Bookweirder (22 page)

Jenkins had expressed polite surprise when he’d first learned that some sort of talking weasel was joining them for dinner. He had bowed ever so slightly when Todd had introduced him as King Malcolm of Lochwarren, but Malcolm’s first act to Jenkins was to send regards from George. That Malcolm was a friend of the young master was more important to the old servant than his royal status.

Jenkins had asked if His Highness had any special dietary requirements. Malcolm had replied that yes, he did indeed. He needed to eat often and in great quantities, he’d said, letting out one of those peculiar stoat snickers that rippled his white belly. Jenkins had merely bowed and replied, “Of course, sir.”

Malcolm raised his head from inside the teacup and licked his lips. He squinted over the rim of the cup and regarded Todd as though he was a man who might try to steal the silverware. This could have been because Todd was the sort of man who
would
steal the silverware, and the entire house that contained it.

“Answer me this one question,” he demanded, as if it were a royal command. “Are you actually the Abbot of Tintern?”

Todd smiled and waved his teacup. “Can you ever really know who anybody is?” he asked mysteriously. “Is there a book somewhere that explains exactly who is who?”

Malcolm scowled at Todd’s evasion.

“You are George’s lawyer, Mr. Todd, but Norman here knows you also as Fuchs. Which are you?”

“Oh, I am most definitely Mr. Todd,” he replied solemnly, holding his teacup high in the air as if taking an oath.

“But was Mr. Todd always a thief and a usurper?” Malcolm asked, showing some fang.

“Well, I should take offence to being insulted in my own home,” Todd replied, but his face showed that he was anything but insulted. He looked merely amused. “I assure you that everything is as it should be. How could it be otherwise?”

Malcolm leapt from his chair to the table and strode across the tablecloth so he could stare Todd directly in the eyes.

“And if I were to sneak into Kelmsworth Hall tonight”—he paused and tapped the hilt of the rapier in his belt—“and sliced your throat, would we find your dead body at Lochwarren tomorrow morning?”

The lawyer blinked, taken aback by the suddenness and sincerity of this threat.

Norman was glad to see him ruffled a bit. “How about we just tell our friend the poacher out there that you are the one who bookweirded him out of New York?” he said.

The lawyer looked at Norman sharply. He quickly regained his composure, but kept glancing back and forth between the stoat and the boy, assessing them in a new light.

“I’m afraid the bookweird, like the law, is rather complicated, and I can’t expect children and stoats to understand it.” He smiled while he insulted them. “But perhaps there
is
something I can do to help.”

Norman and Malcolm exchanged wary glances. Neither was ready to take Todd at his word.

“Why’d you send us off after the map?” the stoat pressed. He focused his sharp woodland eyes on Todd, scrutinizing his face for signs of the fox abbot he knew. “Is it what Uncle Cuilean says? Is it really a treaty map?”

“Ah, yes, the map.” Todd tented his fingers again and pretended to remain uninterested. “You have retrieved the map?”

“First tell us why you want it,” Norman countered. “You don’t care about Malcolm’s treaty with the weasels. If you cared about Malcolm, you wouldn’t have let him get caught, and you’d have helped us out there.” He gestured towards the window and the folly outside. “You’d have fought with us.”

Todd looked down and fiddled with the stiff white cuffs of his shirt, making them even under his coat sleeves.

“Tell us why you want it,” Norman repeated.

“Or you’ll never see it,” Malcolm growled

Todd stopped playing with his shirt-sleeves and scanned the stony faces of the boy and stoat.

“Let’s just say that it’s an interesting artifact,” he began guardedly. “It has some peculiar properties.” There was another long pause. “I’d be interested in studying it.” Malcolm’s ears twitched with interest before the lawyer added, “If you’ll permit me.” He smiled obsequiously at the stoat.

The king’s lip lifted at the side to expose a fang, rather than returning the smile. “How ‘bout you stop talking,” he warned, seething through his teeth.

Todd attempted one of his smirks, but it did not have its usual effect.

Malcolm reached over his shoulder for his bow. He twanged the string experimentally.

Norman had never before seen Todd, in any of his forms, look at all rattled, but he flinched now. Everything Norman knew about dealing with adults he’d learned from his parents, and he knew that when adults looked weak or indecisive, you pressed your advantage.

“Return Kelmsworth Hall to George and send this poacher back where he came from, and maybe we’ll let you see the map.” It
wasn’t really within his right to offer this. He cast a glance to Malcolm, who colluded with the sort of quick wink that only a stoat can wink.

“Let me see the map first, then we’ll talk terms,” Todd replied snippily.

Norman hesitated just a moment too long in replying.

Todd drew himself up to his full height and placed his hands in front of him on the table. His moment of doubt had passed. “You don’t have the map.” The all-knowing smile returned to his long, pale face. “You didn’t find it.”

Norman didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. Todd read him easily.

“You know where the map is. You know where this person called Meg Jespers-Vilnius has hidden it. What seems to be the problem?”

“The problem is that this person called Meg Jespers-Vilnius is my mother,” Norman replied, suddenly tired of this and exasperated.

Todd dismissed the argument. “Interesting, but neither here nor there.”

“And Dupin says that if the clue is right, the map isn’t in ‘The Purloined Letter,’ ” Norman continued, happy to show Todd that he’d been wrong. “It is hidden
like
the purloined letter, with other maps.”

“Yes, of course,” Todd mumbled, annoyed that he hadn’t thought of it himself. He drummed his long fingers on the table, deep in thought. Suddenly his eyes widened. He pushed his chair back from the table and rose to his feet.

“Could it be …?” he asked, speaking to no one in particular. He began to pace. “Of course!” he concluded, answering his own question. “It’s so obvious.” Turning to the table again, he surveyed the two faces that looked up at him. “I believe we can come to an arrangement.”

Norman and Malcolm exchanged wary glances.

“Shall we use my
ingresso
this time?” the lawyer asked. “Yours doesn’t seem to allow passengers.” His eyes flicked from Norman to Malcolm, who scowled identical scowls.

“Right, then,” Todd continued. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll bring some writing materials.”

Boy and stoat sat quietly and waited, both impressed with their performance.

“I won’t let him send me alone,” Norman told his friend earnestly once Todd had left the room.”I’m not going anywhere without you.”

The stoat just nodded, his jaw set and his face full of conviction, as if he’d never doubted it.

The lawyer sauntered back into the dining room.

“How are your hands feeling? All loose and ready for a bit of dictation?” he asked breezily. He slid several sheets of thick writing paper across the dining table.

Norman frowned when he read the letterhead: Radisson University, the university where his father taught. This was paper from Norman’s world. He looked up to see Todd smirking back at him.

“I think six copies of the following paragraph should do the trick,” Todd continued. As he slid a glossy catalogue across the table to them, he sounded like a schoolteacher handing out punishment in detention.

Norman picked up the catalogue and began reading out loud.

“Listing number 202, the Shrubberies. Lovely traditional English cottage nestled in the woods adjacent to a well-stocked river. Easy commute to university and to National Trust–listed stately homes …”

“Norman, it will help if you think of someone back home as you write. Think of your dear old mum, perhaps. As for you, wee Malcolm,” Todd advised, changing his voice to the croaks and growls of the Abbot of Tintern, “just concentrate on your pal Norman here. He’s your connection. If you’re ready, the text today is a rental listing. I’m sorry we don’t have anything better.”

Norman had a few questions to ask. Where had Todd got this house catalogue? How did he know about the Shrubberies? Most of all, he wanted an explanation. He had always wanted to know how the trickster’s
ingresso
worked. But Todd interrupted him before he could ask anything.

“By the way,” he added, in that knowing way of his, “the book you are looking for is called
A Secret in the Library
.”

Malcolm just whispered the name of the book to himself, committing it to memory, as he licked the tip of his pencil eagerly.

Norman gave Todd a long, hard look before he too picked up his pencil and began to write.

“T
his looks a lot like George’s book. Are you sure we’re in yours?” Malcolm asked.

They lay beside each other on the bed in the Shrubberies. The orange fleece blanket was the same. The same pictures hung crookedly on the wall. Norman’s books lined the windowsill. Outside, beyond the flowered curtains, he could see the steady drizzle of a grey English morning.

“I’m sure,” Norman told him, regarding the rain outside. “This is my book,” he added for the stoat king’s benefit. It felt weird to say it, but Norman did not want the discussion about who was more real at this moment.

The stoat perked up. “Something smells good.” He stood up and sniffed the air. “Let’s hurry up and get that book, and then we can have some breakfast.”

“Smells like pancakes,” Norman replied. He could tell already that it was going to be difficult to keep Malcolm out of sight.

“Come on, then. Which way is the library?” Malcolm licked his lips with his tiny pink tongue. “I’m hungry, so let’s get the job done.” He leapt from the bed to the dresser and then to the floor.

“Wait!” Norman cried. “You have to be careful. They can’t see you.”

“Why not?” Malcolm sounded offended.

“Because stoats don’t talk in this book, and neither do mice or rabbits or anything.”

“Are you sure?” Malcolm asked, his nose wrinkled skeptically.

“Very sure,” Norman assured him.

Malcolm rolled his eyes as if such a thing were preposterous. “Oh well, George and Pippa had never seen a talking stoat before either, and they got over it.”

“I tried to stop you then, too,” Norman argued. “If things get mixed up, it gets complicated. We could wreck the whole book.”

“Did you wreck my book?” Malcolm asked impatiently.

“I nearly did, didn’t I? It was because of me that you got stranded at Scalded Rock. It was because of me that Simon Whiteclaw died.”

Malcolm blinked and started to say something. “All right,” he conceded reluctantly. “You check if the coast is clear.”

Norman dashed down to the kitchen to find his dad at the stove. Edward Vilnius knew how to cook two things, and only one of them was suitable for breakfast.

Norman verified that there was a pot of coffee on the counter beside his dad before inquiring, “Pancakes?”

“You know it, Spiny.” He turned around to offer Norman a plate. “But with a twist. These are
English
pancakes, in honour of your mother and her rediscovered Englishness. Apparently you eat them this way.” He spread jam on the thin crepe and rolled it into a tight tube.

Norman took the plate of pancakes from his father but did not sit down. “Where is Mum?” he asked, as casually as he could.

“Gone for a jog,” said Edward.

So that was his mother accounted for. It just might be safe to sneak into the library.

Norman picked up the crepe and took a tentative bite from one end. “Hmmph. That’s actually pretty good,” he mumbled through a mouthful of pancake.

“Full of surprises, these English,” his father said, his back turned. “You want to tempt fate and wake your sister? She’s supposed to be up by now.”

Norman didn’t need to be asked again. He bounded back upstairs, stopping by Dora’s door to listen for just a moment. Once he’d confirmed that all was quiet inside, he tiptoed down the hall and opened his own door just a crack. “Malcolm, the coast is clear. We can search the library.”

There was no answer. He opened the door wider and poked his head inside. “Malcolm?” he repeated in a loud whisper as he scanned the room for his friend. The stoat had vanished. Why couldn’t he just stay put?

Norman hurried down the hall to the library. The door was gapped just wide enough for a stoat to squeeze through. Norman opened it wide and whispered Malcolm’s name again.

“Over here,” the stoat replied, from somewhere in the shelves.

Norman ducked inside and closed the door behind him. “Where are you?” he whispered hoarsely.

“That’s the biggest pancake I’ve ever seen!” From somewhere over Norman’s shoulder, Malcolm whistled appreciatively. Norman turned in time to see the pancake snatched from his plate in one lightning-quick movement.