The Accidental Keyhand (12 page)

“But Hypatia said…” Dorrie stopped mid-sentence. Hypatia had only said that few maroonings had occurred and those for very good reasons. Dorrie leaped off her bed. “All right, we'll just have to return the page. If we can put it back, maybe Callamachus won't ever tell Francesco.”

Marcus eyed Dorrie. “So what's your brilliant plan?”

“Why do I have to come up with the plan?”

“Because you're the one with the idea.”

“But that means I've already done half the work!”

“Exactly! You have to follow through.”

***

Perhaps the strain of trying to engage in Marcus's argument had exhausted her, but Dorrie fell asleep without meaning to and woke with a sweaty start from a dream that thick, blue-black paint was filling her up from the inside, rising up her legs and into her chest, squeezing out her breath, and carrying with it a tide of pure fear.

Marcus lay fast asleep. Outside the little window, inky darkness still obscured the tangle of buildings outside. She swallowed hard, hoping there was still time. Pushing her covers slowly to one side, she shook Marcus. They'd agreed that they'd return the page in their robes, and if discovered out in the Library, they'd plead the need for a bathroom and no sense of direction.

They'd almost crossed the firelit, deserted Den when Dorrie tripped on a roller skate. They froze, Dorrie shielding the light from the lamp with the furry cuff of her bathrobe. When no doors opened, they slipped out onto the balcony. After three arguments and a bunch of wrong turns, Dorrie and Marcus finally found the Mission Room. It was as deserted as the den, its cheery little fire still throwing shadows around the room.

With Dorrie guarding the door, Marcus slipped toward the window and the funny little tube that had blossomed from the floor there. Dorrie heaved a great sigh of relief when Marcus drew the rolled-up piece of paper out. He stuck it in one of his robe's huge flannel pockets. Looking both ways to make sure the marble hallway was empty, they crept back out of the Mission Room and started for the Reference Room.

They'd only gone a few steps when a door opened somewhere nearby.

“You look terrible,” said a man's voice.

Dorrie and Marcus locked eyes and froze.

“Two months undercover as a fasting priestess will do that,” said a young woman's voice, as footsteps sounded. “Not my favorite assignment ever.”

Dorrie and Marcus slunk back along the corridor in the opposite direction from the voices, as quickly and silently as they could. They reached a dingy little vestibule bright with electric light, which opened into a room with a tinkling fountain in it to the left and a dark, airless beamed tunnel on the right.

“This way,” whispered Dorrie, choosing the cover of the dark tunnel. Along its walls, black smoke rose in malodorous threads from fat candles set in holders. A few yards down, they came to a silent, quivering halt. Dorrie covered her nose with one of her furry cuffs and listened for signs of pursuit but heard nothing. “If we get lost…” Not daring to go back, they pressed forward, relieved at last to emerge into a softly lit carpeted corridor full of dainty furniture and paintings. The sound of distant heavy footsteps made Dorrie whirl in fright.

“There,” whispered Marcus, leading them to a set of nearby doors. He flung them open and gave a high-pitched shriek. A bull-like animal the size of a van and the color of red clay filled the space just beyond the doorway. It snorted, and two enormous horns tilted first one way and then another. The creature took a step forward on one of its short, stocky legs, and the room rang with the sound of its enormous hoof hitting the ground. Dorrie thought she heard something crack beneath the carpet. A smell only slightly less repulsive than stagnant pond water filled the room.

“Good cowie, good little cowie,” Dorrie cooed desperately if insincerely, as she took a trembling step backward.

The creature tilted its red head at them and snorted forcefully, steam shooting from its nostrils. It took a step in Dorrie's direction.

“Don't call it!” squeaked Marcus.

The animal swung its heavy head toward Marcus.

“Okay, call it, call it!”

The creature began to paw the ground.

“Oh, no,” whimpered Dorrie.

As one, she and Marcus slowly grabbed hold of each other and then, “Run!” shouted Marcus.

Bathrobe and dressing gown flapping, Dorrie and Marcus sprinted down the brightly lit carpeted corridor, the creature in hot, thunderous pursuit. Up ahead, Dorrie saw an opening on the left. She felt the ground beneath her shaking and the creature's hot breath on her neck.

With a shout of terror, Dorrie leaped through the opening, hauling Marcus along with her. For a moment, she had the odd sensation of pushing against an invisible barrier and then being pushed from behind. She steeled herself for the impact of the monster cow's horns, but it didn't come. Instead, she collided with a table. Pots of ink, a little vase of flowers, and a rack of scrolls cascaded over the upended table's edges, the clay pots exploding as they hit the tiled floor. There was no door to close.

Covered in spatters of ink, Dorrie spun around to see the creature skid to a halt in the corridor, its immense nostrils flaring silently. Panting, she and Marcus backed away until a wall made farther retreat impossible. Dorrie trembled as, out in the corridor, in eerie silence, the creature gave one last toss of its head and galloped noiselessly out of sight.

“What was that?” asked Dorrie, her breath still ragged.

Marcus slumped to the floor. “Something that needs to go back into its cave painting.” He lifted his head. “Do you hear that?”

Dorrie listened. There was something. Some kind of drumming and maybe a flute. The music seemed to be coming from behind a door hung deep in one of the whitewashed walls. “Now what?”

“That is a kicking rhythm,” Marcus said. He hurried to the door and pressed his ear against it. Before Dorrie could stop him, he pulled the door open a crack and then shut it again quickly. He spun to face Dorrie. “There's a toga party going on out there.”

“A what?” said Dorrie.

“A toga party. Look for yourself!”

Her heart taking off again like an ambulance, Dorrie dragged herself to the door. Marcus opened it enough for Dorrie to put an eye to the crack. She stepped back and shut the door almost immediately, her eyes wide. She turned to Marcus. “There
is
a toga party going on out there.” A prickle worked its way up Dorrie's neck. She turned slowly to look at the opening they'd come through. It was an archway. She looked up. Tiled dolphins leaped around the top of the walls. They seemed oddly familiar. Stepping over puddles of ink and broken bits of clay pots, Dorrie looked cautiously out into the corridor.

“Where are you going?” asked Marcus.

“I just want to see…” Dorrie's voice trailed off as she stepped through the archway. Above it, between two pictures of a sword crossed with a quill, Dorrie read “Athens, 399 BCE.” The water clock trickled.

Dorrie dived back into the little room. “Marcus! We're standing in the Athens Spoke Library. The one we saw Aspasia walk out of.” She pointed at the door Marcus had opened. “That's long-, long-, long-time-ago Athens, Greece out there!”

Marcus's eyes danced. “Let's go look around!”

“We can't just ‘go look around' ancient Athens,” Dorrie chided, seized by a powerful desire to do just that. “We're supposed to be fixing things, not messing them up more!”

“But we may never get this chance again,” pleaded Marcus.

A tidal wave of a thought hit Dorrie. She glanced at the archway and then at her fingertips. “We shouldn't be having this chance now. We're Passaic keyhands, not Athens keyhands. How could—” She gasped. Marcus's bathrobe seemed to be moving on its accord. Her eyes bulged. His sleeves were getting shorter, and the hem rising. The whole bathrobe, in fact, was dissolving before Dorrie's eyes. His pocket gave way, and the rolled-up
History
of
Histories
page tumbled to the floor. A whispery sound jerked Dorrie's attention to her own dressing gown's glamorous fur cuffs. They, too, were disappearing like paper being eaten by flame.

“Full disclosure,” said Marcus, diving for the
History
of
Histories
page. “I'm not wearing anything underneath this robe.” Scooping it up, he ran full tilt at the archway, only to bounce backward, like a bird hitting a window. “Ow!” he cried out, slapping the air in front of the archway. His hand stopped dead, making a smacking sound. He tried it again, to the same effect. “I can deal with naked,” he shouted, “but I can't deal with looking like a mime!”

Grabbing the remains of her own dressing gown, Dorrie tried to push against the invisible barrier but fell right through into the corridor. Angry, she scrambled to her feet. “Quit fooling around!” she hissed, as Marcus in total silence, continued to make flailing mime motions with his fists. He paid no attention. Furious, Dorrie grabbed hold of one of his arms and hauled him into the corridor.

He clutched at Dorrie. “I couldn't get through. How did you—” He looked down. His bathrobe had almost completely disappeared and so had Dorrie's. Their eyes met for a split second, Marcus holding the rolled-up parchment in front of him like a fig leaf, and then in a blur, Marcus snatched a painting of a bowl full of aggressively green apples off the wall and held it beneath his chin. Dorrie dived behind a floor-length curtain that hung to one side.

Marcus looked sadly down at the painting. “I really liked that bathrobe.”

Dorrie stared at the archway. “Marcus, we almost didn't get back out.”

“Correction,” said Marcus. “
I
almost didn't.
You
got out just fine. You got me out.”

Dorrie felt a rush of uncomfortable foreboding. “Oh great, now we're abnormal accidental keyhands.” Francesco's face swam before her eyes. “Don't say anything to anyone about this.”

Marcus adjusted his painting. “What kind of idiot do you take me for?”

In the distance, they heard a crash as though something very heavy had toppled over.

Dorrie tore the curtain off the wall, and she and Marcus sprinted back to the Apprentice Attics.

UNTIL THEN

Phillip came to fetch Dorrie and Marcus the next afternoon. After all that had happened, he seemed like an old, long-lost friend and Dorrie threw her arms around his generous middle. He seemed his usual perfectly cheerful self, and Dorrie hoped that meant that Callamachus had not yet told Francesco about the missing page. She thought guiltily about having stuffed the page and the borrowed curtain into her duffel bag last night after returning from their failed mission.

Maddeningly, Phillip said nothing about Francesco or Hypatia or what had been decided as he swept them out to the Commons and toward a white building that thrust forward from the interconnecting libraries all around it. Three levels of pillars peppered its facade, and a steady stream of people climbed up and down the stairs that led to three wide entrances.

“That's most of the Library of Celsus from second-century Anatolia,” said Phillip. “It's our main gathering hall, our mail room, and Hypatia has her office there.”

Dorrie's pounding heart and racing thoughts made it hard to pay attention to his guided tour. As they ascended the steps, Phillip pointed to a row of marble female figures that flanked the doorways. “Meet Wisdom, Knowledge, Thought, and Virtue.” He stopped and looked back out over the vista of the Commons.

“The ancient architect, Vitruvius, advises that all libraries should face east for the benefit of early risers.” He looked doubtfully at Marcus. “For the best light, you see.” He sighed happily, taking in the mishmash of buildings surrounding the Commons. “And the Celsus always does, no matter how everything else here shifts.”

Inside the Celsus, crowds of people swirled around tall banks of cubbyholes that lined the walls of a large hall. Many paused in their conversations or with one hand frozen in a cubbyhole to watch Dorrie and Marcus go by. Dorrie ducked her head. They passed through an immensely tall set of bronze doors and into an echoing room filled with racks of scrolls built into the walls. Curving rows of tables with seats tucked under them faced a podium. Behind the podium, the biggest statue Dorrie had yet seen in Petrarch's Library stood in a raised alcove.

“Say hello to Athena,” Phillip said, leading them up three stone steps and around the figure's knees.

In the curved back of the alcove, Phillip led them through a doorway and into a spare, light-filled room. Two windows looked out into a garden. A carpet alive with writhing patterns in blue and gold spread almost to the edges of the room. Hypatia sat on a carpet-covered ottoman behind a low carved table, its delicate legs ending in carved deer hooves. Mistress Wu stood on one side and Francesco on the other. “Please. Sit down,” Hypatia said, indicating more ottomans that sat along the walls. Phillip helped Dorrie and Marcus pull them up to Hypatia's desk.

“Best to get right to it,” said Hypatia, rolling a beautiful inlaid pen between her fingers. “The Lybrariad feels that it would be unwise at this time to offer you places here as apprentices.”

Dorrie, who had not quite settled down onto her ottoman, felt a steely stab of disappointment. She stared at Hypatia, unsure whether to finish sitting or, in the interest of getting on with their banishment, stand up again.

“However,” Hypatia continued, “the Lybrariad feels that your proposal to train as apprentices is not entirely without merit.” Dorrie stopped breathing and slowly finished lowering herself to the ottoman. “We would like to invite you to stay here until the Midsummer Lybrarians' Conference and Festival, which will be held here in four weeks' time. This will give both the Lybrariad and you and Marcus a chance to get to know each other a little better, before the Lybrariad makes such a momentous decision.”

Dorrie felt as if someone had set her heart aflame.

“Lavish!” cried Marcus.

Hypatia tilted her head. “I'm going to assume that was an expression of enthusiasm.”

“It was,” said Dorrie, as Mistress Wu blew her nose long and hard into her handkerchief, her eyes watery with emotion. “It is!” Looking into Hypatia's calm, trusting eyes, Dorrie felt seized by a powerful urge to tell her everything, to just cough it all up and trust that the Lybrariad would see that coming into possession of the
History
of
Histories
page and last night's travel into Athens Spoke Library had both been simple accidents. On the verge of speaking, she thought: But what if the Lybrariad sees it all differently and sees us as enemies after all? We'd never even get a chance to prove ourselves. She closed her mouth.

“We chose a period of four weeks,” said Hypatia. “Not just so that you can enjoy the Midsummer Festival—I highly recommend the book-cart races, a corking good time—but because that's how long we have until time starts moving again in Passaic.”

“Why is that?” asked Marcus.

“Petrarch's Library has its rules. We lybrarians have discovered them slowly along the way. One rule is that when all the keyhands from one wheren are on the Petrarch's Library side of their archway, time essentially stops on the other side of the archway. For about four weeks. Then it slips forward again. You could, of course, get back into Passaic earlier than that—”

“And solve all our problems,” muttered Francesco.

“But we'll ask you to promise not to do that,” finished Hypatia.

“You simply mustn't!” cried Mistress Wu, as though someone has announced an intention to set her pile of hair ablaze. “If you try to use a new archway too early, you can lock yourself right out.”

“We wouldn't!” said Dorrie, who had no intention of leaving Petrarch's Library until someone dragged her out kicking and screaming.

Hypatia gathered her black and gray curls into a loose knot. “While you're here, I'd suggest that you develop a sense of what you'd be getting into, if indeed you became apprentices. Since we're so close to the end of this semester, you might find yourself a bit at sea in the practicums, but you're welcome to attend any of them you wish.”

Mistress Wu beamed at Dorrie. “Mistress Mai is teaching a Renaissance blades practicum that may interest you since I assume you already have had some instruction in that area.”

Dorrie's felt a nervous thrill run through her. If she could just show the Lybrariad that she had sword skills to offer, then Francesco wouldn't think she was such a waste of a keyhand.

“Like the other apprentices,” said Hypatia, “you're also welcome to look for a master or mistress with whom to work.”

“Let's see. Master Al-Rahmi doesn't have an apprentice this year,” said Mistress Wu, rearranging a pile of quills so that they lay against one another largest to smallest. “He's director of the book preservation department. And there's Mistress Khani. She teaches the patron relations—”

“Plants!” blurted out Marcus. “I'd love to learn about plants.”

Dorrie stared at him. “But you said you'd—”

“Rather open my head up with a can opener than go another day without learning something about plants,” finished Marcus.

“Is that so?” said Phillip, his eyebrows lifting, as Francesco's eyes rolled almost out of sight.

“Our Egeria just made lybrarian and doesn't yet have an apprentice,” enthused Mistress Wu. “She teaches a practicum in foraging. She may be willing.”

Marcus looked on the verge of attempting to high-five Mistress Wu.

“One more thing, I think,” gritted out Francesco. “Participation in apprentice field trips will be absolutely out of the question.”

Madame Wu looked instantly cast down, as if she'd just gotten the news that a meteor had hit her house, but Hypatia nodded. “Sensible enough.” She smiled at Dorrie and Marcus. “Now if you'll excuse us, we have other matters to discuss.”

Dorrie followed Marcus through the door in a euphoric daze. At the very worst, she had a month to practice with her sword among the lybrarians and explore Petrarch's Library. And at best, she might be able to convince them to let her become an actual sword-wielding hero. Out of pure joy, she leaped in the air. Landing, she turned her head for one last look into Hypatia's office. Francesco was pulling on one side of his moustache with so much force that Dorrie feared it might come right off in his hand.

***

In the attics, most of the apprentices they'd met were scattered around the den. They sprang to attention upon Dorrie and Marcus's arrival.

“Well?” said Ebba from where she sat writing a letter.

“We're staying,” shouted Dorrie. Simultaneously, she and Ebba both felt the need to jump up and down whooping. Envelopes and papers scattered onto the floor from Ebba's lap. “At least for a while,” Dorrie said in a rush.

“The Lybrariad is going to think about letting us become apprentices,” said Marcus.

Dorrie shyly sat on the arm of a heavy chair. “They're going to decide after the Midsummer Festival.”

“It's called the Midsummer Lybrarians' Conference and Festival,” said Millie, from where she sat poring over a book of illustrated weaponry on the other side of the room.

Izel blinked in Dorrie's direction. “So Hypatia and Francesco don't think you're a threat to Petrarch's Library?” The little extra emphasis that she put on the word “think” vied with the perfect innocence of her expression.

Dorrie hesitated, thinking about Francesco pulling on his mustache. Mathilde answered for her. “Obviously not, or they'd be out chasing Mongolian gerbils across the steppes for their dinner tonight instead of joining us at the Sharpened Quill.”

“I'd like to chase Mongolian gerbils,” sighed Ebba.

Mathilde fixed Ebba with a suspicious stare. “Don't even think about reading one of those ugly little things out up here!”

“She's not supposed to read animals out at all,” said Millie. “Not after that boa constrictor.”

“I was just trying to help scare away the rats!” protested Ebba.

Sven looked up from the fly-fishing book he had his nose in. “That you read out from that Pied Piper story.”

Ebba sighed. “They sounded so clever.”

“You can read animals out of books,” said Dorrie, dumbfounded.

“It's like Sven and Master Phillip with food,” said Saul. “Some people just have a certain knack.” He pointed to two leather satchels leaning against the fireplace hearth. “Mistress Lovelace sent those up for you. Basics kits.”

Marcus sat down and propped one between his knees. He pulled out a fountain pen, a raincoat, a muffler, a toothbrush, a comb, a bundle of candles, a box of matches, a compass, and some antique-looking clothing.

Dorrie reached cautiously into hers and pulled out the first thing her hand touched. It was a bottle-green dress that looked like it would reach to below Dorrie's knees.

“Oh,” said Ebba, sounding pleasantly surprised. “She went modern.”

To Dorrie, the dress looked utterly old-fashioned and almost like a coat with its broad lace-trimmed collar, heavy cuffs, and large pockets.

“Be thankful she didn't send a hoop skirt,” said Mathilde.

“Gayetty's Medicated Papers?” said Marcus, reading the side of a box he'd just pulled out. “What are these for?”

“I'll give you a hint,” said Mathilde. “The Greeks use rocks. The Romans prefer a sponge on a stick, and where, if not when, you're from, people tend to use corncobs or pages from the Sears and Roebuck catalog.”

“Toilet paper?” crowed Marcus, pulling a large, rough-looking square of paper from the box. “My God, I can
see
the splinters in it.”

“Would you prefer wool soaked in rosewater,” said Millie, “or a nice handful of moss, maybe?”

“Why, yes I would,” said Marcus, rubbing the sheet of Gayetty's Medicated Paper across his arm.

Millie snapped her book closed, and Dorrie had the distinct feeling that she would have liked it if Marcus's head had been stuck inside.

Dorrie fumbled for a way to change the subject. “So, I'm supposed to find a Mistress Mai and ask her if I can start taking her Renaissance blades practicum.”

Millie looked Dorrie up and down, her arms crossed and face stony. “So you know the sword?”

“‘Know' is really kind of elastic word, isn't it?” said Marcus.

Dorrie shot him an irritated look. Marcus's lack of faith in her abilities had begun to grate on her nerves. She'd practiced for many, many hours. Not just with Mr. Kornberger and the Academy students, but at home in her bedroom, parrying and thrusting, imagining her opponent's every move. If Moe hadn't escaped and Dorrie had gotten her chance to duel with Tiffany, Marcus would have seen what Dorrie knew she could do.

“So what's your favorite blade?” asked Millie. “Rapier? Broadsword? Cutlass? Swiss dagger?”

“The small sword,” said Dorrie promptly, thinking of her own beloved, dull stage-combat sword still tucked in her bag. And because she'd never tried any other kind of blade, beside Tiffany's.