She looked longingly at the High Table, while Duck and Blake bickered.
"But she can't come," Blake was still complaining. "Professor Jolyon invited me. It's my name on the invitation, not hers." He knew he was whining, but couldn't stop himself.
"I know it is," said his mother wearily, "but it's the least you can do after last night. I need to finish some work in the Bodleian Library and it would be convenient — kind — if you looked after Duck for a few hours. After all, I was hardly able to stick to my normal routine this morning…"
Blake shook his head and groaned. It was like this every day. He was always taking care of his little sister — even when he wasn't guilty of sleeping in or sneaking away at night.
They queued in silence to receive servings of steak and kidney pie from a hatch near the kitchen and then followed Duck to a table she had chosen in the middle of the room, next to a section that had been roped off for members of the Ex Libris Society. A gallery of wasp-waisted women in bejeweled dresses and Puritanical men in dark robes with wan, preacher-like complexions stared at them from the walls.
His mother poured them each some water from a jug on the table. All of the glasses were stained and scratchy, but she chose the cleanest ones.
Blake could tell that something was troubling her, something even more significant than his behavior, for she swirled the water in her glass for a moment, blending her thoughts in its vortex of reflections. Then, in a slow, serious voice that was more solemn than any tone she had used before, she said, "This morning, Mrs. Richards told me that someone had disturbed a number of books in the library last night. Not just disturbed them — attacked them, ripped them to shreds."
She settled the glass on the table and fixed him with her eyes. "Blake, please tell me you don't have anything to do with this."
Duck was watching him closely, chewing with her mouth open.
Blake was appalled by the insinuation. "Of course not!" he spluttered, his face flaming with anger and humiliation. He glanced at a painting of Nathaniel Hart (1723-1804), a lugubrious man in a clerical coat with a woolly wig on his head. His portrait seemed to be hanging over him in judgment.
"Blake, look at me."
Blake forced his eyes back to the table. "No, I don't know anything about it," he said more forcefully.
"This is serious, Blake," she said, tapping her tray with her finger. "Are you sure you didn't see anything on your walk last night?"
He could hear suspicion lurking just behind her words and turned away. "No, I swear I don't know who did that," he said, fighting to keep his voice under control. "I didn't see anyone downstairs in the library, OK?"
At once he realized his mistake. He'd admitted to being in the library. The truth had slipped out before he could prevent it, and he took a swig of water to hide his confusion.
His mother closed her eyes in despair. "Oh, Blake," she said. "I sincerely hoped you wouldn't be caught up in this."
He looked up, surprised. What did she mean?
He glanced at Duck, who had discovered a piece of kidney on her fork and was picking it off with fussy fingers.
His mother shook her head.
"Look," he said, feeling flustered. His temples were throbbing and his face turning a brighter shade of scarlet. "I'm sorry I worried you, OK, but I honestly don't know what happened to the books! I was upstairs at the time. I was trying to fetch the cat, which had slipped in after me."
Duck looked at both of them expectantly.
His mother sat silently for a while. "Well, just in case," she said after a long, pregnant pause, "I think it would be better if Duck accompanies you this afternoon. Perhaps she can teach you a thing or two about responsibility."
Duck cheered happily, but Blake groaned inwardly and stabbed at his food with his fork. A ring of gravy had congealed around the edges of his plate and the forest of overcooked broccoli had wilted and turned cold. He bashed at the brain of puff pastry covering his pie.
When at last he looked up, he was annoyed to find Prosper Marchand swaggering towards them. A silver skull dangled from one of his earlobes.
"So these are your two?" said the professor wit a specious grin, patting Duck familiarly on the head. Instinctively, she raised the hood of her coat and turned her face away, scowling. "They look like quite a handful."
The curly-haired professor, still in his leather jacket, winked at Blake. Coldly, Blake slid his tray across the table, his appetite gone.
Juliet Winters ignored the remark.
"He really is the spitting image of his father, you know," continued the professor, unfazed. "So how is Christopher, anyway?"
Blake stiffened.
"Fine," responded Juliet Winters tersely, her shoulders tense. "The same."
"Ah, I see," said the professor. Without warning, he crouched down beside her and whispered something in her ear that Blake couldn't quite catch. His leather jacket flexed its slippery muscles. As Juliet Winters listened, she flicked a strand of gray hair away from her eyes. The unconscious, girl-like gesture irritated Blake and he coughed.
Like a vampire interrupted mid-bite, Prosper Marchand glanced up. "Don't worry, I'm simply inviting your mother to coffee." His smile gleamed with polished teeth. "It's perfectly innocent. You're welcome to come too, if you like."
Blake tried to outstare the professor, but lost.
"So how about it then?" continued the man, victorious, turning towards Blake's mother. "Three o'clock, the old place?"
Blake felt a sudden swell of anger and resentment inside him. He opened his mouth to protest but caught his mother checking her watch. She looked at both children and then quickly away. Duck stared back at them from behind the rim of her hood, her face inscrutable.
"OK," she agreed. "Just coffee."
"I wouldn't dream of anything else," remarked the professor suavely, and strutted across to the section that had been cordoned off for the members of the Ex Libris Society.
More than sixty scholars, of varying age and nationality, were now assembled there, avidly discussing books. Blake could hear the rumble of voices in the air. Dressed in almost identical turtlenecks and khakis, they resembled hunters preparing for an expedition — although they were armed with bifocal glasses and catalogs of rare books instead of arms. Still, Blake didn't trust them. He knew from his mother the lengths scholars would go to to protect their interests.
He looked daggers at the professor's back. "But what about—"
"I'm sure Jolyon won't mind looking after you for a little longer," answered his mother calmly. "If not, I'll meet you as usual in the college library."
11
Blake paced up and down the long passageway outside the Old Library. A cold rain pattered softly against the leaves of the plane tree growing in the enclosed garden beside him, and a chill breeze roamed the stairwells like a ghost. Hunched wooden doors led at intervals into secret rooms all along the cloisters.
There had been no response when he'd hammered on the solid oak door just a few minutes ago and he was beginning to despair that Jolyon had forgotten his invitation. Restlessly, he began to trace his fingers along the rows of jagged teeth carved around the entrance, glancing idly at the monk-faced figures hunched in the corners of the dark, beamed ceiling.
At that moment, a rush of footsteps rounded the corner and Jolyon appeared, stooped and out of breath. He wore the same scruffy jacket and soup-stained tie as the night before.
"I'm sorry I'm late," he panted, towering over the children. "There was an incident in the library last night and Paula Richards asked me to assess the damage." His voice came out in stops and starts. "Another visit from our nocturnal book-breaker, I fear."
"Book-breaker?" asked Blake, confused.
He peered up into the man's face, which was as craggy as a cliff, but softened by tufted outcrops of hair. Deep, cuneiform lines surrounded his eyes.
"Scoundrels who tear books apart," wheezed the professor. "They rip maps and illustrations from old books and se
ll them for profit." He took another deep breath. "St. Jerome's, I'm afraid, has had its fair share of book-breakers through the years."
Blake averted his face. Unlike the professor, he suspected he knew exactly wha the culprit had been looking for.
If the man noticed his agitation, he didn't care to comment on it. "Never mind that now," he said lightly. "We have other things to discuss. More important things."
A charge of excitement, like electricity, flashed through Blake, riveting him to the spot.
Jolyon beamed down at him. "I'm delighted you could make it, my boy. And this, unless I am mistaken, must be your sister—"
"Duck," said Blake, introducing her. She was standing a little way off, gazing up at the glowering sky, her thoughts elsewhere. She had been strangely subdued since lunch. "But that's not her real name. Everyone calls her that because of the coat."
The old man acted as though the name and yellow raincoat made all the sense in the world. "I see, I see," he said happily. "I'm pleased to meet you, Duck."
She gave him a shy smile, as if uncertain whether or not to trust his jovial nature.
"I would have come alone," said Blake quickly, "only my mother told me to look after he. I hope you don't mind."
"It's quite all right, my boy, quite all right," said the professor agreeably. He tested a reassuring hand on Blake's shoulder, which sagged slightly under its gentle pressure. "Duck may have a part to play in this uncanny mystery of ours. She looks like an exceptional character."
Blake was grateful for the way Jolyon treated him like an equal, but was displeased to hear how his sister had already impressed him with her intelligence. She hadn't even said anything yet!
Before he could protest, the professor took an old-fashioned key from his trouser pocket and inserted it in the lock of the iron-slatted door. "Shall we?" he commenced.
Blake watched as the heavy wooden door creaked open. His face fell. In front of him was a short narrow passage, ending in a dusty, disused cupboard. A mop and bucket stood like sentries before it.
"Im afraid the Old Library doesn't get much use nowadays, except as a sort of glorified broom closet," said the professor sadly, sensing the boy's disappointment, "but I'm pleased to say that my office is still one of the best-kept secrets in the college." He tapped the side of his nose and winked. "This way."
Hidden in the shadows was a faded tapestry that parted in the middle to reveal a concealed staircase that curled up the wall to the top of the square tower. Already, the professor's legs were disappearing round the first bend, receding into the darkness.
"It's quite a climb," he called down from above, "but well worth it, I think you'll find. It used to be the chapter house, where the monks held their official meetings." His voice died to a whisper.
Blake didn't need a second invitation. He bounded up the stone stairs, taking them two at a time, feeling like a rock climber scrambling into the interior of a shell. Duck followed more cautiously, running her fingers along the uneven walls. She didn't like confined spaces and there was no rope or handrail to hold on to. She negotiated the slippery, timeworn steps with care.
Blake took a moment at the top to catch his breath and then let it out in an amazed gasp. It had to be the most magical room in Oxford! "Wow!" he exclaimed, gazing around him in wonder.
A single fluted column opened like an umbrella in the center of the room to support a low vaulted ceiling, which hung above them like an ornate spiderweb spun from golden stone. Small rounded windows provided aerial views of the college: a gargoyle-inhabited landscape of spires, battlements and slate roofs, capped by gathering storm clouds.
Like the man, the room was wonderfully shambolic. Books were everywhere: piled on desks, propped against table legs, placed under lamps and perched on stools. There were even books on the armchairs, like sleeping cats, and Blake wondered whether he was supposed to sit on them or push them politely aside. But where he was supposed to put them? There wasn't an inch of available space anywhere. Books lay strewn across the floor, as though they'd been hurled there in a whirlwind of reading.
Blake looked around for a place to hang his coat, but couldn't find one. Instead, he folded it neatly over his arm and clutched his knapsack close to his side. The paper dragon inside was still.
Jolyon volunteered to take Duck's raincoat, but she refused.
"She never takes it off," explained Blake, joining his sister on the sofa least obscured by books. He removed one or two volumes that were in his way and added them to a precarious pile on the floor. Jolyon sat opposite, on a wooden chair with clawed feet, rather like a throne, which made him look like a storyteller or a benevolent king. A stray spear of light from the window behind him silvered the edges of his body and made some of the books on the shelves gleam like gold.
"So what can you tell me about Endymion Spring?" asked Blake immediately, eager to learn the secret of the blank book he had found.
Here, in the study, the professor didn't seem nearly so agitated to hear the name. Yet if Blake was expecting a straight-forward answer, he didn't get one. The old man held up an ink-stained finger.
"Patience, my boy," he stalled him. "What I would like to know, first, is how you came to know of him. Did you overhear someone talking about him — your mother, perhaps?"
Blake shook his head. "No, she's never mentioned him before."
Jolyon seemed surprised. "Are you sure?"
Blake considered the question thoughtfully. "No…at least, I don't think so," he said, less certainly."
"How about at the dinner last night?" resumed the professor. "Someone there?" He asked this more carefully, as though the college might be full of interlopers, all plotting to get their hands on the book.
"No," said Blake, frowning and shifting slightly on his seat. He wondered why the man was asking so many strange questions. Perhaps he doubted a boy his age could find a book like Endymion Spring ? He decided to cut to the chase. "No, I found a book with his name on it in the library yesterday, but it wasn't an ordinary book, 'cause it didn't have any words in it. So I thought I'd ask you about it last night."
"Oh," said the professor. His voice was soft, barely audible. An evasive look crossed his face.
Confused by the man's reaction, Blake asked tentatively, "Is the book important," Professor Jolyon?"
The man observed him steadily for a long, silent moment and then nodded. "Yes, Blake, it is very important indeed."
Blake felt his skin shrink with foreboding.
Duck, impressed by the portentousness of the professor's tone, finally spoke up. "It had a magic spell inside."
"No, it didn't," Blake corrected her quickly. Then, under his breath, he added, "It wasn't a spell."
"More like a riddle, was it?" suggested Jolyon, raising a squirrelly eyebrow.
"How did you know?" Blake gazed at him in wonder, but the man was watching him earnestly, unwilling to divulge his secret.
"First, tell me how you found the book," he said, leaning forwards to make sure he missed none of the details.
Slowly, Blake began to tell him about the previous afternoon. He decided not to mention that he had been running his fingers along the shelves at the time, just in case the professor, like his mother, disapproved. He might even accuse him of damaging the books in the library last night — and he didn't want to get into more trouble.
"And could you read what was inside?" asked the professor as soon as Blake had finished his story. He studied the boy carefully. Blake's light blue eyes were as pale as ice.
"Well, sure," said Blake, thinking the answer was obvious. "I mean, I thought the book was blank at first, you know, but then I found some words in the middle of it, almost where you wouldn't expect to find any."
The professor leaned even closer. "And what did the message say?" he asked, with bated breath.
Blake bit his lip. He could feel the man's eyes boring into him. Seated on his throne, the professor reminded him of the scholars he had seen in the portraits
all over college. Everything hinged on his next response. Yet, despite his best efforts, Blake couldn’t remember the exact phrasing of Endymion Spring 's poem. The words eluded him.
"I don't know," he said at long last. He pulled at his collar, which seemed to be growing tighter. "I can't remember it very well. It had something to do with the seasons. The book was going to fall apart if something didn't happen." He scrunched up his face with the effort of concentration. "Only, I don't know what was supposed to take place. I can't remember the words precisely. They didn't make sense."
"And I didn't see them," said Duck, feeling this was important to mention.
"What, haven't you read the riddle again?" asked Jolyon anxiously. "Have the words already disappeared?"
Blake glanced down at his empty fingers. "I don't have the book any more," he confessed. "It's gone."
"Oh dear."
The man's voice dropped so low, it seemed to sink through the floor. Blake could feel the air of expectancy rush out of the room as though a book they had been enjoying together had been snapped shut, the story cut off in mid-sentence. Rain began to patter against the roof, increasing his sense of discomfort. The professor's office was clouded with gloom.
"I'm sorry," he started to say as thunder rumbled in the distance, but the man merely brushed his apology aside. Blake couldn't tell whether he was angry or just concerned. "I didn't know what to do," he resumed miserably, "so I put the book back on the shelf. I didn't think I was supposed to take it from the library."
"No, no, you were quite right," admitted the professor, staring at the book-strewn rug as though something of immense value had slipped through his fingers and he was searching for where it lay. He twisted his long legs broodingly.
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