The Last Writer Adriane Leigh (story reading TXT) 📖

They sounded like twittering pigeons and I’d learned to drown them out years ago.

“Of course it’s their home too.”

“You’re not even married to their father, that hardly makes them—”

“Stop it, Zara, how many times do we have to hear this nonsense?” My father clamped a palm on my shoulder and squeezed tightly. “This sea air is going to do you all good, I’m just sad I won’t be spending much time with you out there.”

“I bet,” Mother hummed and shot me a reprimanding glance.

“Why can’t you come, Daddy?” Yara whined at his knee.

He bent, patting her on her golden head before smiling. “I have to work. What kind of library caretaker would I be if I didn’t live at the library?”

“Can you come for weekends?” Yarrow asked.

“Every chance I get.” He gave his son a gentle slug in his arm. Yarrow winced and cupped his bicep, annoyance radiating across his peaked features.

I rolled my eyes. “So, let me get this straight, it’s just you,” I looked up at Mother, “me and them?”

“It won’t be so bad, Zar—” I hated when my father called me that shortened nickname— “Think of it like boarding school on the sea.”

A growl hummed to life in my throat. Mother wasn’t even Yara and Yarrow’s real mom, a biological fact I liked to remind them of every chance I could. Only Usher and Thornberry blood mixed in my veins, not theirs. I bit my tongue this time, though.

“It'll be an adventure—a Manhattan library is no place for a kid to grow up,” Father interrupted my thoughts.

“It isn’t?” I replied.

“Plus, your mom here is the perfect fit—she told me she had plenty of experience as a governess.”

“She did, did she?” I shot my mother a withering glance.

One dark slash of eyebrow arched in warning that I mind my place.

“So that’s it then? We’re just being shipped off to Long Island? I don’t want to leave the city, I don’t want—”

“Zara, honey, the twins are getting sicker by the day, the city air just isn’t good for their lungs. Being cooped up around all of these musty books is only making it worse. Inheriting Usher House is a blessing, for all of us.”

I cringed when she touched my shoulder.

Three quick taps. I knew what that meant.

I would pay for speaking out of turn.

My mother and I had a silent language all our own.

THREE

Ryn

“Yara is your mother? Now I know I need hearing aids.”

“Well, I don’t have the evidence yet.” Thax shrugged. “I was adopted. My parents hid the paperwork from me until they couldn’t anymore and on my thirteenth birthday I tore apart my dad’s office and broke his lock and key to the file cabinet. My birth certificate didn’t list a dad, but it did list one name in the surname column for my mother: T-berry.”

“That’s a helluva clue.”

“That’s my only clue, but I think it’s a strong one.”

“Well, what are you looking for here to confirm it? A family resemblance in black and white photos?”

“I guess I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. I’ve spent two decades searching for anyone with the last name Thornberry or similar and no one else comes up in the right timeframe.”

I frowned. “You didn’t think that far ahead? Or at all?”

“Hey, year after year I applied for this program. I figured I didn’t have a shot in the dark this year.”

“And here you are.”

Thax grinned. “Here I am. At your service.”

“At someone’s service.”

He laughed. “I’m starving, do you think it’s nine yet?” Thax swept the door of my room wide, gesturing with a smile. “Let’s eat. After you, madam.”

I nodded a thank you and made my way down the short attic steps. We reached the landing with the hidden elevator and this time Thax punched the button. We stepped into the iron cage, shuffling more tightly together than we’d been before now. I sucked in a soft breath as his cologne lingered in the stale air.

“I never noticed that before,” Thax hummed, eyes on a small poster hanging above the instrument panel. The cover of Yara Thornberry’s most recent bestseller was framed like a movie poster advertisement. “She’s big into self-promotion.” He smirked. The elevator came to a halt and he thrust the lever easily, doors creaking open. “Writing Rule #1.” He held up his index finger. “Only way to make your dreams come true is to be a shameless self-promoter, Weaver.”

“Nice.” I suppressed the roll of my eyes, realizing that Thax was just the sort of guy to whom shameless self-promotion came naturally. “Have you read any of the last writer’s books?”

“That came out of the program?” he asked as we walked down the hallway. “I guess I haven’t, but a few of them had movie deals and most hit bestseller lists.”

“I wonder if there’s a master list of the writers that have come before us somewhere.” Just as I finished my sentence we walked into the only room with the door open, a dim light cast out into the even dimmer hallway.

“This is charming.” Thax’s eyes travelled the sparse furnishings. A folding table in one corner with two metal folding chairs, an old banquette along the short side wall with a pitcher of tepid water and a plate of various white bread sandwiches and pastries.

“I’ll be getting takeout while we’re here.”

A low growl interrupted us as Yarrow stumbled in and over to the tray of food, loading both of his hands with sandwiches before casting an angry eye our way and shuffling back by.

“Lovely.”

“Well, every man for himself then,” Thax uttered, already piling pastries and sandwiches in his hands. He tore a bite off of one corner of an egg salad sandwich. “I don’t even drink coffee this old.”

I laughed, swiping the last of the sandwiches and taking a greedy bite. It was old, definitely old, but still satisfying.

“I wonder if that’s the last writer.” I nodded to a framed book cover on the wall above the table.

“Looks creepy,” Thax commented, shoving another sandwich square