The Librarian of Crooked Lane (Glass Library, #1)

by C.J. Archer

It says here he is the only child of Lord and Lady Rycroft.” I read over her shoulder. “’Mr. Gabriel Glass, Baron and Baroness of Rycroft. Lady Rycroft is the famed magician, India Glass, nee Steele.’”

“Where can a girl meet such a man?” “The Isle of Wight, apparently.”

We only drove for about ten minutes, heading south past the museum then through the West End theater district. Just past

Leicester Square, Gabe pulled to the curb and turned off the engine. We were in an unremarkable retail area

As with the office, I gave the clock only a fleeting glance. The bookshelves interested me more. They were stuffed with books of all sizes, stretching to the high ceiling. I took a step toward the room, then another and another, and before

through the two black marble columns guarding the entryway. I’d joked with Gabe about disappearing into a magical cave, but it was no longer a joke.

it was the clock, which I assumed contained Lady Rycroft’s magic, or whether it was the nature of ...

more spectacular than the ground floor. The ceiling was higher and even more ornate with the same leaf motif as downstairs repeated but painted in vibrant springtime colors with golden accents. A narrow mezzanine clung to the walls above our heads. Accessed by a spiral staircase, it was only wide enough for one person to browse the bookshelves, or two to squeeze awkwardly past one another. An arched window spanning the full height of the room was cut in half by the mezzanine. The window overlooked Crooked Lane,

The title read The Book of Magic: The facts, myths, histories, and rites of sorcery in England and around the world as written by a modern magician. The author’s name was Oscar Barratt.

“What type of magician was he?” “Ink. A rather pointless magic, as he put it, but he could make it float prettily in the air.”

“Scotland Yard employ me only on cases that involve magic or magicians. I was called in for this case when the owner of the stolen painting claimed it was done by a magician artist. At least, that’s what the owner claimed.”

The painter is long dead, so he can’t be questioned. He lived a century ago, in a less enlightened time, when magicians were persecuted. Paint magicians never revealed their talent out of fear they’d be ostracized by the Royal Academy. That’s the closest thing to a guild artists have. The stolen work was done by a little-known artist named Jean-Baptiste Delaroche. He wasn’t very prolific. This painting is one of only three in England.”

“It must have been placed behind the village painting until such time it could be squirreled out of Burlington House.”

“And Lady Stanhope? I assume she was there going over last-minute details with Ludlow.” He nodded. “As a friend of the painting’s owner, she also knew it was magical.”