questions and then declined to answer them.
But Ms. Callender took a breath and began. “The New-York Circulating Material Repository is the oldest subscription library of its kind in the country. We’ve existed in one form or another since 1745, when three clock makers began sharing some of their more specialized tools. That collection became the core of the repository in 1837, when a group of amateur astronomers pooled their resources and opened shop. Our first home was on St. John’s Park, near Greenwich Street, but we moved uptown to East Twenty-fourth Street in 1852 and to our current location in 1921. Of course, we’ve expanded into the adjoining buildings since then. In fact, most of the stacks are part of the 1958 expansion. Lee’s office is in the original 1921 bequest, though.”
Informative, but not very enlightening. “Are the subscribers the people who come here to borrow books or whatever?” I asked.
“Books?” She looked taken aback. “No, not really. There are plenty of other libraries for that. I hope you’re not going to be disappointed, honey—if it’s books you’re after, I can put you in touch with Jill Kaufmann at the Lion Library. They can always use pages.”
Was I imagining things, or was Marc smirking a little?
“No, it’s just—Mr. Mauskopf said there was a job at a library, so I just assumed, you know, I would be working with books. If it’s not books, what is it?”
“What? Objects, of course. We’re just like a circulating book library but with far more varied collections.”
“What kind of collections? Collections of what?”
She took a breath and began again. It sounded as if she’d given this speech many times too. “Some of the more popular types of items we loan out these days include musical instruments, sports equipment, and specialized cooking tools. Many New Yorkers like to give the occasional fondue party, for example, but they don’t want to devote the cupboard space to a lot of fondue pots. Or if you’re thinking of learning to play the piccolo, you might borrow one to see how you like it. In the late nineteenth century, specialized silver services were very popular. In the 1970s, it was wood lathes. Lately there’s been a run on—oh dear!” She broke off as a girl around my age appeared from between a pair of cabinets with a slip of paper in her hand. “There’s another one, I bet.”
“Excuse me, Ms. Callender. Dr. Rust is out and there’s a patron who needs to borrow something from the Grimm Collection. Can you handle the deposit?” asked the girl.
“Of course. Thanks, Anjali.” Ms. Callender turned to me. “I’m sorry, hon, we’ll have to finish up later. Here, I need you to fill out these forms. You can leave them with Anjali when you’re done, and I’ll see you—let’s see, when’s your first shift? Tuesday. I’m so glad to have you with us, honey—it’ll be a big help. And I hope you’ll come to love the repository as much as we do.” She shook my hand vigorously and vanished between a pair of cabinets.
“She seems friendly,” I said.
“Ms. Callender? She’s a honey,” said Anjali.
Marc grinned at her.
I sat down at one of the heavy oak desks to fill out my forms. Anjali leaned against it. She was medium height, with cascades of black hair, amber-tan skin, and brown eyes under perfectly arched eyebrows. I had always wanted eyebrows like that. Mine are straight and kind of plain.
“I’m Elizabeth Rew,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Elizabeth. I’m Anjali Rao.”
“Hey, can I ask a question?” I asked.
Anjali and Marc intoned in unison, “The one who asks questions does not lose his way!” Then they smiled at each other.
“What’s the Grimm Collection?”
The smiles vanished and they glanced at each other. “Don’t worry about that for now,” said Anjali.
“Oh. Okay,” I said, feeling a little snubbed. There was an awkward silence. “So,” I tried again, “what do they pay us around here?”
“Eighty-five percent of minimum wage,” said Marc.
“How can they call it the minimum, then?” I objected.
“It doesn’t seem fair, does it? We’re students, so they’re allowed to pay us less,” said Anjali.
I thought about it. “I guess it could be worse.”
“You could get more flipping burgers—but then you’d have to flip burgers,” said Marc. “This place smells a lot better.”
“Except Stack 8,” said Anjali.
They both snorted. I wanted to ask what Stack 8 was, but I didn’t want to risk being told to mind my own business again.
“So, Elizabeth,” said Anjali, “where did you put the memorial button?”
“The what?”
“The button with human hair.”
“It’s downstairs with Dr. Rust.”
“No, I mean what category did you put it in?”
“With the things made of animal parts. Why, where did you put it?” I asked Anjali.
“Mid-nineteenth century. But now I think it should have gone in eighteenth. Doesn’t matter, I still got the job. What about the barrette?”
“What barrette? There was no barrette, just buttons. Oh, and a zipper.”
“A zipper! How interesting. I wonder what that means. What about you, Merritt, did you get a zipper or a barrette? Do you remember?”
“I got a belt buckle and an electric switch,” said Marc. “And the memorial button.”
“Really? That’s two extras besides the button box. I only got one.”
“Yeah, I don’t think Doc was too happy when I put the belt buckle in with the nails. I think the electric switch was like giving me a second chance to prove myself.”
“What nails?” I said.
“Oh, you didn’t get any nails?” said Anjali. “I did. They were in the button box.”
A pneum thumped into the basket. She went to get it.
“Are you on 9 with us now?” Marc asked her. “I thought you were down in the Dungeon today.”
“I am, but it’s okay, I’m on break. I have another ten minutes.” She handed Marc the slip. “Do you think Doc ever flunks anybody for sorting the buttons wrong?”
“Wrong how?” asked Marc.
“I don’t know, maybe if you did something really obvious, like lining them up by size.”
Marc looked a little embarrassed; I wondered whether he’d lined the buttons up by size. I knew how he felt —I’d done it myself. Well, I’d used size and color together, but close enough.
He studied the slip and headed off down the room. I gazed after him, admiring his walk.
“So you go to Fisher with Merritt?” asked Anjali.
“Yes, where do you go?”
“Miss Wharton’s School,” she said. It was a fancy all-girls’ private school near Fisher. When I went to Chase, we used to be in the same sports league for the girls’ teams. I wondered whether she would be stuck up—Miss Wharton’s had that reputation. But she seemed nice enough so far.
I finished the forms and handed them to her. “That’s it, I guess. How do I get out of here? This building’s a little confusing, and I don’t have a great sense of direction,” I said.
“Just take the elevator to the lobby.”
I looked at the three little elevators doubtfully. “What elevator?” I asked.
Anjali laughed. “Oh, did Merritt make you climb up all those stairs? He’s such a he-man! I didn’t mean the dumbwaiters—I meant the real, live, person-size elevator. Come on, I’ll show you.”
I put on my coat and followed her through a fire door. “I’m glad you’re here. It’s about time they finally hired somebody,” she said.
That made two people today who’d told me they were glad to have me around—the first two in years. I had a feeling I was going to like this place.
“It’s been extra busy since Mona disappeared, and sort of spooky,” Anjali whispered.
