’d mind?” I asked. I tried to make it funny, but the bathroom had an untouched quality that made me uneasy—as if it didn’t want to be used.
“If she does, you can buy her a new towel to go with the doors Darryl is taking pleasure in destroying.” Warren’s voice was dry, as if he understood my hesitancy and thought it ridiculous.
Which it was.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Anytime, darlin’，” he said, sounding as though he’d come back into the bedroom. I could hear him drop down to look under the bed.
The soap on the dish wasn’t wrapped, but it didn’t look as though it had ever been used. I turned on the water and watched it suspiciously. Sometimes if a faucet wasn’t used often enough, the water was gunky. It looked and smelled okay—and it even warmed up fast. The soap smelled of lemons, but not too strongly.
I used a washcloth to scrub my face and spent some time on my hands. When the water ran clear, I turned it off and dried on a nearby towel. The white towel was smudged when I finished, so apparently I hadn’t gotten all the dirt with the washcloth. I bundled the mucky things together and set them beside the sink, where the cleaning crew couldn’t miss them.
“Bathroom is clear,” I said, starting for the door—and caught a glimpse of something in the huge old bathtub. There hadn’t been anything in it when I’d checked it a few minutes ago.
Now it held an assortment of encyclopedia volumes. Five of them were leaned up against the back edge of the tub, braced by the three on the bottom. They were mismatched and from different places in the alphabet. The first one was The World Book Encyclopedia in gold-embossed leather, Volume 19, W-X-Y-Z. The second one was from a set of Encyclopedia Britannica, Volume 1, A-ak, Bayes. My eyes had moved to the third one, registered it as the T volume from a different set of World Book—and that’s when I realized that, taken as a whole, they spelled WATCH OUT.