“Oh wow, Char wasn’t lying.”
Giovanni brushed the hair out of his eyes and glanced up from his notebook looking around for the quiet female voice as he paused in the entry to the Special Collections reading room at the Houston University library.
“Pardon me?” he asked in confusion to the girl in the corner.
The black-haired girl behind the counter smiled. He noticed a slight blush coloring her fair skin.
“Nothing,” she said with a quick smile. “Nothing at all. Welcome to the Special Collections reading room. You must be Dr. Vecchio.”
Giovanni frowned as he tucked his notebook into a leather messenger bag. “I am. Is Mrs. Martin unavailable this evening?” He scanned the young woman sitting behind the reference desk on the fifth floor of the library. Since the department had opened their once-weekly evening hours a year ago, the bookish Charlotte Martin had been the only employee he’d seen behind the desk of the small, windowless room that housed the rare books, manuscripts, and archives.
“She’s not able to do evening shifts anymore. Family reasons, I think. Something about her kids. I’m B, her assistant.” Her voice lacked the twang typical of most Texans, though the flat intonation with only a hint of accent was fairly common among native Houstonians, especially those of younger generations. “She left me notes about what you’ve been working on, so I’m perfectly able to assist you in your research.”
Despite her rather common accent, the girl’s voice held a faint quality which told him at least one of her parents was a native Spanish speaker. Her thick, black hair was pulled into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck, and she was dressed in a black button-down shirt and slim skirt. He smiled when he saw the tops of her tall Doc Marten boots almost touching her knees.
“Are you a student?” he asked.
Her chin jutted out in a barely perceptible movement which matched the quick flash of intelligence in her eyes. “I’ve worked here for almost three years. I’m sure doing a quick computer search or fetching a document is well within my abilities, Dr. Vecchio.”
He could feel the smile crawl across his face. “I meant no disrespect…I’m sorry, what was your name?”
“Just call me B,” she said, glancing down at some handwritten notes.
From where he was standing, Giovanni could see the familiar scrawl of Mrs. Martin’s handwriting.
“
“No, the Etruscan. I’m wild like that,” she muttered and glanced up. “She also put a small note here at the bottom of her instructions regarding you.”
“Yes?” He waited, curious what the librarian thought bore mention to her replacement.
“Hmm, it just reads, ‘He comes in every week. You’re welcome.’” The girl’s eyes ran from his handmade shoes, up his tall figure, finally meeting his startling, blue-green eyes. “Thanks indeed, Char,” she said with a smile.
He smirked at her obvious look of approval, noting the small ruby piercing in her nose that caught the florescent lights of the reading room. Her eyes were lined in black, her skin was fair, and though she did not have classically beautiful features, he thought her dramatic looks would be eye-catching even from a distance.
“I saw you Friday night!” she blurted. “I was coming in to meet a friend after her shift. I saw you heading out.”
Glancing away from her toward the door, he brushed at the dark curls that had fallen into his eyes again. “That’s possible,” he noted. “I like working in the evenings here.”
She shrugged. “Well, obviously.”
“Why?” he asked. “Why obviously?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Because you’re here now? Instead of the middle of the day?”
He blinked. “Of course.”
“So what do you do?”
“Me?”
The girl snorted and looked around the otherwise empty room. “Yeah.”
He opened his mouth and almost considered telling her the truth, just to see what the unusual girl might say.
“I do…research.”
She stood, as if waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, she smiled politely and held out a hand. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you.”
He paused for a moment then held out his own hand to shake hers.
“Nice to meet you as well…” He frowned a little. “What’s your
“Why?”
“I…” Giovanni had no idea why he wanted to know, except perhaps, because she didn’t seem to want to tell him. So he flashed her his most charming smile and cheered internally when he heard her heart speed up.
She rolled her eyes. “My ‘real’ name is Beatrice. But I hate it, so please just call me B. Everyone does, even Dr. Christiansen,” she added, referencing the very formal Director of Special Collections for the library.
“Of course,” he said with a small smile. “I was simply curious. For the record, however, I think Beatrice is a lovely name.” He made sure to pronounce her name with the softer Italian accent it deserved.
She rolled her eyes again and tried to keep from smiling. “Well, thanks. What can I get for you this evening, Dr. Vecchio?”
“The Tibetan manuscript, please.”
“Of course.” She handed over a small paper slip so he could fill out the formal request for the item. Then she reached into the desk drawer to hand him a pair of silk gloves necessary for handing any of the ancient documents in the collection.
He took a seat at one of the tables in the windowless room, laying out his notebooks, a box of pencils, and a set of notes for Tenzin written in Mandarin. After a few minutes, Beatrice walked through the door from the stacks. Carefully placing the grey paper box containing the fifteenth century Tibetan book on the counter, she turned back to make sure the door to the air-controlled room was closed and locked before she walked around the desk and toward Giovanni.
He noted again how well-preserved the manuscript was as the girl opened the acid-free paper box. The manuscript was a series of square, painted panels that contained spells purportedly used by goddesses for healing. The carved wooden covers and gold and black ink were startling in their clarity, and though it held the musty odor typical of old documents, he noted with satisfaction very little scent of mold or mildew clung to it.
“Please wear your gloves at all times and handle the pages as little as possible. Please keep all manuscript materials inside the box as you examine them. If you need further assistance in examining the document, please…”
Listening absently to the rote instructions the girl offered, his mind had already moved ahead to his task for the evening. He’d copied the first third of the small volume over the summer. He estimated careful transcription of the manuscript would take another four to five months at the rate he was working. Fortunately, time was not an issue for him on this project.
