The Library of Shadows
: Chapter 2

Posy’s pockets would not stop beeping, which was not ideal for a library in general, and definitely not ideal while Dr. Kirk waxed poetic about the Lilith Library’s hundred-year history.

Este had joined Posy at the back of the group right as Dr. Kirk launched into her spiel. She was a short Black woman, easily nearing seventy with her salt-and-pepper curls braided tightly around her head, but the way she walked backward made Este think she could probably lead this tour in her sleep.

“What’s that?” Posy had asked, eyeing the key around her neck.

“Nothing.” Este tucked the key underneath her sweater a little too quickly and motioned for Posy to pay attention.

Now, Dr. Kirk led them around the perimeter of the first floor, doing a decent enough job of ignoring the endless stream of interruptions coming from Posy’s fisherman’s vest. “The Lilith has been Radcliffe Prep’s academic cornerstone since the school was founded in 1901. Materials in these collections date hundreds, even thousands, of years back. In 1917, less than two decades after the school opened its doors, a fire—”

Beep.

“—threatened to burn it down. Thankfully, it began in the spire, and, because it’s carved entirely of stone, the fire didn’t spread. Open flames in the Lilith, as you might expect, now require supervision from library staff, and today the spire houses heirlooms from the Radcliffe family themselves.”

Beep.

Toward the front, someone raised a hand and asked, “Can we go up there?”

“Unfortunately,” Dr. Kirk said, leading them between narrow shelves, “access to the spire is prohibited. For the protection of the collection, you see. However, you’ll replace plenty of resources among the Lilith’s main floors if you’re—”

Beep, beep, beeeeeep.

“Can you lower the volume or something?” Este whispered, harsher than intended.

“No way. The readings are off the charts in here.” Posy pulled the EMF reader from her vest and smacked it against her hand, trying to still the rapidly rising number on the scanner’s dim screen. “You know some scholars think the fire was started on purpose.”

Este dragged her fingertips along the rumble strip of book spines. The thought of losing even a sentence of this collection made her stomach knot like a yoga class.

To say the Lilith was impressive would be the understatement of the century. Hollow in the center, five sweeping stories rose around them. A vaulted glass ceiling glittered hundreds of feet above them, drenching the library in saffron sunlight. Jutting out of the east wing, a stone spire loomed overhead, braided into the whipped clouds. Night was creeping in quickly, but through the peaked windows, a soft September glow clung to the oak trees’ first golden leaves. Vermont in the fall was something striking.

Shelves that stretched to the soffits lined each wall, and every section boasted a rolling ladder to reach the highest books. Layer after layer of bookcases sat laden with leather-bound texts that promised the dusty scent of old books and fading ink. A crooked banner hung from the second-floor banister and read Welcome, Students!

One day, she would know every inch of this library like the back of a well-worn cataloging card, but tonight was her first time treading hallowed ground. She’d imagined this library a million times, but nothing compared to finally pacing the polished floors.

“Why would anyone try to destroy this?” she asked, realizing Posy was next to her, staring up at the spire curiously like she was thinking about fires and phantoms.

“I don’t know. What motive does anyone have for arson? Destroying evidence, amateur witchcraft, a desperate attempt to stay warm in a Green Mountains winter before the invention of central heating.” Posy pocketed the EMF reader and retrieved a silver laser pointer. “Sixty-seven degrees, but I’ll have to keep an eye on it.”

That last part she said mostly to herself, but even whispering, Posy snagged the attention of a few students around them. As Dr. Kirk guided them up a polished staircase, a boy with warm brown skin and a head of tight curls that had been bleached at the tips poked Posy’s fancy thermometer with a painted index finger.

“Can that really replace ghosts?” he asked.

Not in a million years, Este thought. She walked faster, craning an ear to hear Dr. Kirk announce that the Lilith’s hidden passageways are “technically off-limits to students, but great if you need a shortcut to class, as long as you don’t get caught,” and how they’re “easy enough to replace if you know where to look,” and “no, I won’t show you, but there’s a suspicious-looking painting on the fifth floor you might replace interesting.”

“Find ghosts? Absolutely,” Posy said to the boy. She’d clearly lost all interest in Dr. Kirk. “Shadows, ghosts, wraiths, fades, poltergeists, ectoplasm, and apparitions all create cold spots. You’ll know it when you feel it.”

A towheaded boy twice Este’s size butted in, saying, “Dude, I didn’t think this place was actually haunted.” Pale with ruddy cheeks, he wore a wide-strapped tank top and had a lacrosse stick looped over a sunburned shoulder like he’d just run off the field from practice.

“I’m Arthur Wilhite,” the first boy said. “This is my roommate, Shepherd Healy. He knows nothing.”

Posy took the liberty of introducing them. “I’m Posy, and she’s Este—like the Estes Method.”

“The what?” Este asked.

Waving a hand dismissively and turning back to Shepherd, Posy said, “Of course this school is haunted. I thought everyone who applied to Radcliffe knew that.”

She looked toward Este for encouragement.

“Well . . .” Este scrunched her face up. “Not everyone.”

“You, too?” Her roommate’s initial shock was quickly replaced as she plastered on a grin like a morning newscaster. “Oh, my god. Okay, get this: eight students have gone missing while they studied at Radcliffe. Eight. That’s not, like, a small number. Every ten years, someone came to school, and they never went home.”

“What happened to them?” Shepherd asked. Este didn’t miss the way his grip tightened around the hilt of his lacrosse stick, knuckles white.

“No one knows for sure,” Posy said, shrugging. “There hasn’t been a disappearance since the eighties, but the energy doesn’t lie. Some scholars think Radcliffe was built on a ley line. Some think whatever was responsible was much, much worse. Something ancient, evil, and out for blood.”

Scholars, evidently, was a loose term. Este could think of a hundred things more likely than paranormal activity. Tuition costs, family emergencies. Some students probably couldn’t take the pressure of a curriculum that only scheduled twenty minutes for lunch.

“And you all seriously believe in this stuff?” she asked.

“Me? No,” Shepherd whispered, stretching his ham hock of a neck. The way his eyes shifted back and forth, scanning the shadows for stray movements, said otherwise.

“You sure about that?” Arthur reached around Shepherd to tap his opposite shoulder, and the lacrosse player nearly jumped out of his skin. The twisted look on Shepherd’s face made Este think he was considering knocking Arthur over with a single flick on the forehead.

Este rolled her eyes. All it would take was one wrong look and the EMF reader would start shouting. Posy’s theatrics might have worked on the boys, but she was going to need a little more concrete proof before she started salting her door.

She’d been thirteen when she stood next to her mom, head angled toward the cemetery’s patchy grass. Este couldn’t watch as they dropped the first clumps of dirt over her dad’s casket. Of course, she learned all the signs of spiritual encounters—how ghosts could sift through walls, how the lights would flicker and the floorboards creak. How much time had she wasted trying to believe that whispers on the wind might have belonged to her dad?

Ghosts hadn’t been real then, and they never would be.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the click, click, click of high heels on old floors. A pale woman sidled up to Dr. Kirk. Black hair dripped over the shoulders of an ironed pantsuit, silken and straight, and she held herself with the kind of Ivy League prestige Este hoped she could someday grow into.

“I won’t take up much of your time—Dr. Kirk gives an excellent tour—but I wanted to introduce myself as we kick off the 2027 academic year.” The woman’s smile was practiced, perfect. “I’m your head librarian, Aster Ives.”

Arthur’s eyes went wide, and he muttered, “She looks like she could be a student,” as if high schoolers in Vermont frequently donned pressed blazers and stilettos.

Ives let loose a good-natured laugh. Was preternatural hearing a prerequisite for becoming a librarian? “Being here keeps me young.”

“Not me,” Dr. Kirk ribbed, raising her wrinkled hands.

Posy’s EMF reader chose that exact moment to let out an ear-piercing beep like a sitcom dad after stubbing his toe. She didn’t even have the decency to look remorseful, instead immediately scanning the nearby shelves while Este silently wished she could have had an ordinary roommate, maybe one who liked jigsaw puzzles or collecting Funko Pop! figures.

Ives narrowed her eyes, a blue as sharp as the sapphire on her ring finger. “It’s my privilege to continue Radcliffe’s tradition of excellence and preserve this collection in Lilith’s honor. If you need help with anything this year, don’t hesitate to let me know. And next time you’re here, put your phone on silent.”

That got Posy to click the off button.

The tour continued upward, Ives joining them, and curios dotted the second floor, a maze of collected relics. Treasures lined each row of books, curated through the years: Greco-Roman marble busts, naval instruments for navigating harsh seas, ancient silk textiles. Dr. Kirk made a point to emphasize that all the best antiquities were hoarded at the top of the spire. These were the disposable valuables, the ones that could afford to be ogled at and fondled by high school overachievers.

Frankly, Este was pretty sure most students were too busy ogling at and fondling each other to pay attention to the artifacts.

While Posy quietly informed Shepherd about some 1960s hippie named Aoife who vanished (“With eyewitnesses!”), Este found herself fruitlessly searching the stacks for a glimpse of the boy she had seen in the window as they neared the alcove over the main entrance. With an enrollment of less than two hundred students, it wasn’t like she would never run into him again.

The third floor was noticeably quieter. Ceilings dipped lower, and the shelves were lined with thick, dusty tomes. The deeper they wove through the stacks, the darker it grew. Light barely reached this part of the library.

As the aisles narrowed, she imagined her dad pacing down the corridors, a pile of books held steady beneath his chin. He must have scanned the same call numbers, browsed the same books that she would.

Everything you need to know, you can replace in your library, her dad used to say. Este clung to the defiant hope that she’d replace a piece of him in this one.

“Here are the school’s archives,” Dr. Kirk said as she stalled in front of an impressive arched double door. “Completely windowless, this collection is protected from sun damage, and you’ll need permission to enter since the texts are incredibly delicate. Our highest-achieving students have the opportunity to become archiving assistants and help us maintain these records, some of which require twenty-four-hour care. Although, would you want to work overnight in the most haunted place in the most haunted school in the country?”

“Third most haunted,” Posy corrected under her breath.

“Now, don’t run off all my volunteers with your ghost stories!” Ives chided playfully, conjuring a wave of hushed giggles from the crowd.

Surveying the doors, Este’s pulse quickened beneath her skin. An ornate trim cased the archives’ entrance, carved with delicate flowers. Flowers that looked familiar. She traced her fingers along the key around her neck. It weighed heavier now, somehow.

With Dr. Kirk ruminating on best cataloging practices and Posy distracted by her new entourage of ghost hunters, Este slipped away unnoticed. She lifted the key out from underneath her sweater, the teeth biting into her palm. Had her dad worked in the archives? She imagined him holding this key and took a step closer. It wouldn’t hurt to peek. Just one look.

Slotting the key into the knob, her hands shook. But the key caught halfway.

It didn’t make any sense. The keyhole was the perfect size, and the etchings matched the door. By all accounts, the doors should’ve swung open with ease, but when she tried the lock again, she had as much bad luck.

“You know, Ives will give you detention for trespassing. In fact, I’ve seen her give it to students just for looking at restricted sections of the library.”

Este jumped backward. Leaning against the bookshelf was a familiar set of shoulders. The buttons of a collared shirt led to the smooth planes of the window boy’s face. Her brain misfired at the kaleidoscope blues of his eyes.

Typical.

The most attractive human specimen this side of Burlington, and he caught her attempting to sneak into the restricted section.

She clamped the key into her fist, guilty red fanning into her cheeks. “You mean this isn’t the exit?” she asked, trying the lie on for size.

His smile flickered, a contained flame. The boy stepped closer. “I don’t think we’ve had the chance to officially meet.” His velvet-soft voice chafed every nerve. “I’m Mateo.”

“And I’m leaving,” Este said. She looped the key back around her neck, resigning to try again when there wasn’t an annoyingly cute hall monitor on the loose.

“That’s a terrible name.”

Este ignored the boy and pivoted toward the distant drone of Dr. Kirk’s voice. She wove between the stacks, shelf after shelf of yellowed pages, until, when she looked back, Mateo had been swallowed up by the library, tucked away behind the stacks. But when she turned the corner, he was waiting for her.

There was a sparkle in his eyes, rimmed with heavy lashes, and the smug remnants of a smirk on his lips when he said, “There’s only one door that key unlocks.”

Este couldn’t help herself. “Where is it?”

Mateo grinned, a lopsided thing that made Este’s breath shorten. “Only if you tell me your name.”

She sighed. New England boys were persistent. “I’m Este.”

His eyes dipped to her toes and dragged up the length of her. It sent sparks under her skin, and she tried to squash down the color rising to her face. “The door you’re looking for leads to the Radcliffe heirlooms.”

“The spire?” All the moisture wicked from her mouth. “We can’t go up there.”

His eyebrows raised, line of sight dipping to the key in her hands. “With that, we can.”

“No,” Este said, backtracking down the stacks. “I can go up there. We aren’t doing anything together. Plus, how do you even know?”

He scoffed at her. “You would’ve spent the entire year trying to break into broom closets if I hadn’t told you.” Mateo followed her down the aisle. “We could be the first ones to see the spire in thirty years. Don’t you want to know what’s up there?”

The thing was, she did. For some reason, the spire key had been hidden in her dad’s picture frame, and she wanted to know why. However, and maybe more importantly, she also wanted to not get kicked out of school before classes even started.

“Why should I trust you?” she asked, twisting to face him.

“If my dashing good looks and my winning personality aren’t enough,” he said, amusement darting across the lines of his face, down the long slope of his thin nose and the dimple in his chin, “because I’ll tell Ives you took the key. And rumor has it she’s been looking for it for quite some time.”

“I didn’t—” The outrage burst out of her.

“And yet you have it,” he said with a shrug. “Who do you think she’ll believe? This is your only chance.”

Este chewed on her lip and tasted vanilla ChapStick, deliberating. Mateo’s penchant for eye contact made her skin crawl. All crystalline blue with nowhere to hide. He made a good point. And exploring the spire . . . it was what her dad would’ve wanted, right?

“Let’s go,” she said, and she hoped she wouldn’t regret it.