Lena soon discovered that the layout of Zephyr House was arranged in wings along the cliff’s edge. She was in the main wing now, and she knew that the library sprawled to the north. If Mrs. Pollet hadn’t met her at the foot of the stairs, Lena realized, she would have had no idea how to find her way there.
“Mr. Beasley is not at home at the moment. He told me to take you straight to young Jimson in the library. But I expect you to learn your own way about before long.”
“I’m sure I will. I’m usually good with directions.”
But Mrs. Pollet, her long neck thrust forward, had already steamed ahead down a corridor that ran along the sea-facing side of the house. They passed the balcony where Jimson had shown her the solar machine and an assortment of other doors, mostly closed, that Lena longed to open. She saw nothing at all remarkable beyond a large gray spotted cat with one green eye and one blue. The cat joined their procession to the library, keeping step by their side like a dog.
“What an extraordinary cat!” Lena bent to scratch its chin, but it kept its distance, tail in the air.
“That’s Mrs. Mumbles. She has the run of the place and can do no wrong—according to Mr. Beasley. Can’t abide cats myself; they give me the willies.”
The cat gave her pointed shoulder a shake, and again Lena was reminded of a chicken fluffing its feathers. Mrs. Mumbles continued to pad with them right to the entrance to the library.
Without Jimson’s chatter, Lena was able to fully appreciate its bronze glory. There were two doors, each standing at least twelve feet tall. What caught her eye was the magnificent mechanism that spanned the doors. Gears and rods of polished brass covered the surface. In the very center of one door was what appeared to be a ship’s wheel made of highly polished wood. When Mrs. Pollet used both hands to turn the wheel, it rotated easily. Along the perimeter of the doors small bolts withdrew with a series of clicking sounds. Lena was mesmerized, but Mrs. Pollet and Mrs. Mumbles took it in stride, sailing through the open doors and into the library. Lena drew the notebook from her pocket and made a quick notation. Was this something the marshal would be interested in?
“She’s here, Mr. Jimson. And I hope she’s of some use to you.” Mrs. Pollet looked Lena up and down as if she was quite sure she wouldn’t be, and then she left.
Mrs. Mumbles stayed behind, leaping lightly onto a low bookcase and turning around once before settling into a contented ball of fur.
“Lena!” Jimson’s voice came from the top step of the rolling library ladder, where he sat with a large leather-bound volume open on his lap. “You won’t believe what I’ve found. Be right down.”
While Jimson backed down the ladder rungs, Lena looked around in alarm. The library had been upended. Stacks of books were perched on every flat surface, the lopsided piles threatening to tumble and knock over one of the hand-carved chessboards or bury the display of Pygmy blow darts. “What’s happened?” she asked nervously, turning in a circle to survey the entire room.
“I’m just rearranging things according to Mr. Dewey’s system. It is rather a mess, I suppose.” Jimson looked at the teetering towers of books and scratched his head. “But look what I’ve got here!”
Lena climbed over a short stack of magazines, trying her best not to knock against any of the precarious piles as she made her way to the base of the ladder. Jimson had a smudge of gray dust across his cheek, and his hair was in disarray, as if he’d been running his hands through it all morning. “What is it?” she asked.
“It’s a book of maps by a fellow named Johnson. They’re from all over the world. This one is of Holland and Belgium.”
Lena peered over his shoulder. The maps were depicted with considerable detail and color. The map was dated 1867, and an ornate border ran all around the edge. “It’s beautiful.”
“I’ve always wanted to see the world, but this might be the closest I ever come.” He looked around the library. “I’m really glad you’re here. This organizing business is harder than I thought it would be.”
“Especially if you open every book you need to catalogue. Maybe we should start with one section at a time, with one category of book.”
“I knew you’d be worth your weight in gold!” Jimson closed the atlas with a snap. “I’ve got all the instructions copied over here somewhere.” He sorted through the stack of papers blanketing his desk. “By the way, Mr. Beasley had a desk brought in for you.” He gestured toward a beautiful little walnut desk across from his.
Lena was inordinately pleased to have her own desk. She ran one gloved hand across its smooth surface and sighed. The lack of clutter on its surface was calming.
“And one more surprise!” With a flourish, Jimson lifted the cover off a gleaming black Sholes and Glidden Typewriting Machine. “It types both uppercase and lowercase. We’re to do all the labels and files on it. And Mr. Beasley’s modifications will make it easier for you—for anyone.” A slight flush spread up his neck.
There had been a typewriter at the library in the City for a brief period of time, but it typed only uppercase letters and was so loud that it couldn’t be used when there were patrons in the building. The keys stuck more than they worked, and it was returned within a month of purchase. But this one was nothing like that. There were no decorative decals on the body. The body itself was larger and more open, and brass pistons and valves rose from behind the keys.
“See, a boiler in the basement provides steam to this outlet. This tube connects the machine. It takes hardly any pressure at all to push the keys.” Jimson looked at Lena’s hands. She didn’t care how the machine worked; she was itching to try it.
“It would probably work best without your gloves.”
Lena hesitated and looked up at Jimson’s encouraging eyes. She remembered ungloving her hands on the train and how Jimson had studied her long fingers with such intensity. Now, in the daylight, the intimacy of that moment was gone.
Laughing, Lena elaborately tossed each charcoal glove across the empty surface of her desk. She wiggled her fingers, relishing their freedom. Then she gently tapped the keys. They responded to the lightest pressure, and she imagined her fingers flying across the letters.
By noon they had made some progress using Lena’s suggestions of working with one category at a time. Because it took her so long to find letters on the keyboard, the process of typing was much slower than she had imagined. The machine wasn’t much quieter than the older model, but the keys responded so easily that Lena decided it would become useful once she had had time to practice. Jimson, she concluded, was enjoyable to work with and quite fast as long as he could keep from inspecting every book he handled. And he kept her laughing.
Mrs. Pollet brought them lunch on a tray—sandwiches and small cakes with a pot of tea. She left them with dire warnings of what would happen if a crumb or sticky finger left a mark on any book. Mrs. Mumbles uncurled herself and came to investigate, sniffing delicately at the sandwiches and then turning her nose up and flicking her tail in disgust. She rubbed against Jimson’s trouser leg, and a deep rumble started from somewhere within the depths of her gray fur. It was unlike any cat purr that Lena had ever heard. It was the sound of muttered words.
“Like a person mumbling something you can’t quite catch,” she said as she looked down at the arched back of the cat.
“Exactly. That’s why she’s called Mumbles.” Jimson stretched out and leaned back until his chair rested on two legs. “You’ve made quite a difference, Miss Mattacascar. Anyone would think you’d worked in a library before.”
“I guess it comes from being a librarian’s daughter. I always loved the way everything was ordered on the shelves. After the patrons went home, when my mother was finishing up her work, I’d put the returned books back on shelves. It was almost as if I could hear the books whispering their stories to one another. I told my mother that and she just looked at me like she didn’t understand, but it was my favorite time in the library.” She didn’t add that many nights she h
ad worried that this was a goblin thought invading her rational mind.
“I used to work in my father’s store, and I hated it,” Jimson replied. “He sold farm equipment mostly, but also all kinds of dry goods. In the back he had an old globe that no one ever bought. What I’d do when everyone was gone at night was I’d spin that globe, close my eyes, and drop my finger on it. Whatever country my finger was pointing to when it stopped, that was where I pretended I’d explore. And now I’ve made it as far as Knob Knoster.”
“So you didn’t want to be a storekeeper?” Lena blew gently on her tea.
“Thought I’d die if I had to. But all I’ve got are sisters, so it was expected that I’d take on the family store. I’m not a merchant. I can’t see spending my whole life in Northerdam.” He dangled a bit of string in front of Mrs. Mumbles, who gave it a few swipes with her paw before retreating and deciding it was time to groom her fur.
“So how did you get away?”
“It wasn’t easy. My father made a deal with me. If I agreed to marry Pansy, then he would let me go.”
Lena set her teacup down with a clatter and tea sloshed into the saucer. “You’re engaged?”
“Technically, I suppose so.” Jimson chewed his lower lip. “She’s our family’s ward, a friend of my sister Polly. Her parents died, and we took her and her twin brother, Randall, in a few years ago because they had no other relatives.”
“But do you want to marry her?” Lena was not at all in favor of arranged marriages. And her chest felt strangely constricted.
“Well, I suppose that I’ll have to marry sometime. And it’s a long way in the future. She’s pretty, and she’s nice enough.” He shrugged, but Lena noticed that he didn’t meet her eyes.
“That’s not how I would want someone to feel about me if I was going to get married.”
“Don’t be overly romantic. You’ve read too many books. Most marriages are just a business contract anyway. It’s for the survival of the species and society.”
“That’s a horrid way to look at it.” Lena stood up. Why did she feel so angry? “I don’t think Pansy would look at it like that.”
“I don’t see why it should upset you. You don’t even know her. Besides, if I marry Pansy, Randall can take over the store. There’s nothing he likes more than counting money, and it would remain in the family, so to speak. That’s how the deal works. The store has always been in the family. Father knows I have no interest in it. When Pansy and I are married, Randall will be my brother-in-law as well as the family’s ward. Of course, it would be even better if Randall married one of my sisters. I know how my father’s mind works. And then I would be free to do something more interesting, like seeing the world.”
“Does Pansy want to see the world too?” Lena’s voice ratcheted louder and she tried to soften it.
“I never talked to her about it. But girls generally aren’t interested in things like that.” He looked truly puzzled, Lena thought.
“Perhaps you should ask her. She should have some say in her life, don’t you think? I’d like nothing better than seeing the world, and as far as I know, I’m a girl.”
“Not an ordinary girl.”
“What do you mean by that, Jimson Quiggley?” She could feel the heat rise in her face. She could picture Nana Crane smiling smugly and nodding in agreement with Jimson.
“I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t mean . . .” He cast a desperate glance at her hands and feet. “I just meant that you’re nothing like my sisters or Pansy. All they talk about is marriage and clothes. You have some peculiar ideas.”
That was the very worst word Jimson could have chosen. Lena slammed a typing machine key so hard that she winced. Maybe it was only goblin women who were restless and wanted to see the world. She didn’t know.
“I didn’t mean ‘peculiar’ in that way. You know I don’t even believe in that nonsense. It was supposed to be a compliment.”
Lena clenched her jaw. “I think we had better get back to work.”
Jimson seemed only too happy to escape back into books. A chill had entered the room. Lena felt it working its way up the back of her neck. The camaraderie, so easy before, was now off balance. Why should she care what Jimson did? She was there to get a job done, and it wasn’t her business to tell him how to live his life. Pansy . . . What kind of a name was that?
At his desk, Jimson worked steadily, sorting through books, whistling a tuneless song.
The sun was slanting toward the west when Lena noticed the whistling had stopped. A cramp ran from her shoulder to her neck from hunching over books. Her fingers had grown numb from the typing machine. Looking up, she saw Jimson slowly turning the pages of a loose-leaf sketchbook. He ran his hand over his face and let out a low whistle. “Lena, look at this.”
She was glad to get up, glad to have an excuse to talk to Jimson again, but her feet were stiff and she stumbled with the first few steps.
The sketchbook contained ink sketches of people, each carefully labeled. They looked like the medical drawings in her doctor’s office. One page was given over to a sketch of the arm, hand, and fingers with each bone meticulously identified. But other drawings were more disturbing. There was one of a person the size of a child with a large head and full beard labeled CLINICAL DWARFISM, APRIL 3, 1859. The next showed a tall, exceedingly thin woman sketched from the front. To Lena’s embarrassment, the woman wore no clothes. On the same page, the woman was also shown from the back. From each shoulder blade hung what appeared to be a small crumpled leaf. In the same neat hand ANNUNCIUS SYNDROME was carefully labeled and underneath it was dated October 12, 1862.
“What’s attached to her back?” Lena pointed to the crumbled growth. “They look like shriveled wings.”
“I don’t know. These all look like some kind of medical drawings.” Jimson flipped forward a few more pages. “It’s Mr. Beasley’s writing. These must be his drawings.”
“Well, he used to be a practicing physician,” Lena said.
“I know. He still helps out some poor folk that come around. But have you ever seen anything like these? They look like something out of nightmares or old fairy tales.” He pointed to a sketch of a boy with a forked tongue.
Lena’s heart beat faster. She had never seen anyone who looked like any of these drawings, but what if . . . The thought was unbearable. She grabbed for the sketchbook, jerking it out of Jimson’s hands. Loose pages spilled out.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Jimson looked at her in surprise.
“I—I—I just . . .” Lena had no idea what to say. She had reacted without thinking. What if they were medical drawings of Peculiars? Somewhere in the collection there might be a sketch of a goblin, a goblin with extremely long hands and feet. She riffled quickly through the pages. There were a few more technical sketches of the throat and palate, of the neck, but they were all on normal humans. There were too many sketches. She needed time alone with the sketchbook to look through it thoroughly.
“Why did you do that?”
“I’ve always thought that, maybe one day, I might be interested in medicine.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly. She was interested in medicine. Perhaps the interest had come from so many doctor visits when she was young. “I’ve thought about becoming a doctor.”
Jimson’s eyes widened. “Well, that’s interesting. I never would have guessed it.” He moved to her side and stared down at a sketch of the pharynx. “Now, this is scientific. The rest are just monsters from fairy tales. We’ll have to ask Mr. Beasley about it.”
Lena snapped the cover shut. “Oh, no. We don’t want him to think we’ve been going through his personal papers.”
“He left the sketchbook right here in the library.”
“We don’t know if he did it on purpose. Perhaps it was just misplaced. I’ll put it on the library table, so he sees it first thing.” Anything to keep Jimson from looking through the rest of the sketches until she could see what else was in there. Besides, wasn’t this just what the marsh
al was hoping she’d find? Proof that Mr. Beasley was studying Peculiars? “No one wants employees who are snoops.” She didn’t meet Jimson’s eyes.
He ran his hand through his hair. “You’re certainly acting strange today.”
Lena straightened her shoulders and bit back a response just as the mechanism on the door slid open.
MRS. MUMBLES ARCHED HER BACK AND RAN TO THE DOOR, tail held high, as if she were expecting this visitor. The gangly form of Mr. Beasley appeared with a wooden box carried reverently in his large hands. The cat wound herself about his ankles so that he stumbled his way into the room.
“Mumbles!”
She meowed in protest at his clumsiness or at the sound of her name, Lena wasn’t sure which. Then the cat began a stream of steady mutterings.
Mr. Beasley carefully set the box on a long table. “How’s work progressing?” He eyed the piles of books and nodded approvingly at several sections neatly labeled and shelved. “She’s just what you needed, Jimson. Too big a job for one person. How have you got on, my dear? Is your desk adequate?”
The Peculiars Page 8