Chapter 3 — Eleanor’s Library

Third Person

The library was exactly how Harper imagined Eleanor Grant’s mind would look if it took physical form: an organized chaos of ideas and contradictions. The scent of aged paper and varnished wood greeted them as they stepped inside, accompanied by the quiet creak of the heavy oak door. Floor-to-ceiling shelves bulged with books, their spines an eclectic parade of titles and colors, interspersed with odd trinkets—miniature globes, brass magnifying glasses, and an impractical number of paperweights. Near the front desk, a small round table bore a stack of mismatched journals, their pages fluttering in the draft like restless spirits. By one shelf, an old photograph of Tower Bridge under construction leaned against a stack of engineering texts, as though waiting to be noticed. The air felt heavy, as if weighed down by the knowledge contained within the walls.

Eleanor herself appeared from behind a towering pile of books, clutching a teacup adorned with tiny foxes chasing each other around the rim. Her blonde curls bounced as she moved, her round glasses slightly askew. She wore a patchwork skirt dotted with embroidered birds and a mustard-yellow sweater that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did. A pair of mismatched earrings—a tiny globe and a miniature book—swayed from her ears, perfectly encapsulating her personality.

“You’re late,” she declared, though there had been no agreed-upon time. Her grin was wide and infectious. “And you’ve brought company! How exciting. You must be Harper—the artist.”

Harper blinked, momentarily taken aback. “I—yes, that’s me.”

“Brilliant.” Eleanor clapped her hands, almost spilling her tea. “We’ll get along famously. I’ve always wanted to meet someone who sees the world in lines and shadows.” Her gaze slid to Alaric, her grin turning sly. “And you—still brooding, I see. You’d think solving a mystery would put some color in your cheeks, but alas.”

Alaric sighed, clearly accustomed to her antics. “We need your expertise, Eleanor, not your commentary.”

“Oh, you’ll get both, dear. Now, come along. To the archives!” She spun on her heel and disappeared into the labyrinth of shelves, her teacup miraculously steady despite her enthusiasm.

Harper hesitated, clutching her charcoal pouch like a talisman. Eleanor’s energy was overwhelming, each word and movement brimming with unrestrained enthusiasm. But there was something oddly comforting in her presence, as though Eleanor embodied a confidence Harper had long forgotten how to feel. Harper glanced at Alaric, whose measured pace contrasted with Eleanor’s exuberance. He caught her look and gave the smallest shrug, a silent acknowledgment of Eleanor’s eccentricity.

The deeper they ventured into the library, the quieter it became, as though the books themselves absorbed sound. Eleanor led them to a small alcove where a sturdy wooden table sat beneath a tarnished brass lamp. Stacks of parchment and rolled-up maps crowded the surface, alongside a collection of magnifying glasses in varying sizes.

“Right,” Eleanor said, setting her tea down precariously close to the edge of the table. “What have you brought me?”

Alaric carefully retrieved the journal from his satchel and placed it on the table. Harper noted the brief hesitation in his movements—the way his fingers lingered on the leather cover, his jaw tightening slightly. It was more than just an old book to him; it was a tether to something he wasn’t ready to fully share. His reluctance felt oddly familiar to Harper, echoing her own guardedness with her sketchbook.

Eleanor’s eyes lit up as she leaned over the journal, adjusting her glasses. “Oh, this is splendid. The craftsmanship alone—Victorian, undoubtedly. And this crest…” She traced the faded emblem embossed on the leather cover with a delicate touch. “Thornwood family, yes?”

“Yes,” Alaric replied, his tone clipped but measured. “It belonged to my ancestor, Edward Thornwood. He worked on the construction of Tower Bridge, though it seems there’s more to the story than official records suggest.”

Eleanor’s fingers hovered over the journal, almost reverently. “May I?”

Alaric hesitated again, his grip tightening on the journal for a moment. Harper could see the internal conflict playing out in the set of his shoulders, the tension in his hands. Finally, with a sharp exhale, he nodded and let it go.

Eleanor didn’t miss the hesitation, but she said nothing, her attention fixed solely on the journal. She flipped through its pages with a mixture of awe and precision, muttering to herself as she examined the faint sketches and cryptic notations. Harper’s gaze drifted to the shelves lining the alcove, her fingers itching to pull out one of the dusty volumes. The air here was heavier, quieter—almost sacred. Harper wondered if Eleanor ever felt the same way about her library as Harper once had about her art studio, back when the act of creation hadn’t felt so daunting.

“You said there were markings?” Eleanor’s voice broke through Harper’s thoughts.

“Yes.” Alaric leaned closer, pointing to a page filled with faded sketches of Tower Bridge. “They’re faint, but when held at a certain angle in the light, you can see them.”

Eleanor grabbed one of the magnifying glasses and tilted the page, adjusting the lamp’s angle until the faint markings revealed themselves—delicate lines and symbols etched lightly into the paper.

“Oh, this is marvelous,” she murmured, her tone suddenly serious. “Look at this—these markings here, they’re coordinates… of sorts. Or a map, perhaps?”

Harper stepped closer, her curiosity piqued despite herself. “A map to what?”

“Hmm.” Eleanor chewed her lip, her finger tracing the lines. “It’s not immediately clear, but these symbols—they’re architectural notations. Structural details, maybe. And this…” She tapped a faint sketch of what appeared to be the southern tower of Tower Bridge. “It suggests there’s a hidden compartment. Ingenious!”

Alaric frowned, his voice low and skeptical. “A hidden compartment? For what purpose?”

“Could be anything,” Eleanor replied cheerfully. “A storage space, a time capsule, or—” She paused dramatically. “—an artifact of great historical significance.”

Harper raised an eyebrow, feeling the stirrings of amusement. “Is that your professional opinion?”

Eleanor grinned. “It’s my optimistic one. But either way, we have something to work with.”

She turned to a nearby shelf and began rifling through the books, muttering under her breath. “Blueprints… diagrams… where did I put them? Ah!” She pulled out a thick, leather-bound volume and plopped it onto the table. “This is a collection of Tower Bridge’s original plans. Well, as original as we can get—some were lost, others deliberately destroyed. But this might help us cross-reference the journal’s clues.”

Eleanor flipped through the blueprints, her movements brisk but careful. Harper, meanwhile, took out her sketchbook and began to draw. She sketched the faint markings from the journal, her lines deliberate and precise. The act of drawing felt almost meditative, grounding her amidst the whirlwind of Eleanor’s energy. For the first time in months, she wasn’t overthinking her lines. She was just drawing.

Alaric glanced at her sketchbook, his expression softening. He hesitated, then said, “You’re quite good.”

Harper looked up, surprised by the rare compliment. “Thanks. It’s… easier to focus when it’s something like this.” She hesitated before adding, “I’m not trying to make it perfect.”

Eleanor, oblivious to the exchange, tapped a page in the blueprint book. “Here! This matches the markings in the journal. See this section of the southern tower? There’s a hollow space that isn’t accounted for in the official records. I’d bet my best earrings that it’s the hidden compartment.”

Alaric leaned over the page, studying the diagram intently. “If this is accurate, it’s possible the compartment was deliberately concealed during construction. But why?”

“Only one way to find out.” Eleanor’s grin widened. “We’ll have to go there, of course. Investigate. Explore. Oh, this is like something out of a novel!”

Harper couldn’t help but smile at Eleanor’s enthusiasm. “You do know we can’t just waltz into the tower and start poking around, right?”

“Details, details,” Eleanor said breezily. “I’m sure Alaric here will figure out a way. He’s good at that sort of thing—quietly clever, like a particularly resourceful badger.”

Alaric sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll make inquiries. Discreet ones. If there’s a way to access the tower without drawing attention, I’ll find it.”

“Excellent!” Eleanor clapped her hands. “In the meantime, I’ll dig deeper into these blueprints and see if there’s anything we missed. Harper, you’ll keep sketching, yes? Your drawings might reveal something we’ve overlooked—it’s amazing what the artistic eye can catch.”

Harper hesitated, suppressing a flicker of doubt. “Sure. I’ll do what I can.”

As they gathered their things to leave, Eleanor called after them, her voice echoing through the library. “And remember—history is full of secrets, but it’s the curious ones who bring them to light. So stay curious!”

Harper and Alaric exchanged a glance as they stepped out into the misty London evening. The library’s warmth lingered in Harper’s mind, along with Eleanor’s parting words.

Curiosity. That was something Harper hadn’t felt in a long time. But now, with the journal’s mysteries unfolding and her sketchbook filling with new lines and possibilities, she felt its spark reigniting.

For the first time in months, she allowed herself to hope.