The Last Writer Adriane Leigh (story reading TXT) 📖

himself onto the dodgy twin bed in the corner of my new attic room. “Speaking of creepy, this room looks like it’s out of an American horror story.”

He flipped a tiny pocketknife in his hand as he spoke.

“What’s with the weapon?”

He arched an eyebrow, then sank the blade into itself and tossed it across the room to me. “It’s a wild world out there, you never know when you might need protection.”

“You sound like a prophylactic ad I saw on the subway on the way over here.”

His eyes squinted with laugh lines. I liked that. “Okay, well, one shouldn’t wander strange halls without something to defend themselves, how about that?”

I tossed his pocket weapon back and pressed a hand to the small window overlooking the street below—the only window in the room. I could just barely make out Patience and Fortitude from my bird’s eye view, the regal marble lions presiding over the Fifth Avenue entrance. I couldn't believe just minutes ago I’d been down there looking in, and now I was in the belly of the beast and wondering when I’d see the light of day again.

“You’d think fixin’ up these old apartments would be in the budget. I read the endowment last year was over 5 million. What are they doing with all that cash every year? Not hiring someone to dust and clean,” Thax rambled.

“It’s probably separate from the library budget. I read in a Times article that Yara inherited the abandoned apartments from her father, a former custodian for the library, and that she grew up here. Can you imagine running around these hallways as a little kid?” He was ignoring me, eyes counting cobwebs in the peaked ceiling corners. “Do you really think they’re brother and sister? They don’t look alike to me.”

“They’re twins.”

“Twins? They look nearly a hundred years apart in age, there’s no way.”

“Oh, there’s a way. I guess you haven’t done your reading, have you, Ryn Weaver? If you had, you’d have seen the birth announcement, it made front page of the Sunday section. The custodian of the newly renovated library and his darling family posing for stately photos in front of a Christmas tree and windows overlooking the park. Picture perfect.”

“I guess I didn’t catch that one.”

“I was hoping to catch a few family photos on the walls, but so far it’s been pretty bleak around here.” Thax frowned.

“Have you been here before? How do you know so much?”

“Oh, I've been Yara Thornberry’s stalker since I can remember. I started out reading her books and became full-time obsessed. In high school I used to skip class and sit in random corners of the library, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. By the time they reinstated the Writer-in-Residence program, I was so ready. I applied a billion times every year, this is the first time I’ve been accepted.”

“Sounds horribly romantic of you.”

Thax grinned up at me as he lay with his hands crossed behind his head on my new pillow. “Are you one of those writers?”

“One of those?” I tore the pillow out from under his head and then tossed it at him. “If you mean a fan of the literary tradition, then yes, I am.”

“So you know Salinger and F. Scott and Woolf and Wharton all did writer-residencies here back in the day?”

“Sure.” I crossed my arms. “And Steinbeck was inspired to write when he visited the library as a little kid on a school trip. I researched the heck out of this place, I’m as excited to be here for the history of it as I am for the Yara Thornberry mentorship part of it.”

Thax laughed, pushing himself off the bed and crossing the room. “Stinks like rotten milk in here.” He opened a few drawers on the slim bureau tucked in a corner across the room. A naked mirror hung on the wall, rusted crack down the center. He tapped it, squinting in the mirror. “It’s a wonder they let her stay, they should gut all of these apartments and start over.”

“I’m sure it’s nicer where she teaches us—”

“Teaching?” He grinned. “You’re in for a trip, Ryn Weaver. I wouldn’t be here if I thought Yara Thornberry could teach me a damn thing about honing my craft.”

“You’re not here to learn writing from Yara?”

“Hardly.” He kicked at a stool and it left a trail in the dust as it skidded.

“You’re here to use the research library?”

He shook his head, crossing the room to me, catching my chin with his thumb. “You are a romantic, aren’t you?”

I frowned. “Then why are you here?”

“Because Yara Thornberry is my mother.”

PAST

Zara - Spring 1964

“What’s going on here?”

“Zara, honey, I said pack one box of books, not the entire bookshelf.” Mother shot me a stern look as one moving man kicked a box of my favorites in the corner, hauling another over his head and out the door. “We just can’t take all of them with us.”

“Where are we going? And who is us?” I pulled more worn paperbacks into my arms. I was only fourteen but these books meant the world to me.

“To the coast. I received confirmation just yesterday that I’ve inherited my grandfather’s estate on Shelter Island. I haven’t been there since I was a child, but I think it’s just the thing we’ve been needing. We’ll be back into the city to visit your father, of course, but from this day forward we’re the proud new owners of Usher House and Gardens.”

I remembered when I was young, she’d called it “lovely Long Island,” with a sinister sing-song in her voice. The disdain she held for most elements of her childhood was alive then, how could it have faded so quickly?

“Usher House… That big black nightmare with the crack down the center that you swore you’d never return to again?”

Mother’s face turned pinched. “That’s my ancestral home, and yours too.”

“And not theirs,” I reminded as the twins entered the room, high-pitched voices squabbling over something.