The air in the Slate Hall tastes of wet stone and the slow, vanilla decay of ancient vellum. Dr Isolde Penhale stands at the threshold, her brogues clicking once against the blue-grey Welsh slate before the silence of Llanafan swallows the sound. Dusk filters through the leaded glass, casting long, bruised shadows across the mahogany stacks that rise like a cathedral of forgotten thought. Beside her, Mrs Bronwen Aled remains perfectly still, her hands vanished into the black wool of her apron.
The library is a tomb of cedar oil and damp. Thousands of spines, bound in cracked oxblood leather and fading buckram, lean together as if whispering. Isolde’s fingers itch for her magnifying glass, already cataloguing the shadow-work of the rafters. Sir Owain had promised a sanctuary for her sabbatical, a place where history could be pinned down and bled dry of its secrets. But the vastness of the room feels predatory, the heavy scent of old ink thick enough to coat the back of her throat. It is only a room, she tells herself, though the chill suggests otherwise.
Mrs Aled does not offer a tour, nor does she reach for the light switch. She simply stares into the gloom of the furthest aisle, her mouth a thin, bloodless line. Then, the stillness of the drafty corridor behind them ruptures. Footsteps echo on the slate floor of the hall, moving steadily toward the open library door.
