Authors: Skelton-Matthew
Sir Giles, however, broke into his reverie.
"What's this?" he barked.
"Another book?
This isn't one of mine."
He lifted a red-colored volume with inky blotches on the cover into the air.
A chair scraped back and Paula Richards stood up.
Blake looked behind him.
"I'm afraid I've taken the liberty of bringing in one of the more tempting books from the collection at St.
Jerome
's ,
" she addressed the room.
"It's a coincidence really.
It's another copy of
Goblin Market
."
"Yes, and a fair example of nineteenth-century publishing, too," started Sir Giles, turning over a couple of pages and expertly assessing its value.
"I'd forgotten we owned it actually," continued Paula Richards, raising her voice slightly and interrupting the domineering man in mid-flow, "until a chance remark from you reminded me of it the other day.
I'm impressed.
You seem to know a lot about our library's collection."
There was nothing malicious in her tone, but it suddenly occurred to Blake that she was privately accusing Sir Giles of something.
Was he the person, perhaps, who had broken into the library the other night and disturbed the books on the shelves?
Was he the book-breaker?
The man glared at her coldly, but said nothing.
"Our collections must have a special significance for you, Sir Giles, to make you familiarize yourself with them so well."
"Naturally, I take an interest in all the Oxford libraries," the man explained himself.
Paula Richards sharpened her smile somewhat.
"Yes, but this is an extremely rare book.
Christina
Rossetti's
own copy of
Goblin Market
, one she expressly asked her publishers to bind in red leather — puce, as you called it — when all the others were blue.
I must congratulate you.
This book is one of a kind.
Not many people know it exists... but you did."
Blake sat very still.
She might be describing
Endymion
Spring
for
all he knew, but he was relieved to hear that she was merely referring to a child's book.
Nevertheless, he was surprised to see Paula Richards flash a private smile in
Jolyon's
direction, as if he had prior knowledge of her accusation and supported her.
Clearly there was something he didn't understand going on between them.
He couldn't help wondering if this was really about Christina
Rossetti
.
Was it possible that Sir Giles, like
Jolyon
, knew about
Endymion
Spring
?
"Well, thank you for the compliment," said Sir Giles, graciously inclining his head.
His eyes, however, were livid and his brow had turned a brighter shade of scarlet.
He glanced at his watch — a gesture repeated by many people in the room.
"I believe I have spoken for long enough, but I am happy to answer any other questions, or assess any other books, in private.
I hereby adjourn the meeting."
There was a short applause before people scurried to the back of the room to consume the remaining glasses of wine
..
It was already after nine and Duck and Blake had only a few precious minutes to consult the register by the door before meeting their mother by the library.
They were off like a shot, battling their way through the crowd of grown-up arms and legs.
They waited impatiently for a few more senior members of the society to sign the book, and then grabbed the ledger.
Blake flipped back through the pages,
cartwheeling
through time, watching row upon row of signatures concertina past his eyes.
Suddenly a hand clasped him on the shoulder.
"You're supposed to sign the page with today's date, not go nosing about in the past," said a familiar voice.
Blake turned to find Prosper
Marchand
smiling at him.
The professor calmly took the register from him and turned back to the page that was clearly indicated with a silk ribbon.
An expensive fountain pen, as fat as a cigar, lay on the side table beside him and he picked it up to sign his name.
After a Zorro-like finish, he handed to pen to Blake and watched as both he and Duck signed their names painstakingly under his.
"There, now your names are recorded for all posterity," he said, bringing his face just close enough for Blake to smell a spicy cravat of aftershave around his throat.
"Just like these unfortunate rascals at the dawn of time."
To Blake's astonishment, the professor flicked back to the very first page of the ledger, where a black-and-white photograph had been pasted above a line of faded signatures.
He had only a few seconds to gaze at the grainy image, but like a camera he captured the faces and names.
Part of the mystery was solved.
"Mum's the word," whispered Prosper
Marchand
like a naughty schoolboy and then, with a playful smile, headed back towards the other members of the Ex
Libris
Society.
Blake turned to Duck in surprise.
She, too, looked amazed by the discovery.
The photograph had shown a group of young students in old-fashioned clothes, standing in front of a bookcase.
It could have been any Oxford library.
Most of them were staring woodenly at the camera, their faces washed out by time, their hairstyles preposterously dated; but four figures had grabbed his attention immediately.
Jolyon
towered above the other students, a giant of a man with a storm of wavy curls and an already threadbare suit.
Attached to his arm, caught in a flirtatious laugh, was an attractive girl with sleek, dark hair, while standing stiffly behind them, dressed in an expensive dinner jacket, was a bullish man who resembled Sir Giles, with just the hint of a mustache crowning his upper lip.
And in the far right-hand corner of the picture, almost out of the frame, was another figure, whose nest of wild hair and shabby cloak were instantly recognizable.
Psalmanazar
.
The lost member of the
Libris
Society.
21
B
lake was still shaking his head as they hurried through the dark streets towards the Bodleian Library.
"Who would have guessed
Psalmanazar
was one of the founding members of the society?" he said.
"He must have discovered
Endymion
Spring
all those years ago.
I wonder what happened."
Duck remained silent and thoughtful for a while.
"But we still don't know who the Person in Shadow is," she remarked gloomily, her breath shining like tinsel in the air.
"It could be any one of them."
Or someone else entirely, Blake thought to himself.
He and Duck were surrounded by adults, all consumed by their own bookish passions.
It had rained heavily and the street lamps smeared patches of electric blood on the pavement.
They rounded the corner into
Sheldonian
Theatre, a dark domed building next to the library, where they had arranged to meet their mother.
Above them a tall curved railing jutted into the darkness, crowned by a series of crudely carved stone heads:
large bearded me who guarded the ceremonial hall beyond.
Blake wasn't sure whether they were meant to represent emperors of philosophers.
They stared blindly into the night, frowning at the noise spilling out from a beer-lit pub on the opposite side of the street.
Duck and Blake sat quietly on the short flight of steps for a while, thinking over the events of the meeting.
It was cold and they pressed together, trying to steal each other's warmth.
Stars trembled in the now cloudless sky.
There was no sign of their mother.
Blake shifted uncomfortably.
The book had stirred again, thumping him in the small of the back, grabbing his attention.
He checked behind him.
Nothing — apart from the now-darkened buildings.
"That's weird," he said.
"What's weird?" said Duck, glancing up.
She pulled back her hood to see him more clearly.
"The book's behaving strangely again.
It was acting like this before the meeting, but why now?
It ought to feel safe."
Cautiously, Blake took the bag from his shoulder and opened the main compartment — just an inch.
He peeked inside.
The book crouched like a trapped animal in the depths of the bag, an agitated shadow that seemed to sink towards the ground, as if drawn by a magnetic force.
"What's wrong with it?" said Duck, peering over his shoulder.
"I'm not sure.
It feels like a paperweight or something.
A brick.
Really heavy."
He frowned.
"It's almost as if it's pulling me down there."
He indicated the curb.
"Into the sewer?"
Blake paused, trying to figure it out.
"No.
I mean, into the ground," he said.
Suddenly his heart started to pound and the blood rushed into his head.
He felt giddy with excitement.
He stood up, unable to sit still.
"I mean," he said, growing even more confident, "
Endymion
Spring
wants
us to go where all the books are kept — beneath the library, into the stacks Mum told us about.
That's where the book is leading us.
The
Last Book
must be hidden somewhere in the depths of the Bodleian Library!"
Just then their mother appeared, looking pleased with
herself
.
"So, did you learn anything new?" she asked.
Duck and Blake glanced at each other covertly.
"Oh yeah," they said.
A
Later that night, while they slept, the telephone rang.
The sound crept up the stairs and tapped on each of their doors, but they were fast asleep.
Duck burrowed her head beneath her pillow, dreaming of Alice; Blake twitched uneasily, tormented by another nightmare that pursued him like a shadow through the stacks of the Bodleian Library; and Juliet Winters rolled over onto the empty side of the bed, holding out a hand to answer a phone that went on ringing, unanswered.
Thousands of miles away, Christopher Winters put down the receiver and then, after a moment's thought, picked it up again and dialed a different number.
"City cabs," responded a voice on the other end.
"Yes, I'd like a ride to the airport."
22
B
lake could hardly wait.
He'd been awake for several hours, riffling through
Endymion
Spring
, trying to uncover its secrets; but nothing new had appeared.
Both he and Duck were up and dressed long before their mother joined them for breakfast, and they nearly ran to the Bodleian Library, pulling her behind them.
"What's got into you?" she asked, struggling to keep up.
Blake and Duck said nothing, but smiled at each other.
Despite the fear creeping into his body, Blake tingled with anticipation, egged by the book, which flickered and jumped in his bag.
He passed through the gates of the four-hundred-year-old library into a paved courtyard surrounded by ancient iron-studded doors and tall, fortress-like ramparts.
Pushing past a swarm of tourists who had already gathered to take photos of the Earl of Pembroke, a statue standing proudly on its marble plinth, he came to the main entrance.
He heaved open the heavy glass doors and walked inside.
He stopped in amazement.
Facing him was a magnificent chamber flooded with an ethereal, unearthly light.
Slender columns supported an ornate roof covered with finely chiseled leaves, crests and angels, all carved from the same honey-colored stone that filled Oxford with gleams of gold.
Delicate stone bosses descended from the ceiling like marvelous stalactites.
In the far corner was a large wooden chest decorated with painted flowers and birds, fortified by an intricate system of locks.
Blake guessed that this had once housed the university's treasures, when the library was expanding its collection of books.
He gazed around him in wonder, feeling as though he had been swept back hundreds of years to medieval Oxford.
A deep, damp smell of learning seeped into his bones.
To his right, he could see a small gift shop full of bookish knickknacks and cat-themed souvenirs for the present-day tourists, while to his left was a depository for coats and bags, guarded by the first of two porters.
Blake had been careful to press his mother for more information about the layout of the library.
There were two stairwells, he learned, each leading up to the box-shaped reading rooms where the scholars worked.
Both were guarded by porters who checked readers' cards on the way in and ensured that none of the university's precious collections went missing on the way out.
It wasn't going to be as easy as he thought to sneak in, undetected.