“I must say, you’re taking all this well,” he said after a long speech. “I’m glad your anger from this weekend has subsided.”

“It was just the shock of it.” In truth, her nails were biting into her thighs while she tightly controlled her feelings, for fear the Mori would attempt to murder the man again.

Unseeing eyes stared off over her shoulder. “Well, I’ll admit my role in this. I should’ve told you before the dinner, but my mind was on other things. And no father wants to disappoint his daughter. I was a coward, and I’m sorry. Truly.”

An apology? From the great Dr. Bacall? She was tempted to look around the room to see if he was talking to someone else. Instead, she took a deep breath and ate crow. “I’m sorry for losing control. I didn’t mean for it to go that far.”

“I feel certain you didn’t. And I hope you won’t hold a grudge against Mr. Magnusson. If he’s appointed in my position, I’m certain he’d recognize what a tremendous talent you are. And perhaps something could be arranged for you to be interim head when he’s out in the field.”

Interim. Hadley rolled her eyes. Whatever feelings were stewing inside her over Lowe, she would hold him to his promise to turn down the position, and whether her father liked it or not, she would be sitting behind his desk come February.

“I hold no ill will toward Mr. Magnusson.”

“Excellent to hear, darling. If you are to be working closely with him in the near future, it would be best for both of you to be professional. I know it’s difficult sometimes. Maybe it would help to focus on your upcoming seminars to keep your emotions under control.”

“Yes, that’s probably wise advice.” She’d be sure to relay it to her heart and brain, which were conspiring together behind her back to conjure up very unprofessional thoughts and feelings about Lowe.

Fifteen minutes after Hadley returned to her office, Miss Tilly’s pretty face popped inside the doorway. “Oh, you’re done meeting with your father. I wasn’t sure how long it would take—he said no interruptions, so I told your visitor you weren’t available.”

Her heart leapt. “What visitor?”

“Mr. Ginn.”

Oh. Oliver. After their parting at the Flood Mansion, she wasn’t sure he’d call on her so soon. And it made her a little nervous that he did, because pieces of their conversation about her specters came back. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“No,” she said, handing Hadley a small parcel. “But he was terribly disappointed that he couldn’t see you. Wish I had someone pining over me like that. He asked me to give you this.”

When the secretary left, Hadley opened a hastily scribbled folded note slipped under the parcel’s string. I hope you find chapter four enlightening. I have more information whenever you’re ready to talk.

Inside the brown wrapping was a small leather book. Not printed, but written in longhand. Beliefs of the Arabian and Egyptian People. A date—1895—but no author. A quick flip through the pages revealed the content of the chapter in question: Ifrit Spirits of the Djinn.

Thick pencil underlined several passages.

In Arabia, a rebellious class of infernal spirits said to be made of smoke and ash . . . some think they live underground, but others believe they are summoned from a netherworld.

Underworld. She turned the page.

They bear a striking resemblance to a kind of spirit feared by Egyptians, the Sheut, or “shadow” . . . one of five parts of the human soul. Magical folklore explains the origins of the creatures as being created by Set, who separated Sheuts from 1,000 dead souls as they navigated the Egyptian underworld, Duat, realm of Osiris, and later loosed them in the Egyptian desert. Now considered an Egyptian version of the Grim Reaper myth, these spirits’ purpose is to harvest intact living souls and drag them into the underworld.

Grim Reapers. Where did Oliver get this? Who wrote it? Hadley had never heard of the shadow being separated from the other parts of the soul in Egyptian lore. Though, she had to admit that it sounded a bit like the Mori specters. But how did Oliver associate the two things after seeing her specters for a few seconds? Part of her wanted to ask him, and another part—a part reinforced by her father’s admonitions over the years to keep the Mori secret—wanted to return the book and cut off all contact with the man.

Voices in the hall and a familiar booted gait dragged her out of her thoughts.

“If you don’t mind, I’m just going to say a brief word to Miss Bacall while you let her father know I’ve arrived.” Lowe’s blond head appeared in the doorway, soon followed by his long body. He was back to his smart leather jacket and held a herringbone flatcap in his maimed hand.

Good lord, he was dashing. Just looking at him made her heart cartwheel madly. Was he this handsome on Saturday? Surely not.

“Miss Bacall,” he said with a curling smile.

“Mr. Magnusson. What a nice surprise.”

He glanced over his shoulder into the hall then strode to her desk as she stood. “Is it?” he said in a lower voice, eyes glinting with a half-hidden infectious kind of teasing cheerfulness.

“Is it what?”

“A nice surprise to see me.”

She felt herself smiling and had to work to stop. “Perhaps it is.”

His own smile widened into a stunning grin. Her stomach fluttered so violently, she pressed a palm to her middle, as if she could physically calm it.