* * *
He left the sleeping Americans and headed directly to Lancaster Gate so that he might dig around for references to The Book of the Raven unhindered by his guests. He was a member of the Invisible Library and had his key with him. When he reached his destination, he pulled on his jersey, then took the steps two at a time up to the door. He knew he was setting out on the Crooked Path, magic that had no beginning and no end and instead circled like a snake, its tail in its mouth, so that you could not venture off the route you set out upon. He had a dark side, and, he feared, a deeply emotional side as well. Ian felt the stirrings of his other self inside of him, the one who’d been a thief, locked up long ago then discarded, but there all the same, the flinty part of him that made him fearless when a wiser man would have been alarmed enough to turn away.
Sally had heard him in the front room before he left, brewing a quick cup of tea before he headed out the door. She had no reason to trust Ian, and every reason to need him. She’d thrown on some clothes, slipped on her boots, and followed him onto Westbourne Grove, where she caught a taxi in order to keep up.
“We can’t follow a runner,” the driver warned when Ian turned into the park. “He’ll be on paths.” It was a warm morning and Ian had stripped off his shirt, clearly not one to follow the rules of decorum. Just as the driver began to warn Sally that this fellow she wanted followed would likely run across the grass, Ian took off over the dewy grass and they could no longer closely follow him.
“Just do your best,” Sally suggested.
They lost him for a while, but then she caught sight of Ian crossing Bayswater, headed toward Lancaster Gate. She felt her heart pound; it was as if she were tracking a wild creature, one that preferred to disappear. Sally quickly paid the driver, thanked him for being so persistent, then got out and crossed the street. She had borrowed one of Ian’s white shirts without asking, not that it mattered. He had plenty more. He turned as if she’d called his name even before she darted up the steps to join him. “I assumed you might run away,” she said.
“Run away from my own flat?” Ian opened the door, gesturing for Sally to enter.
“I thought we might have scared you.”
“You don’t scare me.” You’re still a good liar, he thought to himself. You’ll help them as you’re bound to do, and it will all be over soon. It’s nothing anyway. It’s your imagination.
“What is this place?” Sally asked.
“A library. For people like us.”
“What sort of people is that?” She had narrowed her eyes, clearly expecting an answer she wouldn’t like.
“People who like books,” Ian said, proud of his dodgy answer.
“I like books,” Sally said. “I’m a librarian.”
“Are you?” Of course she would be. Ian found women who were librarians exceedingly sexy. It was a combination of their love of books, which always increased their beauty, along with the fact that they usually knew more than he did, which he found oddly arousing.
Sally eyed the ornate moldings, extraordinary in detail, but, in her estimation, spoiled when painted a deep, glossy red. “Awful color,” she noted.
“It’s the color of magic. That’s probably why you don’t like it.” Ian gave her a sidelong glance and when she stared back at him he felt a sort of panic. Fuck, he thought. It can’t be this.
Sally disapproved of the library. It wasn’t just the color that glazed the woodwork that disturbed her, it was the content on the shelves. “Magic ruins people, why would I like it?”
“I used to believe that, but then I grew up.” Ian gave her a look he intended to be mocking, but it turned out to be something else entirely, some raw emotion that embarrassed him. Why was he debating her? He knew who he was, a self-centered man, not terribly interested in other people’s issues, always the thoughtless boyfriend who didn’t blink when a woman decided she’d had enough of his cool, selfish ways and left him, since that was what he wanted all along. No entanglements or complications. His work was more than enough for him. He’d seen what love could do, how it drove so many to practice left-handed magic; he’d been happy enough to wake alone in his bed.