the steps to the dining hall.
He twisted the heavy iron handle of the arched wooden door and entered an immense, oak-paneled room lined with benches and long wooden tables that generations of banqueting scholars had worn smooth. Little lamps with brass stands and red shades, like toadstools, sprung up at intervals, emitting weak coronas of light. A warm meaty aroma oozed through the air like gravy.
On a raised platform at the front of the hall, surrounded by dazzling diamond-paned windows, was a luxurious table spread with bottled water, silver cutlery and bowls of fresh fruit. A stained-glass crest shone above it like an incandescent sun, dabbing the tablecloth with splashes of color. This was where the professors sat, although not Juliet Winters. It was one of the concessions she'd had to make to have her children with her.
She looked longingly at the High Table, while Duck and Blake bickered.
'But she can't come,' Blake was still complaining. 'Professor Jolyon invited me. It's my name on the invitation, not hers.' He knew he was whining, but couldn't stop himself.
'I know it is,' said his mother wearily, 'but it's the least you can do after last night. I need to finish some work in the Bodleian Library and it would be convenient — kind — if you looked after Duck for a few hours. After all, I was hardly able to stick to my normal routine this morning…'
Blake shook his head and groaned. It was like this every day. He was always taking care of his little sister — even when he wasn't guilty of sleeping in or sneaking away at night.
They queued in silence to receive servings of steak and kidney pie from a hatch near the kitchen and then followed Duck to a table she had chosen in the middle of the room, next to a section that had been roped off for members of the Ex Libris Society. A gallery of wasp-waisted women in bejeweled dresses and Puritanical men in dark robes with wan, preacher-like complexions stared at them from the walls.
His mother poured them each some water from a jug on the table. All of the glasses were stained and scratchy, but she chose the cleanest ones.
Blake could tell that something was troubling her, something even more significant than his behavior, for she swirled the water in her glass for a moment, blending her thoughts in its vortex of reflections. Then, in a slow, serious voice that was more solemn than any tone she had used before, she said, 'This morning, Mrs. Richards told me that someone had disturbed a number of books in the library last night. Not just disturbed them — attacked them, ripped them to shreds.'
She settled the glass on the table and fixed him with her eyes. 'Blake, please tell me you don't have anything to do with this.'
Duck was watching him closely, chewing with her mouth open.
Blake was appalled by the insinuation. 'Of course not!' he spluttered, his face flaming with anger and humiliation. He glanced at a painting of Nathaniel Hart (1723-1804), a lugubrious man in a clerical coat with a woolly wig on his head. His portrait seemed to be hanging over him in judgment.
'Blake, look at me.'
Blake forced his eyes back to the table. 'No, I don't know anything about it,' he said more forcefully.
'This is serious, Blake,' she said, tapping her tray with her finger. 'Are you sure you didn't see anything on your walk last night?'
He could hear suspicion lurking just behind her words and turned away. 'No, I swear I don't know who did that,' he said, fighting to keep his voice under control. 'I didn't see anyone downstairs in the library, OK?'
At once he realized his mistake. He'd admitted to being in the library. The truth had slipped out before he could prevent it, and he took a swig of water to hide his confusion.
His mother closed her eyes in despair. 'Oh, Blake,' she said. 'I sincerely hoped you wouldn't be caught up in this.'
He looked up, surprised. What did she mean?
He glanced at Duck, who had discovered a piece of kidney on her fork and was picking it off with fussy fingers.
His mother shook her head.
'Look,' he said, feeling flustered. His temples were throbbing and his face turning a brighter shade of scarlet. 'I'm sorry I worried you, OK, but I honestly don't know what happened to the books! I was upstairs at the time. I was trying to fetch the cat, which had slipped in after me.'
Duck looked at both of them expectantly.
His mother sat silently for a while. 'Well, just in case,' she said after a long, pregnant pause, 'I think it would be better if Duck accompanies you this afternoon. Perhaps she can teach you a thing or two about responsibility.'
Duck cheered happily, but Blake groaned inwardly and stabbed at his food with his fork. A ring of gravy had congealed around the edges of his plate and the forest of overcooked broccoli had wilted and turned cold. He bashed at the brain of puff pastry covering his pie.
When at last he looked up, he was annoyed to find Prosper Marchand swaggering towards them. A silver skull dangled from one of his earlobes.
'So these are your two?' said the professor wit a specious grin, patting Duck familiarly on the head. Instinctively, she raised the hood of her coat and turned her face away, scowling. 'They look like quite a handful.'
The curly-haired professor, still in his leather jacket, winked at Blake. Coldly, Blake slid his tray across the table, his appetite gone.
Juliet Winters ignored the remark.
'He really is the spitting image of his father, you know,' continued the professor, unfazed. 'So how is Christopher, anyway?'
Blake stiffened.
'Fine,' responded Juliet Winters tersely, her shoulders tense. 'The same.'
'Ah, I see,' said the professor. Without warning, he crouched down beside her and whispered something in her ear that Blake couldn't quite catch. His leather jacket flexed its slippery muscles. As Juliet Winters listened, she flicked a strand of gray hair away from her eyes. The unconscious, girl-like gesture irritated Blake and he coughed.
Like a vampire interrupted mid-bite, Prosper Marchand glanced up. 'Don't worry, I'm simply inviting your mother to coffee.' His smile gleamed with polished teeth. 'It's perfectly innocent. You're welcome to come too, if you like.'
Blake tried to outstare the professor, but lost.
'So how about it then?' continued the man, victorious, turning towards Blake's mother. 'Three o'clock, the old place?'
Blake felt a sudden swell of anger and resentment inside him. He opened his mouth to protest but caught his mother checking her watch. She looked at both children and then quickly away. Duck stared back at them from behind the rim of her hood, her face inscrutable.
'OK,' she agreed. 'Just coffee.'
'I wouldn't dream of anything else,' remarked the professor suavely, and strutted across to the section that had been cordoned off for the members of the Ex Libris Society.
More than sixty scholars, of varying age and nationality, were now assembled there, avidly discussing books. Blake could hear the rumble of voices in the air. Dressed in almost identical turtlenecks and khakis, they resembled hunters preparing for an expedition — although they were armed with bifocal glasses and catalogs of rare books instead of arms. Still, Blake didn't trust them. He knew from his mother the lengths scholars would go to to protect their interests.
He looked daggers at the professor's back. 'But what about—'
'I'm sure Jolyon won't mind looking after you for a little longer,' answered his mother calmly. 'If not, I'll meet you as usual in the college library.'
11
