Hunted by Adam Slater Page A

up!”
    Callum jumped to his feet and dragged a straight-backed chair over to the window.
    â€œShe won’t be home for another hour,” he explained. “The book’s up here. She hides it behind this front row of newer stuff. Come and help. We’ve got to keep track of what we move, because she’s bound to notice if they’re not put back in the same way. You wouldn’t believe how organized she is.”
    Melissa scrambled to her feet as well and studied one of the lower shelves for a moment.
    â€œYou’re right. She’s got all these novels arranged in alphabetical order by author. Did she used to be a librarian?”
    Callum didn’t answer. He was already standing on the chair and pulling books off the high shelf.
    â€œHere, take these,” he said. “Stack them on the floor by the door. In the exact order I pass them to you.” Much as he was growing to like Melissa, he didn’t quite trust her not to make as much of a mess with the books as she’d made with the hot chocolate. “Okay, now I’ve got another load….”
    Bit by bit, Callum emptied the shelf. Just as he had thought, the top shelf was double depth, the books at the front concealing the extra space behind. But it was too dark to see what was there.
    â€œCan you turn on the big light?” he asked, pointing. “That switch.”
    Melissa flicked the switch. Light flooded the room. The telltale flash of silver glimmered from the depths of the hidden shelf, and Callum gasped.
    There wasn’t just one book back there. There were dozens.
    All the books were bound in leather, but there the similarity ended. They were all different sizes, from small notebooks to thick, chunky tomes. Very few had anything legible written on their spines—either the letters had worn away or they had been blank to begin with—so it was impossible to tell what they were. But one thing was certain: hidden behind Gran’s discarded gardening journals was a row of books as old as the crumbling alms cottage itself. Maybe older.
    â€œIs it up there?” Melissa asked, craning her neck to see.
    â€œI can’t tell,” said Callum. “She’s got a whole shelf of them here.”
    The books were wedged so tightly together, Callum had to pull out a short, fat one to make himself some slack. It was bound in thick, cracked leather, like an old Bible.
    â€œWhat do you make of this?” he asked, passing it down to Melissa.
    â€œ Campanalogia —1677,” she announced, peeking inside the front cover. “It’s all about the secrets of ringing church bells.”
    â€œThis is more like it,” said Callum, pulling down another. He opened it and found it was entirely handwritten in painstaking eighteenth-century script.
    â€œWhat is it?” Melissa asked.
    â€œHard to tell—the writing’s awful. It looks like a collection of stories, though. Fairy stories or something.”
    â€œWell, your gran was obviously telling porkies when she said she didn’t have any books about folklore,” Melissa said. “Can you see the one she was reading yesterday?”
    Callum frowned, his eyes skimming over the spines.
    â€œNo, I can’t. Hang on a sec, it must be here. It was a black book with silver binding.”
    It wasn’t easy to find. Gran had double-hidden it, laying it flat against the wall behind the row of old books. Callum only noticed it when he pulled a third book off the shelf.
    â€œGot it,” he said triumphantly.
    It was heavy. Callum handed the book to Melissa carefully, holding it with two hands. It was wider than it was tall, and fat as a photograph album, but so old it looked as though it ought to be under glass in the British Library. The leather of the cover was slightly greasy with ancient mildew.
    Callum hopped down from the chair and laid the book carefully on the drop-leaf table. He wiped his hands before opening the