“Fluctuat nec mergitur.”
“Is that Latin?”
“Yes. It’s the motto of Paris–something like, Tossed but not sunk. The French translate it a bit more prettily–She is tossed by the waves but she does not sink.” Then he looked at me. “We’ve all been tossed by the waves, haven’t we, little ‘un? The t-trick is not to sink…”
Justice hardly dared to breathe as feet clipped past her. Women’s feet, wearing stout walking shoes. Justice didn’t need her torch to identify the slim figure. It was Miss de Vere, wearing a black coat and hat. The headmistress ran down the stairs, her heavy shoes surprisingly light, and Justice heard the sound of a key in a lock. It must be the inner door. Yes, it made a soft, furtive click as it shut behind her.
The Diviners climbed through a back window, letting themselves into the shuttered Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult. The beams from their flashlights traveled across what had once been home but now seemed unfamiliar. The glare gave the library’s spiral staircase an otherworldly haze and reflected off the stuffed grizzly bear’s lifeless gaze.