The Librarian's Spell Patricia Rice (top 100 novels .txt) 📖

so she was taking over the position. But she was not a Malcolm, and ladies who may have been your ancestors warned she wasn’t qualified. Then the owner of this journal appeared, knew how to enter the library because the books told her, and they found the body. It’s all very horrible and sad.”

But it was knowledge. The library was speaking to her!

“Well, they can’t claim you murdered Mr. Cadwallader, but I can see where there might be concern. Do you need any more of these volumes?” He waited, letting her listen.

Lydia shook her head. “I understand now. Let’s go to bed.” She kissed his jaw. “I’ll read you the pages until you fall asleep. I want you well rested so you can be magnificent tomorrow.”

Standing in the entrance of a narrow, dark courtroom, Max squared his shoulders in his fancy new coat, and remembered Lydia’s bedtime tale. It had been as chilling and uplifting as any good novel. He had never considered women to be quite that bloodthirsty.

Their display of swords yesterday should have given him a hint.

He watched as his uncle and his barrister entered from a far door. They didn’t even glance in Max’s direction.

The spectators were mostly men. A few ladies attended—probably some of Max’s nosy relations. None of them seemed abnormally interested in him. He tugged at his cravat and breathed a little easier. Lydia was a miracle worker in more ways than one. He’d feared that not having her by his side would be an invitation to any stray female, but his magnetic ability had apparently fastened on Lydia. He hoped.

If so, he might stay in Scotland! Did he want to? He liked working.

His barrister gestured for Max to take the chair next to him. The men who had traveled all this way to serve as his witnesses began taking seats on the benches. No matter how hungover they might be, his cousins had dressed as gentlemen and sauntered in with the arrogance of the privileged. Except for Dingo, his schoolmates were mostly the ones Max had prevented from being bullied in those long-ago years—not prepossessing sorts but apparently grateful ones. Dingo either wanted another round of fisticuffs or figured he owed Max for not breaking his nose the last time they’d fought.

Once everyone was seated, the judge called both barristers to the stand, where they presented whatever documentation they’d gathered, including witness statements. Max gritted his molars in frustration that he even had to submit to this nonsense. Where was George? After yesterday, his cousin had to know he wasn’t an impostor.

What would happen if he were declared dead in front of all his old friends and family? What would happen to Lydia? He was cursing himself for three times a fool for even thinking he’d be better off declared dead—

A bailiff shouted George’s name.

Heads turned expectantly, anticipating a dramatic entrance perhaps. Max just sank deeper into his seat. His cousin had to think of his own family first, of course. Refusing to testify wouldn’t help anyone but would be typical for the conflict-avoider he remembered. Maybe sitting on his head had taught George a lesson he’d never forgotten.

Grunts of satisfaction emerged from the audience directly behind Max. What had his esteemed, immensely aristocratic reprobates of cousins done now? He refused to express curiosity.

George walked out from the aisle dividing the courtroom benches. Ah, question answered. His cousins must have shoved the coward forward.

He wore one of his flashy suits with the stiff collar and cravat and a vest of black silk with gold embroidery. Max thought he looked like a Western gunfighter, except the black sling on his arm and his hobbling gait ruined any swash and buckle. George had been pretty banged up.

“Mr. Franklin.” The judge’s voice dripped disapproval. “We are pleased you have chosen to grace us with your attendance, however belated.”

“I couldn’t very well sit with my father, now, could I? We’re no longer on the same side. And Max isn’t likely to look on me kindly. But I’m here. Tell me what to do.” George cradled his broken arm, as if he might be in pain.

Max almost sympathized, except he was too shocked.

“The court wishes you to attest to this documentation stating the man claiming to be Maxwell Ives is an impostor, that you have personally—”

George shrugged and grimaced. “Can’t do that.”

The entire courtroom silenced. Max sat up straight and stared. His uncle turned purple. For that matter, so did the judge.

Max had hoped George might simply refuse to commit to one side or another, but he hadn’t hoped for a complete reversal. He studied his step-cousin with wary interest.

“What do you mean, you can’t do that?” the judge asked in tones dripping with ice and sarcasm.

George usually brought out that response in everyone, sooner or later, Max recalled. One would think he’d outgrow the habit of simple declarations without explanation.

“Can’t say Maxie is dead.” George didn’t even glance in Max’s direction as he spoke. “Might wish I could. The man is still an obnoxious bully, and he did nothing to deserve his riches except be born. But it’s Max, all right. I daresay if you care to look, you’ll find he has a scar on his shin where I kicked him with my boot when we weren’t old enough for school. He sat on my head afterward. He remembers that. That’s how I know it’s him.”

“He sat on your head?” The judge glanced incredulously at Max, as did everyone else. “Would you care to bare your shin, sir?” he asked in a tone dry as toast.

“If I may speak?” Max stood and glanced at his barrister for permission. At his nod, he continued. “You might prefer to examine the burn scar on my hand and wrist.” He undid his cufflink to reveal the welt. “I sustained this while attempting to rescue my drawings after the brat flung them in the fire. Had I known scars were admissible evidence, I could bare the one on my derriere