Endymion Spring (15 page)

Sir Giles let out
a humph
of protest.
 
"For heaven's sake, woman, stop humoring the child."
 
He turned his attention back to the man behind the till.
 
"Well?"

The shop assistant, weakening under the assault of Sir Giles' black eyebrows, looked from the man to the boy and back again.
 
"I'll take it," he said finally, snatching the notes and entering them in the till before he could change his mind.

He shrugged at Blake and then said, "Sorry, mate, but books nowadays are a business."

"Don't fret," said Diana mildly, helping Blake on with his knapsack and escorting him away from the shop.
 
"You can always come to our house if you'd like to see the book again."
 
She smiled at the idea.
 
"Yes, Giles has a magnificent collection.
 
You must come by."

10

B
lake walked the rest of the way to the college with slumped shoulders.
 
Not only had he slept in, but he'd lost the blank book — and now another potentially important one.
 
Nothing was going right!

He kicked at the stray leaves that had fallen overnight and didn't look up once, not even when he ducked through the small wooden door set into the massive gate guarding St. Jerome's and from habit marched straight into the Porter's Lodge.

"Why, there's a message for you," said Bob Barrett hurriedly, bending down to retrieve it.
 
"With your name on it, too!"

"Thanks," said Blake gloomily, taking the envelope without looking at it.

"Come on, it can't be that bad.
 
What's the—"

Just then the telephone rang and Bob paused to answer it.
 
Blake took the opportunity to leave without another word.
 
He didn't feel like talking to anyone right now.

He waved a hand in a halfhearted farewell and headed toward the library, where
Mephistopeles
immediately pounced on his feet, hoping to exact revenge on him for last night.

"Stupid cat," he growled as the animal leaped away.
 
He stooped to retie his shoes.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Paula Richards
bustling
 
around
the interior of the library, fetching things from shelves, a whirling dervish of activity.
 
He didn't want to face her either, just in case she suspected him of damaging the books last night, and decided to redirect his steps to a bench under a tree on the far side of the lawn, where he could wait for his mother and sister in private.

He sat down on the bench, which was beaded with raindrops, and turned the letter
over
in his hands, careful not to let it get wet.
 
A few more spiteful spots of rain shimmied through the leaves and landed on the back of his neck, but it was the driest place he could find.

The envelope bore the college coat of arms on its crisp, white paper:
 
a ring of stars surrounding a knight's glove, which clutched a sharpened quill instead of a sword.
 
Sure enough, his name was written on the front in a flourish of swirling letters:

Blake
Winters
, Esq.

He wondered what an Esq. was, but whatever it meant, the title made him feel distinguished and important, rather like a knight himself.
 
He sat up a little straighter.

He opened the envelope.
 
Inside was an abbreviated message in the same ornate writing:

Questions?

He glanced up, suspecting the anonymous author had read his mind.
 
His head was teeming with questions.

He turned over the invitation, where he encountered further instructions.

Answers await you in the Old Library.
 
Two o'clock if convenient.

Hope to see you there.

Professor
Jolyon
Fall

A smile grew on Blake's face.
 
Not only would he get a chance to see inside the Old Library, but he might be able to learn the secret of the blank book, too!
 
Things were definitely looking up.

He craned his neck to see if he could see the Old Library from where he was seated, but only the tip of the tower above the cloisters was visible, partially hidden behind a screen of leaves.
 
Nevertheless, a quiver of excitement — a bit like a slide whistle of pleasure — passed through him.

The sound of his sister's voice on the other side of the lawn brought him crashing back to reality.
 
His first obstacle:
 
obtaining his mother's permission.
 
Would she let him go?
 
Judging from the was she was clutching her briefcase in her
hand,
she was going to spend the whole afternoon in the Bodleian Library.
 
That could mean only one thing.
 
He would be the obligated babysitter.

He sighed and, as if in sympathy, a volley of raindrops slid through the leaves and landed on his invitation, causing the ink to smear.

A

"Mum's got e-mail access," Duck announced as soon as they were within shouting distance.
 
"Isn't that great?"

"Yeah, great," he replied, unconvinced.
 
He got up to find a damp, heart-shaped patch on the seat of his jeans.
 
Duck snickered.

Blake knew that his mother had found an elusive manuscript in the Bodleian Library and was eager to contact Professor Morgan, the Chair of her Department, for permission to prolong her trip.
 
Secretly, he hoped the college would ignore her request to install an internet connection in her office, since then she couldn't apply for an extension so easily; but now it seemed a distinct possibility.

"Now we can e-mail Dad every day," said Duck cheerfully.
 
"I've already written to ask if he's finished any of his new drawings yet.
 
He could be reading my message right now.
 
It's like he's here with us!"

"No, it's not," sulked Blake.
 
"He's on the other side of the world, in case you hadn't noticed."

Duck had skipped happily ahead and not heard; his mother, however, had.
 
She gave him a sharp look — like a pinprick — and he winced.
 
He could sense that she had not forgotten about the trouble he had caused last night and decided to walk on ahead.
 
He wandered towards the dining hall.

Blake's dad had been working from home for several months, ever since tiring of the rat race and leaving the firm he had worked for in the city.
 
Blake preferred it this way:
 
he enjoyed his dad's company and the extra attention he and Duck received while their mother focused on her career.
 
Just before they'd departed for England, however, Blake had heard his dad despairing that his designs would give a whole new definition to the term "blank canvas."
 
He wondered if Duck's e-mail would only make him feel worse.

He was debating whether to send a message of his own, when he noticed his mother looking at the card in his hand.
 
He showed her the name on the envelope.

"It's from Professor
Jolyon
," he said, deciding to speak first.
 
"He wants to see me this afternoon."

"Really?
 
What for?"

She sounded skeptical.

"I'm not sure," he lied.

His mother didn't look convinced.

"Can I see Professor
Jolyon
too?" piped in Duck suddenly.
 
"Please!"

"No!" snapped Blake.

His mother gave his a reproachful look.

"But it's none of her business!" he protested.
 
"She's always butting in."
 
He reached out to pinch her.

"Ow!
 
Quit it!"

"I barely even touched you!"

"Yes, you did!
"
Duck sobbed petulantly and batted his hand away.

His mother cuffed him by the wrist and brought him to a sudden halt.
 
"That's enough," she said.
 
"I don't want any more trouble from you!"

Blake could detect a serious recrimination behind her words and wriggled free from her grasp.
 
He dodged up the steps to the dining hall.

He twisted the heavy iron handle of the arched wooden door and entered an immense, oak-paneled room lined with benches and long wooden tables that generations of banqueting scholars had worn smooth.
 
Little lamps with brass stands and red shades, like toadstools, sprung up at intervals, emitting weak coronas of light.
 
A warm meaty aroma oozed through the air like gravy.

On a raised platform at the front of the hall, surrounded by dazzling diamond-paned windows, was a luxurious table spread with bottled water, silver cutlery and bowls of fresh fruit.
 
A stained-glass crest shone above it like an incandescent sun, dabbing the tablecloth with splashes of color.
 
This was where the professors sat, although not Juliet Winters.
 
It was one of the concessions she'd had to make to have her children with her.

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."