The Accidental Keyhand (9 page)

Millie's angry gaze swept around the table, avoiding Marcus and Dorrie. “I'm just looking out for the Lybrariad's safety. If Francesco was here—”

A sudden gust of wind blowing through the door of the Sharpened Quill made them all look up. Mathilde yelped and slid down in her seat, as though someone had suddenly yanked her feet down through a hole in the ground.

Dorrie watched a woman her own size stump sensibly toward the food table. She wore a white blouse with a high collar, a shapeless gray bell of a skirt that matched the color of her hair, and a string of pearly pink beads. An enormous pair of cloudy, gold-rimmed eyeglasses covered half her dewlapped face. Even from across the room, the eyes behind the glasses seemed to crack and spark with pale blue all-seeing fire.

“Have something overdue, Mathilde?” asked Saul, reaching across Kenzo's plate for the water pitcher.

“Something lost, more likely,” said Izel, as though very sorry she had to be the one to share that fact.

“Well, don't all stare at her!” said Mathilde, disappearing entirely beneath the wide planks of the table. Dorrie and the others turned back to face each other.

“Who is she?” asked Marcus.

Saul poured himself some water. “That's Mistress Lovelace. She runs the Library's circulation desk. If a lybrarian wants a sari to wear in India? Weapons, hats, maps, footwear, coin of the realm? He has to get it from her.”

“He or
she
has to get it from her,” Mathilde hissed from below. “Mistress Lovelace can probably smell me.”

“Guilty terror does have a certain scent,” Saul said, taking a bite out of a chicken leg.

Ebba grabbed Dorrie's shoulder. “Oh, I was supposed to give you something.” She dug in her satchel. “Here.” She pulled out two rectangles of stiff, creamy paper and handed one each to Dorrie and Marcus.

“What is it?” asked Dorrie as the microscopic writing covering the little card resolved into something she could read.

“Library card,” said Saul. “Mistress Lovelace is very particular about issuing them promptly to guests and new residents.” He glanced over at the director of circulation. “She's quite particular about just about everything, really.”

Millie began to angrily cram her newspaper into her satchel, as if the issuing of library cards was some sort of final outrage.

Dorrie looked more closely at the card. On the blank line in the middle of the card reserved for a borrower's name, someone had written “Unknown Entrant No. 1” in a firm, cursive hand in violet ink. Three jam-packed typed paragraphs of a particularly tiny type filled up the rest of the card. Dorrie read the slightly larger typed words that ran around the four edges of the embossed card like a border: “Marking, staining, tearing, breaking, or otherwise causing damage to lent items is punishable by Library statute with fine or indentured servitude, and the circulation director will prosecute for all offenses.”

Dorrie understood a little better now why Mathilde was under the table. She looked up at the apprentices. “I don't think I'd have the nerve to take anything out.”

“You already have,” said Marcus, plucking the card Dorrie held out of her hand and tossing her the other one. On the back of the new card were alternating columns marked “Lent” and “Returned.” In the first box under “Lent,” the same firm hand had written: “Blue dressing gown with fur cuffs and collar” and a date.

“She's not mean,” said Ebba. “She, just, well…she doesn't make exceptions.”

“Could you at least tell me when she leaves?” Mathilde said coldly from beneath the table.

“Could be a while,” said Saul. “She's just settling down for what could be a good, long chitchat.”

“A one-sided chitchat,” purred Izel.

“Why one-sided?” asked Dorrie, looking over at the small, deeply tanned man who sat across from Mistress Lovelace.

Saul looked serious. He stuck out his tongue and made a scissoring motion with his fingers just below it. “Someone cut out the riding master's tongue.”

Dorrie felt instantly sick. “That's awful.”

A young woman with an armload of books had elbowed her way over to the apprentice table. She handed a folded-up piece of paper to Ebba. “Message for you,” she panted before moving on.

Ebba unfolded it, and her brow furrowed. “Francesco's back.” She looked up at Dorrie and Marcus. “The director of security. He wants to see you.”

Another uncomfortable silence took hold.

“Bad luck that,” Mathilde finally said from beneath the table.

Dorrie felt her mouth going dry. “I thought we were supposed to meet with Hypatia.”

“I guess she's still not back,” said Ebba, staring at Francesco's message.

Kenzo cocked his head to one side. “Millie said that Francesco will probably want to maroon you out on the other side of an archway. Maybe in Outer Mongolia.”

“
What!
” Dorrie and Marcus said together. Dorrie's stomach lurched. From her close reading of the Passaic Public Library's entire collection of novels featuring pirates, she knew just what “marooned” meant. Being left behind somewhere with no way to return home.

“Don't listen to him,” said Ebba, scanning the contents of the note. “Maroonings have only happened very rarely. Only when someone's found out about Petrarch's Library who shouldn't and might do it harm and…” Her words came to an awkward, stumbling stop.

A chill crept its way down Dorrie's spine.

Kenzo shrugged. “Outer Mongolia's not the worst—”

“I know you're not enemies,” said Ebba, giving Dorrie a brave attempt at a smile. “He'll see that. It'll be all right.”

Mathilde eased herself out from under the table, her gaze sweeping across the room. “You show them the way to his office and I'll try to find Mistress Wu.”

“I've got a baaaaad feeling about this, Chewie,” muttered Marcus.

ACCIDENTAL KEYHANDS

Ebba left them in front of a heavy, wooden door set in a curved stone wall with a torch flickering on either side. “His office is through the door and up the stairs.”

Dorrie, her teeth on the point of chattering, nodded dumbly, as a man dressed in lederhosen roller-skated past them. Earlier in the day, she would have enjoyed guessing his home place and time, but now the word “maroon” blinked on and off in her head in red-drenched neon letters. If the director of security thought they posed a danger to Petrarch's Library, would he just decide to toss Dorrie and Marcus out into Attila the Hun's lap or into a medieval city full of Black Plague, never to return?

“I'll help look for Mistress Wu,” said Ebba, her eyes wide and distressed.

When Ebba had skittered out of sight around a corner, Dorrie grabbed hold of Marcus' T-shirt. “Should we run away? Try to hide until we can get back through that hole?” With no small horror, Dorrie realized she had no idea in which direction the room with the swimming pool and the hole lay.

Marcus pulled at his hair as if the tension on it would help him think better. “We haven't done anything wrong. We'll just explain.”

Dorrie shivered. “Yeah, but what if he doesn't believe us?”

“I've
got
to see Egeria again!” bellowed Marcus.

Dorrie stared at him, boggled. “Marcus, we might never see Mom and Dad and Miranda again if we do the wrong thing!”

He pressed his fingertips to his temples. “Can I just have a minute to think here?”

The door swung open with an arthritic groan. Dorrie found herself face-to-face with a large man with stooped shoulders dressed in what looked like an old-fashioned police officer's uniform. A black egg-shaped helmet sat rakishly on his head. For a moment, sucking on a toothpick, he simply looked at them, while Dorrie's heart thumped with more and more force.

Finally, he doffed his helmet, one corner of his mouth crooking upward in a grin. “Mr. Gormly I am, and you don't look all that threatening to me, whatever the boss says.” Dorrie thought she saw the man wink and felt a little rush of gratitude. Mr. Gormly led them up a narrow wooden stairway that wound round and round. She couldn't help but think that in fairy tales, no good ever seemed to come to people at the top of towers. She felt for Marcus's hand behind her. Remarkably, he let her squeeze it hard and even dig her nails into it a little.

Mr. Gormly led them into a gloomy circular room with one thin slit of a window. Heavy wooden file cabinets lined the walls. A man Dorrie supposed was the director of security sat writing at a small, scarred table. A dark moustache drooped thinly over the ends of his upper lip in waxed curves, and the graying hair on his head was pulled back into a tight ponytail. A black patch very much like the one that Rosa had worn in Passaic for fun covered one of his eyes. On the table lay a sword that looked a whole lot like the one Dorrie had borrowed from Tiffany and dropped somewhere in Petrarch's Library. Beside the table leaned her bag.

After a long moment, he stood, his craggy face grim, a long sword hanging at his side. His one visible brown eye bored into Dorrie's. “Who sent you?”

The dispassionate, measured manner in which he spoke made Dorrie's insides go icy. She had the distinct feeling that he wouldn't hesitate to throw her out the very skinny window if he felt she was a threat to Petrarch's Library.

“Nobody sent us,” stuttered Dorrie.

“How did you make that hole?” Francesco demanded in his clipped, cold way, dangerous icebergs floating between the words.

“We didn't,” said Dorrie, her voice a squeak.

Francesco stepped around the table, his heels pounding dully on the carpet, and halted in front of Dorrie and Marcus.

Without a muscle on his face moving, Francesco seized Dorrie's hand.

“Let go of her,” cried Marcus, hauling on Dorrie's other arm.

“Hey!” shouted Dorrie, struggling to free herself as Francesco stared at her fingertips intently. Francesco let her go but only, thought Dorrie, because he'd finished scrutinizing her hand. Her terrified thoughts stampeding, Dorrie lunged for the sword on the table and pointed its quivering tip at Francesco. “Let us go! We don't want to be marooned!”

Francesco, looking utterly unfazed, stared stonily at her, his one visible eye visibly narrowing.

“Two words, Sister,” said Marcus in a strangled voice, as Francesco changed the position of his left hand ever so slightly. “Stage. Combat.”

Her breath rasping, Dorrie licked her lips, fighting to keep the sword steady.

“Dispensing the best of Petrarch Library's hospitality, are we?” said a voice from the doorway.

Keeping her sword pointed at Francesco, Dorrie whipped her head around. The man with the enormous nose whom she'd seen sparring in the Gymnasium now lounged in the doorway staring at Francesco. He looked unaccountably amused. “It's definitely a marooning you've decided on, have you?”

Francesco marched heavily back to his desk. “That would be a wonderfully simple solution.”

The man in the doorway raised an eyebrow at Dorrie. “If you're going to start a sword fight, best not to do it with a blunt-tipped practice foil.” He gestured quickly for her to lower her sword. Hastily, not knowing why she trusted him, Dorrie brought the tip of her blade down.

The newcomer's eyes fell on Mr. Gormly. “Ah, Mr. Gormly, I see you've agreed to serve in the new position of official Peeping Tom.”

Though Mr. Gormly simply examined his fingernails, Francesco's eyes flashed. “Security guard in the service of the Lybrariad, if you please, Savi.”

“A travesty,” said Savi.

“A necessity in these days,” growled Francesco.

“I came to talk to you about Kash.”

“I'm busy at the moment.”

“Perhaps you've noticed that he has not yet returned from his mission.”

“And perhaps you've noticed that there's a gaping hole over the baths that looks nothing like an archway. In fact it looks like someone or something blew it into existence with a barrel of cosmic gunpowder.”

“Hence the interrogation.”

“Call it what you will. We have to consider the possibility that someone or some organization, possibly even a reborn Foundation, has succeeded in forcing a way into Petrarch's Library. Kash's intelligence warned us of just that possibility.”

Savi looked Marcus and Dorrie over. “Funny, I would have expected the sword of a Foundation operative to be a touch sharper.”

Francesco glared at Savi. “Spoken like a true cavalier.” He gripped the pommel of his sword. “Make light of the danger if you must, but the security of the Lybrariad and its mission rests on my shoulders.”

“But we're not a danger!” burst out Dorrie.

“So you say,” replied Francesco grimly. “And yet, your little knitting needle there was found in the Reference Room.” His eyes found Dorrie's again, pinning her with their intensity. “What did you want there?”

“We were just looking for a way out!” cried Marcus.

“I'm not sure I can afford to believe that.”

Savi gave a hard little laugh. “Beware that in trying to oppose the Foundation, you don't join its ranks yourself, Francesco D'Avila.”

Francesco's face drained of all color. He blew a hard breath through his nose. “Tread carefully around my honor, or you'll lose yours altogether.”

A dangerous light seemed to flicker in Savi's eyes. “If my honor and I must ever part, and I don't intend that they shall, you will not be a factor.”

“If you're quite through,” said Francesco, “I have a job to take care of here.”

His low tone sent ripples of fear through Dorrie's limbs.

“What about the whole ‘innocent until proven guilty' thing?” cried Marcus.

“It's not fair to maroon us just because you don't believe us!” cried Dorrie.

“She does have a point,” said a new voice.

“Hypatia,” said Francesco, in a tone of surprised reverence.

Dorrie turned to see a woman with a headful of dark, loose curls streaked with gray gliding through the doorway, with Madame Wu panting behind her. Madame Wu stopped for a moment to straighten a stack of books on a file cabinet.

“May I?” said Hypatia, gesturing at Francesco's chair.

“Of course,” he said, giving her room to pass. As she settled into the chair, Francesco eyeballed Madame Wu. “In my absence, you should have informed Mr. Gormly immediately of last night's events.”

“Phillip and Ursula and I really didn't think it…”—here Madame Wu glanced back at Mr. Gormly—“necessary.”

Francesco pulled at one side of his moustache. “I'm not sure any of you did any thinking at—”

“If you please, Francesco,” interrupted Hypatia. She looked from Dorrie to Marcus with a patient, penetrating expression. Dorrie tried to keep breathing evenly and not stare at the thin silvery scars that meandered over Hypatia's dark face.

“What interesting circumstances in which to meet you. I'm Hypatia, current director of Petrarch's Library.” She glanced at Francesco. “I know you have concerns, Francesco, and understandably so, but let's not jump to conclusions.”

Dorrie looked into Hypatia's calm green eyes, wanting to trust her. “We weren't after anything in the Reference Room. We just wanted to find a way back out.”

A small smile played on Hypatia's lips. “And who can blame you, really?”

Francesco dug his hand into Dorrie's bag and pulled out a red book. “And how do you explain your possession of this?”

Mistress Wu gave a little gasp.

“I know it's overdue,” said Dorrie, wondering if these lybrarians shared Mr. Scuggans's abhorrence of irresponsible borrowers. “I was going to return it yesterday.”

Hypatia looked at Dorrie oddly. “Overdue from what library?”

“The Passaic Public Library,” said Dorrie. Even as she spoke the words, Dorrie uncomfortably absorbed the fact that the book, though red like the Passaic Public Library's copy of
The
Three
Musketeers
, in no other way resembled it. This book looked old, its leather cover cracked. Faded gold symbols had been dug into the leather to spell out a title. They weren't letters Dorrie even recognized. Francesco laid the book in front of Hypatia, who paused for a moment before flipping it open. She tilted her head, clearly disconcerted.

“That's not my book,” said Dorrie hoarsely.

Hypatia slowly turned a few more pages. The pages were filled with faded, rust-colored writing, spelled out in the same unfamiliar letters. Sometimes the writing was loose and scrawling and sometimes crabbed, as if the writer couldn't decide whether the book had more than enough room for his or her thoughts, or not nearly enough. In the book's middle, someone had cut the shape of a five-pointed star into page after page.

“Then how did you come to possess it?” said Francesco grimly.

“I d–don't know,” stuttered Dorrie, at a total loss for an explanation.

Francesco crossed his arms. “And we're supposed to just believe that as well?”

“If we were lying,” said Marcus, “we'd come up with a much better story than ‘I don't know!' Is it your book?”

Francesco said nothing.

Dorrie began to paw madly through her bag. “Where's
my
book?”

“And that would be…?” asked Savi.

Dorrie gave up on her search. “
The
Three
Musketeers
.”

“Ah, your fencing manual, I presume,” said Savi, looking down his nose at her.

She blinked at him, not sure why he looked amused again. She had, in fact, paid close attention to the sword-fighting scenes in the book.

“So you have no idea how it came to be in your bag?” said Hypatia.

“No!” Dorrie cried. “All I know is that
The
Three
Musketeers
was in my bag when I left our house yesterday.”

Hypatia closed the battered book and pushed it to one side, her fingertips lingering over its cover. She glanced at the other lybrarians briefly, an eyebrow up. “We'll set this matter to one side for the moment…”

Mistress Wu swiftly pulled a piece of paper out of a notebook she carried and thrust it in front of Hypatia's face. The director took it, gave it a quick scan, and then looked back up at Dorrie. “Chewbacca?”

A short-lived but unmistakable guffaw escaped Marcus. Dorrie shot him a desperate look.

Francesco curled his lip. “They think the situation is funny!”

“No, we don't think it's funny!” Dorrie cried, as beside her Marcus shoulders began to shake uncontrollably with silent laughter. She whirled to look at Hypatia. “It's just that my name isn't Chewbacca.”

“Not Chewbacca,” wrote Mistress Wu dutifully.