In that moment he decided that perhaps this woman
was
his friend. Or at least, she could be. “Maybe so, ma'am”
They stood in front of an enormous table, overlain by a sheet of glass. Yellowed maps were pressed beneath like ancient butterflies from other lands. Librarian Childress patted the tabletop. “Wait here, please.”
Hethor watched her walk away. The heels of her leather boots echoed on the marble floors. He stood a whileâfive, then ten minutesâwondering if she'd gone for the library porter, or even worse, the New Haven bobbies. Had she forgotten him? Abandoned him? Even in her brief, sharp-witted observations, Librarian Childress had treated him with more dignity than Pryce Bodean ever had.
She reappeared, pushing a little cart laden with several large books bound in various shades of calfskin.
“Art,” she announced, “so righteous that it must be locked within covers and hidden from the mass of men.”
The first book hit the table with a resounding thud. Hethor read the cover,
Religious Images of the Latest English Century
, before Librarian Childress slammed it open.
“Look through here,” she said sharply, then reached for the next book. Pausing, “You
can
read, yes? Those aren't someone else's schoolbooks you're carrying for a disguise?”
“Yes, ma'am. English, Latin, and some little French. I can recognize certain Chinese marks as well”
“All the great languages of Northern Earth. A studious apprentice indeed.” The librarian sounded to Hethor as if she approved. The next book slammed down on the table with another resounding thud. “And here are the Italians.”
Hethor began to flip through the first book, the Englishmen. It was filled with pictures of men, animals, and angels, reproduced in engravings, some of which had been tinted various colors in imitation of the original oils or watercolors.
“This one!” he shouted. It was a picture of an angel leaning over some roses to speak to the Virgin Mary. The Earth's brass tracks soared into the sky behind it.
“Shh,” said Librarian Childress. “This is a library. At what are you looking?”
“Dante Gabriel Rossetti.” Even the name seemed significant, albeit out of place in a book of Englishmen. “This angel”
“Archangel. What about it?” Her voice was kind.
He had already spilled his secret to Pryce. There seemed little point in hiding from this woman, who might know enough to help him. “It came to me,” said Hethor, miserable. “Last night.”
She reached up to stroke his cheek. “You poor, poor boy. What on Northern Earth did it want?”
Something in the way she asked the question tore away the last vestiges of his sense of secrecy. “The Key Perilous. I'm to find the Key Perilous. The world's gone wrong, and I've been chosen to fix it.” His breath caught in his throat.
Librarian Childress' hand covered her mouth, her eyes wide. “Goodness. Such a burden. How did you know it was the Archangel Gabriel?”
That she did not laugh, or call him mad, was an immense relief. “It told me.” Hethor nodded at the engraving. “This is the angel I saw.”
Childress began flipping through the Italian book. “There are other pictures of Gabriel. Many others. Let us look some more.” She turned a few pages, then glanced up at him again. “I believe that you mean what you say, but what you remember may not be the truth. The Key Perilous is legendary, in several senses of the word.”
“It's real,” said Hethor. “What happened, I mean. Gabriel gave me a silver feather.”
“Where is that feather now?”
“Pryce Bodean took it from me. Said I didn't deserve to have it, all but accused me of stealing it.”
She looked at Hethor's boots, a slow, pointed stare that was hard to miss. “One might be excused for wondering why an apprentice would be carrying silver, especially if one were a Rational Humanist such as Mister Bodean. He does not miss much in his search for a hard-edged kind of truth.”
“So what do I do? I need to understand my mission.”
“If this is true, you will need help.” She stopped, one hand resting on the Italian book, and gave him a long, careful look, like a greengrocer with a questionable load of lettuce. “But if this is not true, if you are just a foolish boy, taken with fever or a bout of imagination, I would be more the fool to help you.”
Somehow Hethor was sure that she knew something. She knew what he needed to do. How could he convince her of the truth of what had happened?
The scar.
Of course. He opened the palm of his right hand and held it out to her. “Here is the scar from the feather. Its edges were sharp as a sword, ma'am.”
Librarian Childress took his fingers in her own and studied the scar. “This is old, and in the shape of a key.”
“It healed overnight. I don't know why it is in the shape of a key.” Hethor felt like a fool, but he kept trying. “A sign, ma'am. A miracle, that I need to understand.”
“A reminder, perhaps?” She smiled at him, genuine humor in her face for the first time. “Listen, boy. Her Majesty's viceroy in Boston currently has a court mystic in residence, a self-styled sorcerer called William of Ghent. It may be possible to convince him that your visitation was real. If William believes you, then you may receive help, or at least advice, from the viceroy and his court.”
Hethor withdrew his hand from her touch, closing his fist. “Do you believe me?”
“I believe that you are telling the truth as you see it,” said Librarian Childress carefully.
“But you want to see the silver feather. As proof.”
She nodded. “As proof. As will William. Without the feather for examination and analysis, your scar is interesting, but no more.”
“I don't know how to get my feather back from Pryce.”
“I do” Librarian Childress smiled. “Leave that to me.”
EATING A LIGHT
lunch of cucumber sandwiches and tea with Librarian Childress in the staff room somewhere deep in the Divinity Library, Hethor realized that he had lost any chance of reclaiming that school day at New Haven Latin. He wasn't sure how much he cared. Gabriel's message was becoming more and more real to him as the hours went by, even in the absence of the feather. Or perhaps because of that absence. Hethor realized that his faith alone should have been sufficientâhe was growing ashamed of having asked for a token.
“How is it,” he asked around a mouthful of unfamiliar white bread, “that you work here? I thought only men were permitted at Yale.”
She gave him a sour look, which quickly left her face. “Women were put on this Earth by God to bear children. Just ask any man. Intelligent women are here to have intelligent sons, and otherwise keep their mouths shut. Let us just assume I wasn't interested in having any intelligent sons.”
“But how didâ”
“Let us also assume that your mother apparently wasn't interested in having any intelligent sons either.”
Hethor subsided, chewing on a mouthful of cucumber and pale bread. After a few moments, he swallowed. “I'm sorry, ma'am.”
She surprised him by saying “Thank you.”
A little silver bell above the door jingled. Hethor glanced up to see a whole series of bells, with pull strings vanishing into the walls.
“They're tuned,” said Librarian Childress. “Each note has a different meaning. Now follow me, please.”
She led him back to the reading room and pointed up a ladder that ran on rails along the largest bank of shelves. “See the alcove up there? Climb into it and behave as though you were a statue. If you lean against the paneling at the back wall, you will be invisible to anyone in the room down here.”
Feeling strangely excited, Hethor climbed. The alcove was dusty, littered with mouse droppings and shards of wood. It smelled of mildew. Somehow it was comforting to know that even Yale had mice, though the thought of the little creatures near all these books worried him.
He sat back, seeing only the shelf across the room from him and part of the windows to his right, now letting in the light of the afternoon. After a moment, the door squeaked open. Had she shut it on her way out, while he was climbing?
The librarian's voice echoed from below. Her tones were formal. “Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice, Mister Bodean.”
“It is my pleasure, ma'am.” Pryce was less certain and haughty in his manner with her, Hethor noted with glee. “Ah ⦠your note indicated that you were acting on behalf of Dean Holliday?”
“Yes. He has been investigating a rumored series of, well, apparitions here in New Haven. I have been charged
with certain aspects of that work, in order to insulate the office of the dean from small-minded accusations.”
“Such as we Rational Humanists might levy?” Pryce's voice reeked with false good humor.
“Precisely.” She paused, diplomatically perhaps. “I have heard that something of potential importance was delivered to you today by a tradesman. A sort of minor ⦠token.”
Hethor was struck by how Librarian Childress' speech was slipping from her usual tart precision to the sort of self-important puffery that characterized the diction of the students. Hethor wondered if Pryce knew he was being mocked.
“I'm sure I don't know whâ”
Childress' words cut across Pryce's like a lash, in her sharp librarian voice this time. “What you don't know would overfill this room, Mister Bodean, but please do not pretend ignorance. My sources are good, much better than yours. I need to examine this token. If it is your property, I will be pleased to return it to you.”
“I am in possession of such, ah, a trifle,” said Pryce. He sounded angry. “It b-belongs to my father, Master Bodean the Clockmaker. I am in the process of returning it to him.”
Hethor's ears burned; his face felt hot. Pryce had just told Librarian Childress that Hethor was a thief, the sort of apprentice who would steal from his master. He wanted to shout his innocence, leap from the alcove and defend his honor. But being seen to lurk in shadows in order to overhear conversations would only confirm whatever miserable opinion Pryce Bodean already had of him.
“In that case,” said Librarian Childress, “I shall be certain to return it to him, with a full explanation.”
“That won't ble ⦔ Pryce stopped. Hethor heard him take a deep breath. “Very well, madam. Since this is of service to Dean Holliday, I will raise no more objections.” There was a clink as something small and metallic hit the glass tabletop; then a chair slid back. “I trust it will
come back to meârather, my fatherâsoon enough. If that is all, I will bid you good day.”
“Good day, Mister Bodean. Your services will not go unremarked.”
“I should hope not.”
A door clicked. Hethor held himself still in the alcove, listening to Librarian Childress hum quietly. A minute or so later, there was a discreet double rap on the door of the reading room, though no one entered.
“You may come down now,” said the librarian. “He has departed.”
Hethor stepped out onto the ladder, stopping to brush off his clothes before climbing down. Once on the floor, he went straight to the table.
The silver feather sat on the glass. It was still edged with his blood.
“Libra Malachi,”
said Childress. “And do sit, please.”
“The Book of Malachi?” Hethor translated as he pulled his chair in with a scrape.
“Perhaps more accurately, the Book of Messengers. In the sense of angels. From the Hebrew
malakh,
the messenger angels.”
“Gabriel,” said Hethor.
“Correct” Librarian Childress looked grim, though a smile quirked at the corners of her mouth. Her fingers traced the pattern of the horofix across her chest. “The messenger angel who brought news of our Brass Christ to Mary.”
“And what about this book?”
“I would have to research the exact dates, but
Libra Malachi
tells us that the silver feather is a token that has been seen before. Presented to various generals, saints, and kings at critical junctures throughout history. Most recently, long after the writing of the book, to Lord Raglan in the Crimea just before he ordered the Light Brigade to charge the Chinese guns. By an angel claiming to be Michael.”
“Claiming?” Hethor wondered at her choice of words.
Librarian Childress smiled. “You should have been a student. But that does not matter. You have been given a mission. Or at least an opportunity. What you do with it ⦠well, that is up to you.”
“So you believe me?”
“I believed you before,” she said. “Enough to confront your master's son on your behalf. With this feather, others might believe you. Some few folk can see the patterns that underlie all of Creation. Someone like William of Ghent, who would know just by examining this feather that it is of angelic origin. Not all magic lives south of the Equatorial Wall.”