The Secrets of Roan Island

7. Ruby

7

Ruby

B y the time I slam shut the third book in the pile, my stomach is in nauseous knots. The drivel in each manuscript is infuriating. They provide nothing but the usual opinions about the evils of women and their sexuality, along with observations about how “a woman—or the temptress—is to blame for the unabashed rage of a man who is unable to control his baser instincts around her.” And “...as hunters, it is in a man’s nature to hunt, and women are thereby prey.” “Biology,” one resource even purported.

This isn’t any different than the resources I have access to at the university or even my male colleagues. I stand, needing to walk away and shake off my frustration.

With my palms pressed against the small of my back, I meander to the nearest wall to peruse the titles. The room is rather dark, lit only by a few lamps and wall sconces as well as the flickering fire, but the library is impressive—even if the collection is dusty and antiquated. Built-in bookcases frame each wall around the massive room. Dark stained wood offers a stark contrast to the marble busts of forgotten men laid to rest in front of book spines of varying colors. They taunt me now, with their presumptuous looks, as if they know exactly how futile my afternoon has been.

There doesn’t seem to be a rhyme or reason to the organization of the books, but I suppose there must be. The family, perhaps, has a system they created. I wonder how quickly I might ascertain it. I’ve always been good at figuring out systems. Organization is an art in and of itself. It’s what I loved about working at the college library while getting my graduate degree. I found the order and control calming.

“Everything alright?” Shemaiah asks. He’s sitting in a wingback chair near a large fireplace, over which hangs a horrific portrait of some ancient man with mean, dark eyes, and a thin, unsmiling mouth.

“Fine.”

Shemaiah hums a discordant note. “It would sound as if you are anything but fine.”

I glance over my shoulder and see he’s still immersed in his book. He slumps in his chair, though not in a slovenly way, but rather in a carefree pose that communicates his complete ease. An ankle rests against his opposite knee with one of his hands curled around his mouth. He shares an ethereal beauty with Noah, though the two carry themselves differently. Whereas Noah expresses displeasure at most things, Shemaiah projects an attitude of reflective indifference. Strange, that I’ve begun to measure others against the inhospitable man who both sets my teeth on edge and ignites a spark in my core. It’s maddening.

“Does it matter?” I ask.

Shemaiah hums another note. “Not particularly.” The crinkle of a turning page cracks the silence. “But should you need anything, I am your humble servant.” His tone contradicts his words, expressing his disinterest in the entire endeavor.

“Do you not have anything better to do?” I run a finger over the book spines. “I’m quite capable of selecting and reading books on my own.” I certainly don’t need a chaperone. Though I suspect Shemaiah was specifically given the task.

“I’m enamored with reading,” he says before slipping back into silence.

I continue about the room, skimming the titles for something more in line with what I’m looking for. I need something that will restore my reputation after David tore apart my last paper. I need credibility, not texts that reinforce the very beliefs I’m trying to dismantle. Something about the history of the Crimson Quarter, perhaps. Or the most recent attempts to “clean up” the district. Or maybe something about the Roan family themselves that would give me some insight into how to get Hammish Roan to open his purse strings. My best friend Lucy would know how to charm him. She’s always been better at convincing people to do things.

A sharp pain of loneliness pinches my gut. This is the day the CWS usually meets each week. It’s very likely that they’re all having tea and crumpets at this very moment, while I’m getting nowhere in this damp old house surrounded by strange men whose intentions I can’t read. I wish I could have brought my friends with me.

Another page shouts its completion, pulling me from my thoughts and reminds me Shemaiah is in the room. If the books won’t tell me anything of interest, perhaps it’s time to fish for information more actively. “Do you spend a lot of time here, then?”

“Enough,” Shemaiah replies.

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. “How is it organized?”

“What?”

“The library. How is it organized?”

“Are you looking for something specific?”

I look over my shoulder at him. “I’d be interested in books on the Crimson Quarter if you have them, or perhaps old copies of the Daily Essik, ones that might talk about the women who disappeared fifteen years ago.”

There was a series of five disappearances around that time—all of them prostitutes. Some of the women I’ve spoken with regarding my work claim those sorts of disappearances still happen, but no one has reported on it since those first five.

Shemaiah’s book slams shut, and he holds it in his lap while dark eyes take my measure. “We don’t keep tabloids here.”

The Daily Essik is far from a tabloid, but the fact that he calls it one makes me think there’s something he’s trying to dismiss. Or outright hide. “Well, then, it would be nice to learn more about your family—not for my research, of course, but because you’re one of the founding families of New Essik and the colony has such an interesting history, don’t you think?”

He stands and slowly walks across the room. His gait is similar to Noah’s when he stalked towards me earlier, though Noah’s made me shiver with anticipation. Shemaiah’s approach makes me want to shrink in alarm. When he’s standing before me, he reaches over my shoulder, and it’s all I can do not to flinch. He pulls a book from the shelf and holds it out to me.

“This is a good one about the island. A history of the area.”

I take it, careful to avoid his fingers. “By Graham Miliken.”

Shemaiah turns and walks back towards his chair. “I found it quite diverting.”

“Diverting?” Jafeth says, surprising me with his reappearance. He’s leaning against the frame of the door that leads back into the hallway. “I am the definition of diverting.” His grin creates a small dimple in his right cheek. I wonder if Noah has one. What would it take to get his lips to curl in delight? I’m not sure I’ll ever know.

Shemaiah changes course and makes his way directly past Jafeth and through the door, disappearing from view without another word.

“Dinner soon,” Jafeth calls after his brother.

I can’t hear Shemaiah’s response, though I wait for it, the book clutched against my abdomen.

Jafeth’s dark gaze assesses me as his brother’s had, but his eyes hold perpetual amusement in their depths, as if the world is a source of fun and games and he’s but its master. “Have you solved the world’s ills then, Professor?”

I glance at the shelf once more, wondering if this is a geography section, and deciding I’ll need to study the system further to find what I’m after. Perhaps I’ll try to come back at night, when I’m not under such careful watch. “You know quite well I have not.”

He chuckles and holds out his elbow. “If you’ve had enough for the day, I’m here to escort you back to your rooms so you can prepare for dinner.”

I take hold of his offered arm. “Right. Yes. Because it takes so long to make one’s self presentable for men.”

He laughs, then, bright and loud. “But the effect is so diverting! As are your charms.” His gaze roams from my head to my toes.

“I thought you, sir, were the definition of the word.”

“‘Tis true. I’m afraid I have the attention span of a gnat and the patience of a candle in a stiff breeze.” He leads me from the room and into the dark hallway.

I clutch the book Shemaiah offered tighter. Though I hold no hope it’ll provide what I need, it might prove interesting when I’m bored, as I surely will be with so much time before dinner. “It’s a wonder you’re able to experience the charms of such diversions then, it takes so long to wait for them.”

He laughs again, a delighted sound this time, and I’m beginning to think the man loves nothing more than joviality. “I like you, Professor Rose.”

I hum, wondering if that is in my favor or not. “I wouldn’t have known it yesterday when you tried to scare me.”

“Tried and succeeded.” He grins.

“It was rude.”

“It was,” he agrees, “but you’ve forgiven me, yes?”

“Time will tell.”

His smile widens with a raptorial flare, revealing straight, white teeth. “And will time tell with my brothers?”

“Tell what? Do I need to forgive them for something?”

“Oh. Goodness, that sounds titillating.”

I think of Noah in the hallway, that hungry look in his eyes as his skin skimmed mine. I can still feel the way he pressed close to me, my skirts up around my thighs, heart beating like a drum. Titillating is right, and I’m sure that’s what Jafeth is referring to. Rather than acquiesce to his game, I say, “Time reveals all, yes?”

He hums a note, much like Shemaiah did, though where the latter’s sound indicated boredom, Jafeth’s tone expresses a sort of eager foreboding that makes the hair on the back of my neck rise. The hallway is colder and darker than it was earlier. With an unsteady sigh, I wonder how long I’ll need to stay here before I find anything useful, before I’ll be able to convince Hammish Roan to give me a grant. I have a sense that finding a way back to the colony might be in my best interests.

Except when have I ever done anything that was in my best interests?