LITMIR.BIZ

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looked even less happy than before, but obediently fell into step with them as they continued toward the larger building.

      Now that she was on a level with it, the structure looked even more like a fortress than before—a rectangular shape, two stories high, with narrowly arched windows at odds with the larger, square openings of the farmhouse-dormitory. The facade was arched, and the double-door opening could have taken a full-size Cadillac and not scratched the chrome on either side. In the afternoon sunlight, it glowed against the summer-blue sky, like something out of one of those paintings, the ones where it always looked as though it were about to thunder. Hudson Valley school, right. She had retrieved one back in, what, ’97?

      Teodosio led them right up to the doors and unlocked the left-hand door with an old-fashioned metal key. “Any time you wish to enter the House, either I or Frederich must be with you. We have many treasures within these walls, you must understand, and we are the entrusted caretakers of them.”

      “Of course,” Sergei said politely. Personally, Wren figured the lock would take her about seven seconds to tumble, even without using current. And there didn’t seem to be any other kind of security, no alarms or tripwires or—

      The doors closed behind them, and Wren felt herself shiver not from the sudden dark, or the echoing quiet, but from the fact that she knew, instantly, that she was inside a building with absolutely no electrical wiring at all. The walls were thick brick and mortar, and insulated to a fare-thee-well. Current could not find her there.

      She could not find current here.

      The uneasy prickle turned into full-fledged worry, just one small step down from panic, and she touched the magic inside her, warming suddenly-cold nerves on the responsive flickers deep in her core.

      “Wren?” Sergei cast a concerned look sideways, obviously having sensed her reaction.

      “I’m fine.” She wasn’t, not by a long shot, but couldn’t let it throw her. What she was going to do now was seriously low-power anyway; even as tired as she was, it would barely disturb her natural level of current. And if anything happened, well, she’d been told there were ways to get current from stone, if you needed it badly enough. And there was a lot of stone around her that had likely never been tapped, if the building was as old as it looked. As old as Brother whatsisname, Teodosio, said it was.

      “If you will come with me, please.” Teodosio turned a knob on the wall, and the gas lamps placed along the main hallway flared brighter. “I apologize for our old-fashioned ways of doing things. We try to remain true to our traditions. And besides—” a brief smile flashed on his basset hound face “—the money is not there to upgrade.”

      He was lying. Wren didn’t know how she knew that, but he was. Which meant they had a reason for not having electricity available. Old-fashioned? Or cutting a Talent off from an easy source of energy? Don’t get paranoid, Valere. Not yet. Not while you’re still gathering information.

      They went up a shallow stone staircase, ten steps, then a landing, then turned and another ten steps to the second floor. The torches seemed brighter up here, or somehow more light was getting through the narrow windows, because Wren could see more details around her. The walls had been plastered over with a slightly rough-textured white coating, and the wooden beams of the ceiling were blackened with age, creating a pleasing contrast. At intervals along the walls there were alcoves holding wooden carvings of figures—saints, she supposed—in various benevolent poses. Wren, with her lapsed Protestant background, didn’t have a clue who any of them were. Her mother might have. Sergei probably did.

      There were five doorways on either side of the hallway, each arched in a smaller echo of the main entrance. Passing by several of them, Wren caught a glimpse of glass-fronted cases and heavy cabinets. It wasn’t so much a library, she thought, as a book prison….

      “In here, please.”

      They were ushered through a doorway on the left, into a room that seemed incandescent compared to the gloom of the hallway. Light came in through the windows, split into prisms by the leaded glass. There were a number of the heavy cabinets here as well, plus thick glass-topped desks with obviously old manuscripts displayed underneath. One of them was conspicuously empty, the faded green backing noticeably darker where something had been removed.

      “It was there?” Sergei asked, pointing to the empty space.

      “What? Oh, no, no. That is an illuminated manuscript we’ve out on loan to a brother organization. The Nescanni parchment, that was never left on display, no. No, never that.” Teodosio was flustered, far beyond what the question would seem to merit, until Wren remembered what Andre had said. Everyone who has read it has disappeared. Right. Displaying it where anyone could lean over and take a looksee…not such a good idea, no. Although the way he’s reacting, I bet that’s exactly what they did once. Wonder who went and disappeared? And how long ago?

      “How did you even know it was gone?” Wren spoke without thinking, earning her a sharp glance from everyone, Sergei because she wasn’t supposed to be talking, the two monks because they had almost forgotten she was there. In for a penny… “If nobody ever read it, how did you know it was gone?”

      “Ah. The parchment was bound between two sheets of slate, like a sandwich. We would check the edges every six months, to ensure that there was no water or spore damage to it, as we do all of our charges. At the most recent check three weeks ago, the young brother whose assignment it was sensed something wrong and opened the slate perhaps a bit more than was wise. Fortunately for him, the paper that had been left in the manuscript’s place did not have the same effect on him as the original would have.”

      “He’s still around, then?”

      “Oh, yes. You will wish to speak with him?”

      “Please.” Seemingly taking back control of the situation, Sergei turned to Wren with the air of someone used to delegating. “Stay here, look around, learn whatever you can. I will meet with the young man and see what he has to say.” Wren—recognizing the voice he used with Lowell, his gallery associate when the well-bred wonder got a shade too uppity—had to make an effort to keep a straight face as she nodded her understanding of her assignment. An assignment that was exactly what she had planned to do, anyway, had she been scouting the scene on her own.

      Teodosio and Sergei exited, leaving Wren alone with Frederich, who looked as though he’d still rather be anywhere else, although that expression had been softened a little by boredom.

      What had boyo been expecting? Clearly they were told we would be coming, but what exactly were they told they’d be getting? That was a valid question—Teodosio had not specified the Silence, and Sergei told her that more often than not their operatives worked totally detached from the main organization, so you could be working for them through a series of—what had Sergei called them? Cutouts, that was it. You could be working through cutouts and never know who was actually footing the bill. If that was the case here, then this Mattenni might not have said anything more than “two Americans coming, give them assistance.” Or he might have told them exactly what she was, and what she did.

      Not knowing limited her options considerably. They had agreed, on the flight over, to keep Wren’s status as low-profile as possible. Especially since the Catholic Church—Rome just down the block, as it were—was still a little hinky about the whole magic thing. The Holy See could be awfully touchy about anyone using current on their turf, sans dispensation. Without knowing if this particular little subsect was Cosa friendly or not, she’d have to be totally closeted.

      Moving over to the cabinet where Teodosio said the missing manuscript had been stored, Wren looked over at Frederich for permission, then slid the drawer open. It was shallow, maybe two or three inches deep, and the wood had been polished until it gleamed with the patina only really old, well-used furniture got. She took a deep breath, feeling for the stone around her. Normally she preferred to ground on wood or earth, more familiar, human-friendly bases, but she was focusing on something made of wood, so that wouldn’t work as well.

      Cool, firm, solid…. Standing in place,

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