by Paul Glennon
For an hour, they sat on the carpet in the library and pored over the book together, arguing about where to ingress.
“Let’s let the book decide,” Norman suggested, putting the book down and yawning. The excitement of sneaking into the library had worn off and he was exhausted.
“Do they talk to you now, then?” Malcolm asked, not completely sarcastically.
“No, let’s just put it down and see where it opens.” He hadn’t really meant it when he’d first said it, but it was starting to sound like a good idea. Why not let the book decide?
Malcolm rubbed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. “And if it opens to John of Nantes running someone through with a sword?”
“Then I guess we’ll know not to trust the book to decide.”
Malcolm shrugged. It was worth a try. Norman closed the book solemnly and then placed it spine first down on the carpet. It flopped open to a page about a third of the way in. The boys read it eagerly.
Jerome lay awake in his tiny cupboard and watched the stars through the narrow slit that brought in the cool night air and what little light he had. San Savino was the only home he had ever known. For as long as he could remember, this sky had been the last thing he saw before falling asleep. He could not imagine it otherwise, but that was exactly what Sir Hugh and Father Lombard were suggesting. Something had changed with the visit from John of Nantes. Jerome had heard the shouting from his hiding place in the corridor behind Sir Hugh’s rooms, but had not been able to make out the conversation. Some threats were made, some accusations. Only now was he learning that the argument had been about him. But why? Why would the man they called Black John care about him? What was it that Sir Hugh and Father Lombard were keeping from him? There was a secret at the centre of Jerome’s life. Everything revolved around it. He himself was a secret, hidden away here in the library, but he was not even allowed to know the cause. He was a secret even to himself.
Now he was to leave the fortress—to leave the only home he’d ever known—and travel to the other side of the world. The caravan left in the morning. He had only this night to worry and fret, and he was using all of it. Godwyn would accompany him on the journey to England. That was some comfort, but otherwise he would be separated from everything and everyone he’d ever known.
“This won’t work. It’s after Nantes visited the castle, after he captured you. You’re already tied up in the tent outside. The attack will start any minute.”
“Let’s try again.”
Norman closed the book and once again placed it down on the carpet spine first. Once again they watched it flop open.
“Same page!” Malcolm cried when he saw where it had opened. “Try again.”
They performed the test again and again. Each time, the book opened to the same page. Boy and stoat exchanged significant looks.
“When this book decides something, it doesn’t change its mind,” Malcolm concluded.
Norman nodded and gulped. “I guess this is it, then.” His hand hovered over the page. To be honest, he felt a little uncomfortable about eating a page from this book. If it was as rare as Kit claimed—if all the other copies were locked away somewhere—they might be destroying the last available copy. Norman was afraid of losing his ingress, but more than that, he felt guilty removing a book from the world. And it was his mother’s favourite, after all.
He got a firm grip on the page and prepared to give it one good tug to get it over with, like yanking a tooth or pulling off a bandage. He even closed his eyes. But still, he couldn’t do it. Closing the book again, he considered his options.
“Let’s try this,” he said, opening the book to the first page again. “We’ll copy it out, but we’ll use the book’s own paper. That’s as close as I dare come to eating a real page.”
The closest thing to a blank page was the fly-leaf on the inside of the front cover. The inscription was on one side, but the other was entirely blank.
“Let me,” Malcolm offered, whipping out his sword. Norman nodded for him to proceed, and the stoat king went to work. He made quick work of it, running the blade along the edge of the paper, closer to the stitched seam than Norman would have been able to. The cut was clean and straight. The book appeared undamaged. If you didn’t know that the page was supposed to be there, you would never know it was missing.
“Well done,” Norman told him, and he set about copying the page they’d selected, or rather the page that had selected them. “I wish Esme was here,” he said when he was about halfway through. “Her handwriting is so much better.”
“And smaller,” Malcolm agreed. “Your chicken scratch is an insult to chickens.”
Norman ate the page right there, still sitting on the rug in the library. There was no point waiting.
“What’ll we do with the book, then?” Malcolm asked as he watched Norman laboriously chew and swallow the page. “Should we put it back?”
Now that they’d finally found it, Norman didn’t like the idea of letting it go. “There’s still some room in the knapsack.”
“You’re turning into a right paper hoarder, aren’t you? I have to be careful now in here. I’m liable to die of a paper cut.” But Malcolm made some room for The Secret in the Library among the granola bars, rabbit baking and various loose sheets of paper.
Back in Norman’s room, they both waited for sleep to come to them. They’d thought that if they woke up and did the book-eating business in the night, they’d save a day waiting for the bookweird, but the whole plan depended on them being able to fall asleep again before dawn. Only minutes ago in the library, they had both been yawning and rubbing their eyes. Now, knowing where they were going and what they might find there, sleep didn’t come so easily.
The sound of Malcolm fidgeting in the knapsack told Norman that he wasn’t the only one struggling to get back to sleep. “Funny,” he said. “Jerome is lying awake and worrying right now too.”
“I never could sleep the night before a battle,” Malcolm replied, his voice muffled by the canvas of the bag.
“If we’re lucky, we won’t have to fight.”
“Aye, and we’ve been famously lucky so far,” the stoat replied. There was a long silence before he said anything else. “Besides, I’m spoiling for a fight myself.”
That was the last thing either of them said, but it was still a long while before they managed to return to sleep.
San Savino
The scent gave it away—the smell of old wood, books and dust, and beneath that, the dry smell of the desert. They had done it. The room they had woken up in was completely without light, but there was no doubt that it was San Savino. That scent of Jerome’s desert hideaway was unmistakable.
A rustling of paper and canvas was all that gave Malcolm away. Even this close, Norman could not see him, unless perhaps that was the glint of moonlight reflecting off the blade of his sword. Norman felt the stoat before he heard him again, just a gentle tug on his arm that told him Malcolm was climbing up to his shoulder, then the swish of his tail on his neck.
“We’re not alone,” Malcolm whispered in his ear. “Wait here while I circle round.”
Norman remained as still and silent as possible while the stoat reconnoitred the room. Malcolm’s hearing and night vision were much better than his. Already the stoat was proving his usefulness. Norman would never have known there was someone else in the library with them. But who was it? Was it Brother Godwyn, finishing up for the night? Surely Godwyn would carry a candle, unless he had come here to sleep, guarding Jerome’s hiding place. Norman fervently wanted to believe this. He did not want to believe that there was another intruder in the castle, one of John of Nantes’s spies or assassins skulking around in the dark, perhaps. Where was Malcolm? He certainly was taking his time.
It seemed ages before he heard Malcolm speak. Then it was so sudden and so fierce that it made Norman jump a little.
“Who goes there?” the stoat demanded. “You, lurking in the dark corner—reveal yo
urself.”
There was no reply. The only sound Norman could hear was his own breathing. Maybe Malcolm was wrong? Maybe they were alone in the library after all.
“Declare yourself and your purpose. Don’t think of running. I have a bead on you,” Malcolm threatened. It would not be an idle boast. Somewhere in the darkness, the stoat king was poised with an arrow between his knuckles.
There was the sound of movement somewhere to Norman’s right, the scrape of a shoe on the rough-hewn floorboards, so close he might be able to touch it. He gulped and felt his heart beat a little faster in his chest.
“You will not lay a finger on Jerome tonight,” Malcolm declared. The anger was building in his voice.
“Who’s this Jerome, then, and what makes you think I’d hurt him?” It was a girl’s voice, but so close that it still made Norman jump.
“Never mind that,” Malcolm pressed. “What is your name and your purpose?”
“Please don’t ’urt me, sir,” the girl begged. “I’m only Gwendolyn. You’ll ’ave seen me in the kitchens, per’aps.”
There was something about her voice that was not quite right. Norman couldn’t put his finger on it.
Malcolm did not let down his guard. “What are you doing up here, girl?”
“I only came up here on a dare. I was just curious about these books, is all. Please don’t, sir.” There it was again in her voice. The words were right, but her voice never cracked. She didn’t sound scared enough.
“Get yourself down to the kitchens, then, girl,” Malcolm commanded in his roughest voice.
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” she agreed meekly. “But only … who is Jerome, pray tell?”
It had been a mistake to mention him by name, but who was this girl who was brave enough to ask the question rather than scurrying back down to the kitchens?
There was only a moment of hesitation before Malcolm’s clever reply. “Jerome is my mouse,” he said. “If you were thinking of feeding him to one of those mangy cats you keep down in the kitchen, you can think again.”
But then she made her move. She might have had a chance, had her path to the stair been clear, but she could not have known that Norman was crouched just steps away from her. She ran right into him. He felt what might have been a forearm smash into his nose. The pain shot up his face into the top of his head, and he fell backwards uttering a low grunt. The girl’s limbs tangled with his, and they tumbled to the floor together. She let out a short squeal of pain as she hit the floor. Only then did Norman hear the arrow. What was Malcolm doing? It wasn’t like him to fire in anger.
“I’ve got her,” Norman yelled. “Hold your fire. I’ve got her.” He wasn’t absolutely sure he did have her, though. That felt like an ankle he’d grabbed. A swift back-heeled kick to his nose made him sure of it. He wrestled with the bony bundle of limbs in the dark. When she tried to rise, he heard her squeal again and he knew he’d managed to pin her somehow.
“Jerome, Jerome,” she cried out, “get up. They’ve come for you. Run!”
That was a surprise, to say the least. They heard the sound of wood scraping and of feet frantically hitting the floor. The kitchen girl was still writhing in his grasp, grabbing his ears and his shirt and struggling to free herself, so Norman couldn’t be completely sure what he’d heard when Jerome’s voice called out. It sounded like “Margaret.”
The light of a torch seemed to stop them all, and Jerome repeated what he’d said. “Margaret?”
Norman blinked and covered his eyes with his both his hands to protect them from the bright light of the torch. Beside him, the girl again tried to rise to her knees, but immediately she fell back down to the ground as if yanked by the hair.
“Margaret? Is that you? And Norman? Norman, I thought they’d got you. Didn’t the black knights take you?”
The scullery girl had scrambled out of Norman’s reach. She was struggling with something behind her head. It took him a moment to realize that she was undoing the long braid of hair behind her, the bow of which was pinned to the floorboards by a tiny arrow of rabbit manufacture. Now that she could see what was holding her down, she made quick work of untying the black ribbon that held her braid in place and pinned her head to the floor. She was poised to make another run for it, but she was still casting around to see where her attacker was. Expecting a human archer, she would not have seen the little flash of movement as Malcolm ducked behind a chest.
“Wait—Margaret?” Norman said, slowly coming to his senses. “You said your name was Gwendolyn.”
“But it’s Margaret, Norman,” Jerome said, lowering his torch so that it wasn’t in everybody’s eyes. “You know that. You told me you knew each other.”
It finally dawned on Norman. “M-m-ar … Meg?” he stuttered, starting with one name and finishing with another. He had not expected her to be here, and yet here she was: his mother as she’d looked at his age, or maybe a few years younger. When she bookweirded into The Secret in the Library, Meg was always the age she was when she had first read it.
She jumped to her feet. Now that he could see her face, he could recognize her features: the same pointy nose, the same straight brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, the same thinly pursed lips, the same furiously blazing eyes. This was exactly how his mother looked when she delivered an angry lecture.
“I don’t know what this lackey told you, but I’ve no idea who he is. He’s probably one of Nantes’s men. You should report him to Sir Hugh immediately.” The scullery maid accent was gone now. She sounded exactly like herself. She stood protectively between him and Jerome and peered down on him accusatorily.
Norman couldn’t even begin to respond. He was dumbfounded. The bookweird had brought him face to face with talking unicorns and evil knights, but this had to be the strangest meeting of his whole life. He was looking at a childhood version of his own mother.
“Norman, you told me that you were Meg’s friend. You said that you knew her and Kit back in England.” The young librarian sounded more hurt than angry.
At the mention of Kit, Meg’s eyes narrowed even further. “Is that it? Did Kit send you? Are you Kit’s friend? I didn’t know he had any!” She had realized now that the archer, whoever he was, was gone, and she wasn’t afraid of confronting the boy alone.
“You don’t recognize me?” Norman asked.
“Why should I?” she demanded.
Norman realized his mistake: he’d assumed that this was the adult Meg returned as her childhood self, but in fact this was the true young Meg. “No, no. Let me explain.” He shook his head, not sure that he could explain. “I’m sorry, Jerome, but I lied.” He wondered where to begin.
The young archivist’s face was full of confusion as he glanced from Meg to Norman and then back again.
“I know Meg, but she doesn’t know me.” What could he say? He couldn’t just tell them that she was his mom. “I live in the neighbourhood. I guess I’ve always wanted to know her.”
Meg was having none of it. “That’s a lie. I know everyone for miles around the Shrubberies. I would have noticed even a little pipsqueak like you. What school do you go to?”
“Erm, I …” Norman caught a glimpse of Malcolm climbing the rack of parchments behind Meg and stumbled on his answer. “I go to boarding school at St. Edwards,” he blurted, naming the only British school he’d ever heard of.
Meg rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Right! With George Kelmsworth? Are you best pals with the Famous Five too?”
Truly worked up now, she leaned in close now and whispered angrily in his ear, “I don’t know what you think you’re up to, but you’d better get out of here fast. Tell your pal Kit that if he ever tries to meddle with my book again, I’ll rip up that favourite little bunny book of his.” Seeing Norman’s stunned face, she added, “Don’t worry. He’ll know what I mean. I know he still keeps his furry bunny book.”
Norman stammered, unable to get out a sensible response. It was so strange to hear his mother sound so
vicious and cruel. He knew she was only defending her friend, but it was still hard to take. He wanted to say, “Mom, it’s me, Norman. Don’t you recognize me?” but he knew it was an irrational urge. Instead he reached for his knapsack.
“Don’t you dare reach for a weapon.” She made a fist and waved it threateningly in his direction.
Norman did not know how to react to this version of his mother. If he closed his eyes and listened, it was his mother, but if he looked, it was just another bossy girl. She looked like an older version of Dora.
“Come on, Jerome,” she urged, pointing to the tiny arrow lodged in the floorboard. “That crossbowman has probably sounded the alarm. We’d better get out of here.”
Norman’s brain scrambled to catch up. The “crossbowman” was now rifling through ancient scrolls a few feet behind her. “Malcolm fired that arrow,” he explained breathlessly. “You remember Malcolm, don’t you, Jerome?” He stared pleadingly at the boy, who stood behind Meg with a gentle hand on her shoulder. He needed to get a grip on the situation, and he needed Jerome to believe him. “Malcolm shot the arrow. He won’t tell anyone.”
“Don’t believe another word this liar says,” Meg warned, tugging at Jerome’s sleeve.
“But she’s right,” Norman continued breathlessly. “We do need to get out of here. It can’t wait for the morning. John of Nantes is going to attack the fortress tonight.”
Meg gave him the evil eye and wrinkled her nose, but she took the time to check the little window at the end of the library. A gust of night air blew in as she opened the wooden shutter. Outside, the campfires of Nantes’s men burned at even intervals across the edge of the desert.
Up high on the shelf amongst the parchments, Malcolm held out his empty paws and shrugged.
“Black John thinks I’m you, Jerome,” Norman explained. “He thinks he’s captured you.”