The Accidental Keyhand Page 17

Out of Casanova’s sight, Dorrie jumped up and down, and shook her head violently back and forth.

  Marcus paid her no attention. “I only like to play Athenians.”

  Dorrie dropped her face in her hands.

  “I assure you,” said Casanova, thrusting a sheaf of papers at Marcus. “He’s an Athenian’s Athenian.”

  Master Casanova sized up Dorrie. “Can you act?” he demanded, throwing his arm up and out forcefully to one side so that the papers in his hand trembled.

  One of the dogs gave a sharp bark.

  “Yes,” said Dorrie, glad to be on familiar ground. “Mostly I’ve played pirates.”

  “Pirates?” said the old man, obviously appalled. “What authentic writer of tragedies would insult an audience with the presence of a pirate?”

  “Well, usually the plays were more pretend sword fights than real tragedies,” stammered Dorrie.

  “Oh, I think you could call them tragedies,” Marcus put in.

  Casanova took in a deep, slow breath. It took him some time. He seemed to be carefully keeping track of all the air entering each of his individual lung sacs. “When I ask, ‘Can you act,’ I mean, have you ever donned a mask in a proper Greek tragedy?”

  “Not exactly,” said Dorrie.

  Master Casanova lifted his eyes to the heavens. “Oh, Zeus, bring me actors!” He thwacked a sheaf of papers against Ebba’s chest. “Here. You shall read for the part of the devastated Parthian Queen, our heroine.”

  “What? No.” said Ebba firmly, handing back the script. “How about a part in the chorus?”

  Master Casanova ignored her words and swung one of Ebba’s hands high in the air. “My Parthian Queen!”

  Dorrie looked into Ebba’s stricken face and tried to radiate deep apology.

  Casanova chose that moment to turn back to Dorrie. “Chorus,” he pronounced, handing her a script and turning quickly away.

  Just then Millie marched into their midst, with Izel sidling along beside her.

  “Millie!” Dorrie stammered. “What are you doing here?”

  Millie shook her bangs out of her face and stared hard at Dorrie. “I guess the same thing you are.”

  “…You morons,” Marcus offered up solicitously.

  Millie glared at him as Master Casanova took a step backward and a sidelong look at Millie. “In you, I sense the natural energy of a powerful goddess complete with destructive tendencies.”

  “Goddess?” repeated Millie, her eyes wary now.

  Master Casanova took in Izel. “And her wily maidservant.” He put on a falsetto voice. “‘Artemis, Artemis, where art thou?’”

  “Chorus?” muttered Dorrie to Ebba. “What about me screams out ‘chorus’?”

  Casanova clapped his hands together. “Now, I’m thinking of playing a good deal of the action in the cave. It’s not traditional, but with the echoes and a few torches, I think the effect will set the hairs on people’s heads standing straight up.”

  “And Millie—Millie screams out ‘goddess’?” added Dorrie. She had to firmly remind herself that the whole point of being in the play was just to get the costumes. She leafed through the script, growing more and more alarmed. Mathilde hadn’t been kidding. Even Dorrie knew that a story needed a beginning, a middle, and an end. The script seemed to be all middle, with the hero mostly giving long, long speeches.

  “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 te
mples.

  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.

  CHAPTER 16

  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.