“Good.” Zara pushed the paper away, laid down her pen. “One week, Alison, and you’ve already done more than I imagined. Still want to argue that you shouldn’t have the job?”
Alison laughed. “I won’t doubt your wisdom in the future.”
“You probably will, but it’s nice to hear you’re trying.” Zara stood, indicating the meeting was over. “May I ask you something? It’s about Anthony, so feel free to say no.”
Alison froze. “What is it?”
“Do you know what he’s doing when he slips away, once or twice a week, and goes into the Humboldt district? I haven’t wanted to follow him, but…and I recall he used to go with you, so I thought I’d ask.”
“Oh. He goes to the theater. I took him once, early on, and he decided he likes it. Doyle—the manager—tells me he’s quite involved with their productions these days.”
“I see.” Zara now looked relieved. “I’m glad to hear he’s become so responsible. After he broke with that despicable friend of his, and sold his townhouse to move back here—”
“He sold the townhouse?” Alison’s heart sank. “He sold the books?”
Zara smiled. “He sold the house. He did not sell the books.”
Alison blushed at how intent she’d sounded. “But…what happened to them?”
“He had them boxed up and brought to the east wing. As far as I know, they’re still there.”
“Oh,” Alison said lamely. Why had he kept the books? Sentimentality? It certainly wasn’t because he liked reading. Some reminder of me, no doubt, she thought, and it made her feel uncomfortable and a little angry.
Zara said nothing about Alison’s abrupt silence. “Thank you for relieving my mind, Alison. I suppose I should take in a play sometime. Both of you are so avid, it makes me curious.”
“I’d be happy to have you join me, or perhaps it might be better if you went with Anthony,” Alison said, and then was surprised at how easily his name left her lips. It made her a little angry, as if she’d betrayed herself, and she ground her back teeth together.
“I think that is a splendid idea,” Zara said. “I’ll check my schedule and we can set a date.” Alison nodded, opened the door, and nearly walked into a young woman poised ready to knock. It reminded Alison so much of her encounter with Anthony in this room that she shied away more dramatically than was warranted, and then felt ridiculous about it.
The girl didn’t seem surprised at all. “Express letter for you, your Majesty,” she said, reaching past Alison to hand the Queen a sealed envelope. Zara turned it over and her lips tightened.
“Wait just a moment, Alison,” she said, beckoning to her to come back into the room and shut the door. Zara picked up a letter opener, slit the envelope, and removed its contents with two fingers as if it were a dead rat. She scanned the paper quickly, then held it out to Alison. “You might as well read this,” she said.
Alison read it, then read it a second time. “The Scholia Magisters are coming here,” she said. “To challenge Bancroft’s conviction.”
“And to reinstate him as Royal Librarian, unless I’m mistaken,” Zara said.
“I don’t understand. How can they do that?”
Zara stabbed the top of her desk with the letter opener, which stood quivering in it for a moment before falling over. “They can make a legal challenge on the grounds that the evidence against Bancroft is circumstantial, that there are no witnesses against him since we can’t produce Edwin or Baxter to testify. But that’s not what this is about. This is a challenge to the power of the Crown over the sovereignty of the Scholia. They want to be an independent entity operating within the borders of Tremontane, self-governing.”
“But that’s not possible.”
“I wish that were true.” Zara leaned against her desk. “I have no idea how many Scholia Masters hold positions of authority throughout the country, but there are many—far too many for my comfort, now—within the government. The Scholia has hinted that these men and women owe allegiance to the Scholia that overrides their allegiance to the government and that one word from them will recall all those Masters—that they would abandon their responsibilities without question. The Magisters might be bluffing, but if they’re not, it would cripple us. We’ve stayed in balance this long because the Scholia’s primary source of funding is the Crown, and because I can cry treason against anyone who forsakes their oaths in favor of the Scholia’s command. But if enough people go, it would be impossible to enforce that dictum.” She picked up the paper knife and ran her thumb along its blunt edge. “It’s disturbing, questioning the loyalties of people who’ve served the kingdom faithfully all this time.”
“That’s far more serious than I believed.” Alison hesitated. “Why are you telling me this?”
Zara gave her the blue-eyed stare. “Because your appointment is the fulcrum upon which all this swings. I usurped Scholia authority by naming you Royal Librarian. They’re using that to challenge me.”
Alison swallowed. “Maybe…maybe you should rethink that decision,” she said. “If it’s going to make you so vulnerable.” The idea of losing the Library filled her with dread.
The blue-eyed stare sharpened. “Alison Quinn,” Zara said, “my decision is final. Their complaint is a pretext to fight a battle that’s been brewing for longer than I’ve been Queen. I’m warning you because you’re going to come under fire too. I have no idea what power the Scholia can bring to bear on you, but they have far too much influence for a scholastic institution and I have no doubt they will use it to make their point. Control of the Royal Library is symbolic of their power. Be prepared to fight this battle.”
Alison nodded. She looked at the paper in her hand. Such an innocuous thing to bear such dire tidings. She handed it to Zara, who balled it up and tossed it into the cold fireplace. “Get back to work,” she told Alison. “The Masters will be here in three days. Heaven only knows what will happen then.”
Chapter Eighteen
“I can’t believe the difference water and soap makes,” Alison said. Spring sunlight poured through the clean windows, through which she saw a pale blue sky and a pair of birds tracing out an intricate dance across it.
“Water and soap and a particular Device, milady,” her crew supervisor said. “Easier than trying to get workers up there, I’ll tell you, and it’s more thorough as well.” The Device was a brass mop head attached to soft fibers that made a spinning disc when the Device was activated and went whirring around the windows, making a sound like a hundred bees vibrating against the glass.
“It must go through a lot of source, as fast as it goes,” Alison said.
“Not a problem,” the man said. “There are a lot of lines of power running through the palace, good thick ones too. Probably why they built it here in the first place. My Devisers say imbuing the motive forces that run those things is as easy as sniffing out a nexus, or listening for one, or however it is a particular Deviser senses source. I’d almost call it magic, if I didn’t know better.”
Alison knew the source that powered Devices was a kind of magic, but she said nothing. Devices were safe. You could turn off a Device, control it, but raw magic, even the kind of inherent magic Dr. Trevellian had, was a little frightening—too much like the power of the long-dead Ascendants who’d once dominated Tremontane. She and the supervisor stood at the top of the stairs, looking out over the Library. At ground level, the aforementioned workers scrubbed and repaired the stone floor from which Alison had removed all the piles of books. The scriptorium, with all the books she’d moved into it, was starting to look like a library itself, and she’d had a lock installed on that door as well.
Yesterday she’d finally faced the cruel reality that the catalog wasn’t coming back and that she was stuck with recreating it. She’d gritted her teeth and examined the stacks in detail, trying to work out the system Bancroft had used to organize it, but nothing rational emerged. Pacing between the shelves, she’d cursed him again, but her heart wa
sn’t in it. She knew from her time in the Scholia that librarians sometimes invented odd ways to organize their libraries, but she considered that selfish because it invariably meant the librarian was the only one who could find anything and therefore became indispensable. And if the librarian died or ran away or got arrested for embezzlement and theft, the system was useless. She briefly considered asking Bancroft, still locked in his tiny cell, what his system was, but decided she would rather chew glass than go crawling to him. After half an hour, she gave up. She would have to start from scratch. She tried not to think about how long that would take.
Today she left the workers to their scrubbing and returned to the scriptorium, where Declan and Gwendolen were running the heater/dehumidifier Device and Trevers was vainly trying to match books to the acquisitions logs. “Give me your attention for a moment, please,” she said. “Trevers, you’ve been doing a wonderful job, but it’s time to direct our efforts elsewhere. Declan, if you wouldn’t mind moving the Device to the librarian’s desk, and Gwendolen, take that book you’re working on.” They were irradiating the dampest and most mildewed books, a process Alison hated because it further damaged the books, but she reasoned it was better to halt the destructive process of the damp than worry about heat damage.
“I’m officially giving up on trying to determine which books Bancroft stole,” she said. “We’re moving forward, and that means working out what we still have. Which of the three of you is the best reader? Good at deciphering handwriting?” They glanced between each other, and Gwendolen raised her hand. “Gwendolen, give Trevers that book. You men gather up the ones that need treatment and move them to the librarians’ desk. Gwendolen—thank you—get paper and ink and a couple of good pens. We have to start sorting.”
Once she had something to focus on, the job went quickly. Group by subject. Group by author, if possible. Make a judgment call when the subject wasn’t obvious. Divide fiction from fact and poetry and drama from both. Alison and Gwendolen hauled book after book to desk after desk. Alison tried not to think about how many books the Library had, but her mind insisted on doing calculations and coming up with absurdly high numbers. This was going to take years. Alison wiped sweat from her forehead and surreptitiously scratched under her arm. The workers, finished now, trooped through the scriptorium. She probably should have kept a few to do the hauling. She wiped her forehead again and stopped to free her hair from its band and bind it more securely out of the way.
“I must say, Alison, I didn’t realize you thought being a librarian meant taking the books for a walk,” said a voice from the doorway. Alison spun around. She knew that voice.
“Henry,” she said, and flung herself at him, not caring that the apprentices were all staring at her open-mouthed. “Sweet heaven, it’s good to see you. You got my letter.”
“Eventually,” Henry Catherton said. She released him and stepped back to look at her former professor and friend. His dark red hair had some gray in it, as did the short beard he’d grown since she last saw him, but he was as lean and, as she knew from their embrace, as strong as ever. “Your vague missive left me so curious I had to come,” he continued. “Little Alison Quinn—” she punched him on the arm, and he grinned at her—“all grown up and running the Royal Library.”
She grinned back. “You want to see it?”
It looked so much nicer now than it had when she’d first seen it, brightly illuminated thanks to the clean windows and the light Devices, with the floor washed and repaired and the piles of books on the floor removed. “It’s still a mess,” Alison said, looking at Henry’s dismayed face; some of those piles had been dumped on whatever shelf was handy rather than being removed to the scriptorium, and a lot of those big gaps hadn’t been filled. She felt defensive, ready to counter whatever criticism Henry might have of her beloved Library, but he only sighed.
“I don’t mind telling you I never liked Bancroft,” he said. “He only took the robe because his sister donates heavily to the Scholia. No surprise his only interest in books turned out to be financial. Have you gotten any of them back?”
“A few. No way of knowing how many are still missing. I’ve decided to give up on finding them for now, since I have to recreate the catalog anyway.”
“Why?” She explained. He cursed. “Alison, that is…I don’t know if you realize how much of a challenge that will be.”
“I don’t want to know, because it has to be done. I don’t mind telling you I’m out of my depth,” she said. “I could use your advice. The position of assistant librarian is open, if you want it.”
“I want it. I’ve been working as a translator for Struthers & Fine for the last year.”
“You were in Kingsport this whole time and I never saw you?”
“I didn’t want any reminders of who I’d been.” He gazed out over the stacks. “Tessa’s dead, Alison. Died in childbirth two years ago.”
She caught her breath, her chest tightening as if she’d been punched. “Henry, I’m so sorry.” Once Tessa had been her best friend, her confidante. Alison had been there when Tessa and Henry fell in love, had suffered with them when Henry had lost his robe and been booted from the Scholia for marrying a student. She didn’t know how her friendship with Tessa had faded, but she regretted more than ever not keeping up the connection. “I wish I’d known.”
Henry shrugged. “There are a lot of things I wish I’d done differently.” He smiled ruefully. “But I’ve come to terms with her death and…honestly, Alison, I never thought I’d have a chance at my real profession again. You’re sure the Queen understands what it means that she’s hiring non-Scholia librarians?”
“Zara understands it better than either of us, I imagine.” She turned and went back into the scriptorium, Henry following her. “And I’ve decided to leave fighting that battle to her for now. She’s…well, wait until you meet her.”
“Good heaven, Alison. Royal Librarian and on first-name terms with the Queen. If you told me you were secretly the heir to a Veriboldan fortune, I’d believe you.” He took her arm and swung her around to face him. “Do you love it? All this?”
Joy replaced the tightness in her chest. “I do,” she said with a brilliant smile, “I really do.”
Henry’s smile widened to match hers. “It suits you,” he said. He let go of her arm and said, “Put me to work, chief.”
Alison surveyed his clean trousers, fine white shirt and waistcoat. “First I think we should find you a place to stay, and a place to change out of your nice clothes. This is a much dirtier job than I’m sure you’re used to.”
Henry swiped his thumb across one of her cheekbones. “I can tell,” he said, displaying a smudge.
The process of finding quarters for Henry went quickly, now Alison knew whom to go to. She left him to settle in and decided to formalize his appointment by arranging to draw his salary from Finance. Henry would never complain, but as clean as his clothes were, they were also three years outdated and somewhat worn. She decided to try to get him a hiring bonus as well.
“Assistant librarian? Certainly. But the budget still hasn’t been finalized, after the whole…” the Finance department chief’s secretary said. He looked as if he’d bitten into an apple and come up with half a worm. “So you’ll need Mistress Unwin’s signature for a lump sum withdrawal.” He pointed down the hall. “She’s handling business right now, but I’ll ring her and let her know you’re waiting, if you’ll just go down there.”
The waiting room was larger than Zara’s office, lined with fifty-year-old wingback chairs that had been reupholstered five years ago, judging by the pattern of the lime green brocade. Alison was the only person in the room. She sat and kicked her heels against the chair’s thick legs, feeling bored and slightly regretting her impulsive, generous decision. Henry might see it as charity. He’d always been a proud man, one who stuck to his principles even when it meant he lost the job he cared about more than almost anything in the world. Maybe this was a bad idea.
She kept her eyes resolutely forward. Don’t be silly, she told herself, he’s going to walk right past you, you can’t turn invisible. She was still blotchy. The boots stopped. “Good afternoon, Countess,” Anthony said. He didn’t sound embarrassed or upset. Damn him.
“Good afternoon, your Highness,” she replied, glancing at him briefly. He was looking out the narrow window, the light coming through its blue and green stained glass making him look washed out.
“Are you here to see Mistress Unwin?” he asked.
“I am.”
The silence stretched. Finally, Anthony said, “Thank you for the loan of your box. Now you’re in town, I will be sure to engage my own.”
“I’m pleased you made such good use of it,” Alison lied. She added, after a moment, “Doyle says you’ve become quite the fixture at the theater.”
“I enjoy the company,” Anthony said.
Silence descended again. Alison stared at Mistress Unwin’s door. What was the woman up to in there? Having her dinner? Taking a nap? “Are you waiting on Mistress Unwin as well?”
“I have some reports for her. She’s my chief.”
“I didn’t realize you were working in Finance.”
Servant of the Crown (The Crown of Tremontane Book 1) Page 24