Читать книгу The Cradle of All Worlds - Jeremy Lachlan - Страница 21

THE MUSEUM OF OTHERWORLDLY ANTIQUITIES

The foyer’s deserted. Winifred bolts the door the moment we step inside. The place is a mess. Tapestries hang askew on the cracked walls. The domed ceiling looks perilously close to collapsing. Some of the enormous stained-glass windows have shattered.

‘This way,’ she says.

Our footsteps echo through the cavernous space. My hands are shaking. I feel numb. I’m covered in blood, sweat and vegetable gunk, and the invisible thread’s trailing behind me through the dust, untethered now, disconnected from Dad.

He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone.

Why am I even following this woman? Isn’t this all her fault?

Maybe I’m in shock. I’m definitely in shock. Hell, I’m not even supposed to be in here. I’m not allowed. I swear the larger-than-life-sized statues lining the walls are glaring down at me. Sayuri Hara. Atticus Khan. K.B. Gray. Finn Pigeon. They look like ancient guards. Sentinels bearing weapons, compasses, globes and books. These are the Great Adventurers. The people whose exploits through the Manor have become the stuff of legend.

The statue in the centre of the foyer’s the largest of all. That Dawes guy everyone loses their nut over around here. There are all sorts of impressive words people use to describe him. Imposing. Fierce. Ferocious. All I see is a ponytailed fool in a loincloth. The plaque at the base of the statue says he entered the Manor over two thousand years ago.

Apparently, he was the first to step inside. And he never returned.

Dad’s gone. He’s in danger. Go get him.

‘We are going down,’ Winifred says, heading towards a spiral staircase in the far corner. ‘Like you, I have grown accustomed to underground living.’

So down we go, twisting deeper and deeper under the museum.

Getting further and further away from Dad, step by step.

At the bottom of the stairs, Winifred opens a hefty wooden door. ‘Welcome to the Great Library. Or perhaps I should say, welcome back . . .’

The library’s enormous, lit by hundreds of oil lamps hanging from the walls, lined with rows of stone columns and seemingly never-ending shelves. The same shelves from my baby photo. It looks like an underground city, and smells of dust and old parchment.

‘This way, if you please . . .’

Winifred plucks a lamp from its bracket, sets off down one of the aisles. I catch a few titles on the shelves as we go. Isobel Harper and the Tomb of the Serpent King. Hughlance Boone and the Glacial Blade. Jack Lee and the Darkling Light. There are thousands more in this aisle alone. The Bluehaven Chronicles. Some look well-preserved. Others have cracked leather bindings and faded, flaky lettering. It’s impressive. All of it. Even I can’t deny it.

‘There are so many.’

Winifred nods. ‘One book for every adventure undertaken through the Manor, written by the heroes themselves upon their return.’

We head through an archway, down a staircase, along a stone-walled corridor, and into a warm, cosy study – the same study from Dad’s photo. There’s the crackling fireplace, the desk littered with parchment, the massive cabinet packed with antique swords, rifles, globes and vases. An enormous painting hangs on the wall next to the cabinet. A canyon riddled with caves. One of the supposed infinite realms connected to the Manor, I suppose.

‘Your hand,’ Winifred says. ‘Are you in any pain?’

‘Of course I’m in pain.’ I’m feeling bolder now. Angrier, too. The shock’s starting to wane. ‘Why did you bring me down here? Where’s my dad gone?’

‘Your father is merely following the path that was laid out before him.’ Winifred strides over to her desk and pulls a small decanter and two crystal glasses from one of the drawers. She pours a dash of golden liquid into each. ‘Just as I am following mine.’

‘We should’ve stopped him.’

‘You cannot stop what is meant to be, Jane, any more than you can stop the moon from rising.’ Winifred downs her glass in one gulp, places the other in front of an empty chair across the desk. ‘Drink. It will help ease the pain in your hand. And your head.’

‘It smells disgusting. More special herbs?’

‘Whisky.’

‘Oh.’ Who gives whisky to a fourteen-year-old? ‘Thanks, but I’m . . . trying to cut back.’

Winifred shrugs. ‘Very well then. Let us talk about your path.’

‘My path?’

‘Of course. You are the hero of this adventure, whether you like it or not.’

‘Look, I just want to get my dad back –’

‘And therein lies the adventure.’ Winifred pulls a crummy green rucksack from behind her desk and flings it at my feet. ‘There is a towel in there. I was unable to find any clean underwear or socks among your belongings while I collected your father, but I did salvage a clean tunic and a pair of trousers. It may not be the best attire for the quest you are about to –’

‘Quest? No, no, there won’t be any quest, okay? Listen, thanks for rummaging through my underwear drawer and –’ I pull a chunk of bread from the rucksack, spot a few dates in there too – ‘thanks for the snacks. But as soon as things calm down outside, I’m going up the Stairs, getting my dad and taking him back to the basement.’

‘It is not going to be that simple, and you know it. Every moment of your life has been building to this, Jane. You will enter the Manor, yes, but not via the Sacred Stairs.’ She places the key on her desk – must’ve picked it up before following me out of the Town Hall. ‘You must take this. Keep it safe. I have returned it to you, and with you it must stay.’

‘Returned it to me? Meaning what, exactly?’

‘Meaning I took it from you when we first met, and now I have given it back.’ Winifred sits down, leans back in her chair. ‘I was there, Jane. The night of the first quake. The night you and John came to Bluehaven. I was the one who found you on the Stairs.’ She nods at the empty chair. ‘Sit for a moment. Please. There are things you need to know.’