The Accidental Keyhand (18 page)

“He makes Mr. Kornberger look like Shakespeare,” hissed Marcus.

“We did try to warn you,” whispered Ebba.

“A true Greek tragedy,” trumpeted Master Casanova, “has episodes wherein the characters interact, and passions are aroused by a swirl of circumstance and fate.” His voice rose higher. “Heroes and villains take actions.” His arms flailed. “Death and misery, ingratitude and the bitter curds of envy rain down upon the hero. Between the episodes, the chorus will gossip cruelly about what has just transpired and—”

Marcus raised his hand. “Excuse me, but when do we get our costumes?”

“Your costumes?”

“Yes, I'd like to get my costume as soon as possible. I really want to start living the life of my character in, uh, my imagination. All the time. I'm sort of a Method actor.”

Casanova looked puzzled and then pleased. “You mean not just at rehearsal?”

“Exactly!” said Marcus. “All the time. I want to live the life of an Athenian. I want to wear a chiton and eat a lot of grapes, maybe do a little geometry with a stick in some sand. I want to really
become
Icky-Tongue, I mean Taco-most, I mean…” He flipped through his script.

“Iakchos!” cried Casanova.

“Yes!” cried Marcus with the same fever pitch of excitement.

“A splendid idea! I'll have costumes for everyone by tomorrow morning. But you must promise to tell me more about this ‘Method acting.'”

Dorrie felt a great wave of appreciation for Marcus.

***

A few evenings later, Athenian chitons stowed in their room, Ebba and Dorrie checked the Athens archway again to make sure nothing had changed. Marcus felt like he had already done enough good in the world, having both managed to get the costumes
and
talk Casanova into making some changes to the script that definitely seemed to make it less bad, though Dorrie felt that the Greek tragedy now read suspiciously like an ancient version of
Star
Wars
. And even though the spring practicums were almost at an end, Marcus had begun to attend Casanova's on stealth and deception.

“He's not much of a playwright,” Marcus told them as they met up near the Commons afterward. “But that man can lie convincingly! I have so much to learn.”

They were on their way to play croquet with the other apprentices, but from the moment they arrived, Dorrie felt a strange reluctance on the part of everyone but Mathilde and Saul and Kenzo to meet her eyes.

“Why's everyone acting weird?” murmured Dorrie to Mathilde as they stood waiting for their turns near the same wicket.

Mathilde rolled her eyes. “Just ignore them and carry on.”

Her words did not reassure Dorrie. “Ignore what? What's going on?”

Mathilde took a deep, reluctant breath as though she'd rather not say. “Izel's been telling anyone who'll listen that Millie told her that she overheard Francesco telling Callamachus that ‘persons unknown' have been asking about Kash in Thebes, and that a couple of them supposedly had blackened fingernails.” Dorrie's heart began to bang wildly. She reflexively tucked her thumb with its ugly black nail inside her curled fingers.

“Is that all?” choked out Dorrie, in a stab at humor.

Mathilde sighed.

Dorrie's hands began to sweat. “There's more?”

“Izel said that Callamachus said that these two historians, Sima Quian and Strabo, now mention people called ‘Blacknails' in their writings, and he seemed concerned.”

Dorrie felt paralyzed with sick dread.

“Look,” said Mathilde briskly, catching Dorrie's eye, “Izel's just trying to stir up trouble. Whatever is or isn't going on with people making questionable fingernail fashion choices in China, you know you have nothing to do with Kash disappearing, right? You took a blow to the hand.”

Dorrie nodded dumbly.

“So, just act like it!”

Despite Mathilde's bracing words, Dorrie could only think of fleeing to the solitude of her own room. “I think I left Moe's cage unlocked,” she managed to choke out.

Instead of heading toward the Apprentice Attics, she walked with stormy steps toward the Gymnasium. She forced herself to stare at her thumbnail. It was entirely black. A sick chill crept through her.
Was
she
serving
the
Foundation
in
some
way
without
even
realizing
it?
She thought of the
History
of
Histories
page she'd lost.
That
had
been
a
pure
accident. Hadn't it?
She shivered and pushed on the black thumbnail. It caused no pain, but blood pounded in her temples.

What if there was something in her that really was rotten, that would be at home with the Foundation? That was everything a lybrarian wouldn't be? She thought back to her interrupted sword fight with Tiffany. Maybe, despite all she'd told herself, her nail hadn't actually blackened because of that one blow from Tiffany's sword, but because of something Dorrie had done or thought.

She cast backward to the moment when Tiffany had made fun of her for pretending too well, too eagerly. Dorrie's breath became ragged, remembering how intensely she'd wanted to shut Tiffany up and make her take back her words, how she'd demanded that Tiffany not wear the insulting T-shirt. Maybe she was truly more of a natural Foundation operative than a keyhand of the Lybrariad.

She slipped into the Gymnasium, which was almost entirely empty. Not even the idea of practicing with a sword seemed appealing at the moment. She ached to feel her mother's hand on her back, hear her father making noise in his workshop. Her fear fed an overwhelming urge to be back in Great-Aunt Alice's house drinking cocoa with Miranda and her parents in the kitchen.

Holding back hot tears, Dorrie slipped into the Roman bath. It was empty. At her feet lay the gently splashing pool, and high above her head, the cracked ceiling gave way to the hole. A rough wooden stairway had been constructed from the edge of the pool to a platform below the “not-a-real-archway.” Her way home. The lump in her throat grew unbearably large as she gazed up into the Passaic Public Library. It seemed to call to her.

“May I help you find something?” said a harsh voice behind her.

Dorrie jumped and then spun around. She found herself looking into Francesco's deeply cragged face.

His one visible eye searched her own thoroughly. “Or have you already found exactly what you were looking for?”

Dorrie swallowed hard. “I…I…I wasn't looking for anything.”

Francesco continued to stare at her for a long moment. “Hypatia has decided to trust you,” said Francesco. “I haven't. Put one toe over the line, compromise the Library's work in any way, and I will find out about it.”

Dorrie felt cold to the bone. Did he know that she and Marcus had been to Athens? Did he know about the missing
History
of
Histories
page? She made a little sound in the back of her throat and nodded vigorously.

Without another word, Francesco stretched out his arm toward the door to the Gymnasium. Dorrie scuttled toward it, grateful that he didn't follow her.

In the Apprentice Attics, Dorrie threw herself on her bed and let the sobbing come.

THE STAR BOOK

Over the next few days, Dorrie felt the full brunt of the effect of Izel's rumors. Whispers and averted eyes seemed to greet her at the mailboxes, in the Gymnasium, in the Sharpened Quill, and out on the Commons. Marcus didn't seem the least bit fazed, but then again, he wasn't the one walking around with the suspicious nail.

It didn't help that she'd received a note from Savi telling her he'd be out of Petrarch's Library for several days and to go on with her practicing without him. Despite Mathilde, Saul, and Kenzo's unchanged behavior, Dorrie found excuses to eat as few meals as possible in the Sharpened Quill, where the whispering and pointing and double takes from the other apprentices, and even some of the lybrarians, made eating a misery.

It was a relief when, one morning at the mailboxes, Dorrie received an invitation from Ursula to have lunch at her stone cottage, which always felt like a welcoming place. Dorrie had just reached into her mailbox to pull out an item—another overdue notice from Mistress Lovelace—when she heard the swish of silk behind her.

“How are you getting on?” said a quiet voice.

Dorrie whirled to see Hypatia reaching into her own message box.

“F–f–fine,” stammered Dorrie, feeling a warm flush creeping up her neck and somehow immediately making her conscious of every lie she'd ever told in her life.

“Everyone treating you well, I hope,” said Hypatia, a questioning smile on her lips.

Dorrie nodded silently, absolutely sure for a fleeting second that she should have told Hypatia about her accidental trip to Athens and the missing
History
of
Histories
page a long time ago, but finding it impossible to tell her now.

After eyeing Dorrie for a moment longer, Hypatia patted the satchel she carried. “I believe I'm carrying something that belongs to you.” She reached inside and pulled out the book with the stars cut out of it. Dorrie stared at it dumbly.

Hypatia held it out to her. “Thank you for letting us look it over. The Archivist wasn't able to make use of it as a translating tool, unfortunately, but the handwriting is Petrarch's.”

“But it's not mine,” said Dorrie, a tremble in her voice. “I told you.”

A small smile played on Hypatia's lips. “Well, let's just say that it's more yours than ours, since it came from Passaic.”

“Did it?” said Dorrie, more sharply than she meant to, longing to throw off some of the blame and suspicion she felt had been heaped on her by Francesco and Millie and Izel from the moment she'd come to Petrarch's Library.

“It did,” said Hypatia, her eyes calm. “I believe that as firmly as I believe you had never before seen this book until Francesco pulled it out of your bag.”

At Hypatia's words, Dorrie's eyes pricked with the threat of relieved tears. The director glanced out of one of the tall, open doors. “Midsummer is drawing near. No matter the decision made about your future with the Lybrariad, we'll all need to venture back out into Passaic with caution. Especially given the unusual, not to mention damp, circumstances of your arrival.”

She leafed through the red book's pages. “Knowledge of where the book might have come from could be of great use in understanding our position. Give it some thought, will you?” She held the book out to Dorrie again. “And do come out for croquet tonight. It's payback time for Mistress Lovelace, and I intend to do the winning whacking.”

“Th–thank you,” stammered Dorrie, taking the book.

With a pleasant nod, Hypatia turned, her blue silk tunic making a whispering sound. She disappeared into the Council Chamber.

At lunchtime, Dorrie brought the book with her to Ursula's cottage.

“I don't know how much more enthusiasm for the wonders of calyx variation I can fake!” groaned Marcus, putting his head down on the round table he and Ebba and Dorrie had just pulled chairs up around. Wooden bowls filled with herbs, and a stone mortar and pestle jumped at the force of his dejection.

“So stop pretending,” said Dorrie, lifting her legs as a golden chicken stepped through the doorway that led out to a little grassy area planted with one of Egeria's medicinal gardens, and headed pecking for Dorrie's feet.

“Never,” vowed Marcus into the tabletop. He hauled himself upright again. “But it's so hard to focus on tricks for identifying spotted dead nettle when I could be helping Master Casanova make a batch of invisible ink.”

Ebba gave Moe a bit of the boiled egg she was eating. For all the meals he'd missed, Moe chittered with as much energy as usual. Already, Ebba had him sliding around her neck and happily curling up in her arms as though he'd never clawed a human in his life. A dull thud made them look out the window. Phillip, squatting alongside one of Ursula's goats, lunged for a rolling bucket and stuck it under the goat again. As he reached for the goat's udder, she twitched her tail, and Phillip drew back as though the udder had just burst into flames.

Dorrie smiled. “He doesn't look comfortable with the whole milking thing.”

“
He
doesn't look comfortable?” said Ebba. “Look at the poor goat!”

Just then, Ursula swung through a door in the back of the room. She put a jar of jam and a warm loaf of bread on the table. As Marcus pounced on the loaf, the goat gave an angry bleat, and Phillip swore lustily. In another moment, Phillip was chasing the goat round and round the yard.

“I think I'd better help Phillip,” sighed Ursula. “Though he hates to admit it, he was more born to the manor than to the barn.”

Left alone with Ebba and Marcus, Dorrie pulled the book out of her satchel and laid it on the table.

Ebba's eyes widened. “Is that the star book?”

Dorrie nodded. “Hypatia gave it back to me.”

“Why?” said Marcus, trying to look suspicious while cramming his mouth full of bread and jam. A feat, Dorrie decided, that was hard to pull off.

Dorrie told them about her conversation with Hypatia.

“So,” said Ebba, when Dorrie had finished. “Do you have any ideas?”

“It could have been anyone,” said Dorrie, reaching for what was left of the bread. “We were at the Pen and Sword Festival for hours. There were tons of people. Anyone could have stuck it in.”

“Maybe it was a mistake,” said Ebba. “Maybe your bag looked like someone else's.”

“But what if it was on purpose?” said Dorrie.

“What random person sticks a random book in some random bag on purpose?” said Marcus, eating a glob of jam off the knife.

“But what if it wasn't a random person?” said Dorrie. “What if it was someone we know? Or someone who meant to do it?” All at once, she had a vivid vision of Miranda sitting at the kitchen table the morning they'd left Passaic. She looked sharply at her brother. “Marcus, remember Miranda said she put
The
Three
Musketeers
in my bag? What if she only thought she did? What if
she
put the star book in there?” Dorrie felt a little sick. “What if she took it from someone in our house?”

“She does enjoy her petty-toddler-criminal hobby,” said Marcus thoughtfully, dropping the knife back in the jam.

Dorrie chewed on her fingernail. “And she's always taking stuff from Great-Aunt Alice's room.”

Marcus snorted. “She takes stuff from everybody's rooms.”

“Who's Great-Aunt Alice?” asked Ebba.

“She lives with us, or I guess it's more like we live with her,” said Dorrie, thinking about how little she knew about her great-aunt, really.

Marcus tilted back in his chair. “Uh, you do know that Great-Aunt Alice was a librarian before she was an anthropologist, don't you? Like a million years ago.”

“What?” screeched Dorrie.

“Yeah. For like five minutes. Dad told me that her father got really mad when she gave it up. He wanted her to run the Passaic Public Library, since he'd built it and started it and stuff, but she refused and ran off with some airplane pilot.”

Dorrie looked at her brother in amazement. “I never knew that.”

They watched Phillip step in the bucket of milk he'd managed to coax out of the goat.

Marcus searched the tabletop for crumbs. “Don't you ever ask Dad random questions that you know he'll be all psyched that you're asking, right after he's asked you to do a chore?”

“What? No,” Dorrie answered, confused.

Marcus shook his head. “Oh, Sister, Sister, I'm not sure I should be giving away my proven work-avoidance techniques for free.”

Dorrie looked at him blankly.

Marcus rolled his eyes. “Dad'll go on and on and on with his answer until he completely forgets he ever asked you to do anything. The most you have to do is help him along with an additional question now and then, as though you're really interested in what he's saying, and you're golden.”

“You actually think those things out ahead of time,” said Ebba, awed.

“I am a planner,” said Marcus.

Dorrie was only half listening. Since they'd begun to talk about Great-Aunt Alice, a vague memory had been trying to take definite shape. She gasped and grabbed hold of Ebba with one hand and Marcus with the other. “What if Great-Aunt Alice has been trying to find Petrarch's Library?” Just the thought of such a possibility filled Dorrie with a dazzling sense of gloriousness.

Marcus stared at her with big eyes. “And what if my name is really Swisscheese McCranklespanx?”

Dorrie ignored him. “I heard Great-Aunt Alice talking to Amanda right before the Pen and Sword Festival. They didn't know I was listening.” She didn't feel it necessary to explain about her panicked stint in the wicker basket. “They were talking about waiting for something important to happen. They never said what, but Great-Aunt Alice was disappointed and said she didn't believe it was going to happen, and Amanda seemed excited and tried to convince her that it would.” She looked back and forth from Marcus to Ebba with shining eyes. “What if they were waiting for Petrarch's Library to connect with the Passaic Public Library?”

“Did either of them mention a library?” asked Ebba.

Dorrie strained to remember. “Not exactly.”

Marcus unpeeled Dorrie's fingers from his arm. “They could have been wondering if N'Sync was going to record a comeback album.” He brought the front legs of his chair down with a crash. “And have you thought about this? Maybe Great-Aunt Alice is some kind of rogue ex-librarian working for that new version of the Foundation that Francesco's so worried about.”

“Marcus!” protested Dorrie. “Don't say that! Why are you saying that?”

“Because I'm kidding.”

“I swear, she's not!” cried Dorrie to Ebba. “The Foundation wanted to control the flow of information, and who got to know what. Great-Aunt Alice wouldn't like their ways at all.”

“Now who's kidding?” snorted Marcus. “She loves to control stuff.”

“Well, it sounds like lots of people could have put the book in your bag,” said Ebba, scratching Moe under the chin. “But definitely tell Hypatia what you remembered. Maybe the Lybrariad can talk to your great-aunt.”

A thought struck Dorrie. While she was sure that if Great-Aunt Alice had been looking for Petrarch's Library, it was as a friend, she had no proof. Telling the Lybrariad about Great-Aunt Alice might make them even more suspicious of Dorrie and Marcus. Dorrie nodded vaguely at Ebba. She'd tell Hypatia soon, Dorrie resolved. Once the
History of Histories
page was back where it belonged.