Endymion Spring

Sir Giles, however, broke into his reverie. 'What's this?' he barked. 'Another book?  This isn't one of mine.'  He lifted a red-colored volume with inky blotches on the cover into the air.

A chair scraped back and Paula Richards stood up. Blake looked behind him.

'I'm afraid I've taken the liberty of bringing in one of the more tempting books from the collection at St. Jerome's ,' she addressed the room. 'It's a coincidence really. It's another copy of Goblin Market.'

'Yes, and a fair example of nineteenth-century publishing, too,' started Sir Giles, turning over a couple of pages and expertly assessing its value.

'I'd forgotten we owned it actually,' continued Paula Richards, raising her voice slightly and interrupting the domineering man in mid-flow, 'until a chance remark from you reminded me of it the other day. I'm impressed. You seem to know a lot about our library's collection.'

There was nothing malicious in her tone, but it suddenly occurred to Blake that she was privately accusing Sir Giles of something. Was he the person, perhaps, who had broken into the library the other night and disturbed the books on the shelves?  Was he the book-breaker?

The man glared at her coldly, but said nothing.

'Our collections must have a special significance for you, Sir Giles, to make you familiarize yourself with them so well.'

'Naturally, I take an interest in all the Oxford libraries,' the man explained himself.

Paula Richards sharpened her smile somewhat. 'Yes, but this is an extremely rare book. Christina Rossetti's own copy of Goblin Market, one she expressly asked her publishers to bind in red leather — puce, as you called it — when all the others were blue. I must congratulate you. This book is one of a kind. Not many people know it exists…but you did.'

Blake sat very still. She might be describing Endymion Spring  for all he knew, but he was relieved to hear that she was merely referring to a child's book. Nevertheless, he was surprised to see Paula Richards flash a private smile in Jolyon's direction, as if he had prior knowledge of her accusation and supported her. Clearly there was something he didn't understand going on between them. He couldn't help wondering if this was really about Christina Rossetti. Was it possible that Sir Giles, like Jolyon, knew about Endymion Spring ?

'Well, thank you for the compliment,' said Sir Giles, graciously inclining his head. His eyes, however, were livid and his brow had turned a brighter shade of scarlet.

He glanced at his watch — a gesture repeated by many people in the room. 'I believe I have spoken for long enough, but I am happy to answer any other questions, or assess any other books, in private. I hereby adjourn the meeting.'

There was a short applause before people scurried to the back of the room to consume the remaining glasses of wine..

It was already after nine and Duck and Blake had only a few precious minutes to consult the register by the door before meeting their mother by the library. They were off like a shot, battling their way through the crowd of grown-up arms and legs.

They waited impatiently for a few more senior members of the society to sign the book, and then grabbed the ledger. Blake flipped back through the pages, cartwheeling through time, watching row upon row of signatures concertina past his eyes.

Suddenly a hand clasped him on the shoulder. 'You're supposed to sign the page with today's date, not go nosing about in the past,' said a familiar voice.

Blake turned to find Prosper Marchand smiling at him. The professor calmly took the register from him and turned back to the page that was clearly indicated with a silk ribbon. An expensive fountain pen, as fat as a cigar, lay on the side table beside him and he picked it up to sign his name. After a Zorro-like finish, he handed to pen to Blake and watched as both he and Duck signed their names painstakingly under his.

'There, now your names are recorded for all posterity,' he said, bringing his face just close enough for Blake to smell a spicy cravat of aftershave around his throat. 'Just like these unfortunate rascals at the dawn of time.'

To Blake's astonishment, the professor flicked back to the very first page of the ledger, where a black-and- white photograph had been pasted above a line of faded signatures. He had only a few seconds to gaze at the grainy image, but like a camera he captured the faces and names. Part of the mystery was solved.

'Mum's the word,' whispered Prosper Marchand like a naughty schoolboy and then, with a playful smile, headed back towards the other members of the Ex Libris Society.

Blake turned to Duck in surprise. She, too, looked amazed by the discovery. The photograph had shown a group of young students in old-fashioned clothes, standing in front of a bookcase. It could have been any Oxford library. Most of them were staring woodenly at the camera, their faces washed out by time, their hairstyles preposterously dated; but four figures had grabbed his attention immediately.

Jolyon towered above the other students, a giant of a man with a storm of wavy curls and an already threadbare suit. Attached to his arm, caught in a flirtatious laugh, was an attractive girl with sleek, dark hair, while standing stiffly behind them, dressed in an expensive dinner jacket, was a bullish man who resembled Sir Giles, with just the hint of a mustache crowning his upper lip. And in the far right-hand corner of the picture, almost out of the frame, was another figure, whose nest of wild hair and shabby cloak were instantly recognizable.

Psalmanazar. The lost member of the Libris Society.

21

Blake was still shaking his head as they hurried through the dark streets towards the Bodleian Library. 'Who would have guessed Psalmanazar was one of the founding members of the society?' he said. 'He must have discovered Endymion Spring all those years ago. I wonder what happened.'

Duck remained silent and thoughtful for a while. 'But we still don't know who the Person in Shadow is,' she remarked gloomily, her breath shining like tinsel in the air. 'It could be any one of them.'

Or someone else entirely, Blake thought to himself. He and Duck were surrounded by adults, all consumed by their own bookish passions.

It had rained heavily and the street lamps smeared patches of electric blood on the pavement. They rounded the corner into Broad Street and rushed to the entrance of the Sheldonian Theatre, a dark domed building next to the library, where they had arranged to meet their mother. Above them a tall curved railing jutted into the darkness, crowned by a series of crudely carved stone heads:  large bearded me who guarded the ceremonial hall beyond. Blake wasn't sure whether they were meant to represent emperors of philosophers. They stared blindly into the night, frowning at the noise spilling out from a beer-lit pub on the opposite side of the street.

Duck and Blake sat quietly on the short flight of steps for a while, thinking over the events of the meeting. It was cold and they pressed together, trying to steal each other's warmth. Stars trembled in the now cloudless sky. There was no sign of their mother.

Blake shifted uncomfortably. The book had stirred again, thumping him in the small of the back, grabbing his attention.

He checked behind him. Nothing — apart from the now-darkened buildings.

'That's weird,' he said.

'What's weird?' said Duck, glancing up. She pulled back her hood to see him more clearly.

'The book's behaving strangely again. It was acting like this before the meeting, but why now?  It ought to feel safe.'

Cautiously, Blake took the bag from his shoulder and opened the main compartment — just an inch. He peeked inside.

The book crouched like a trapped animal in the depths of the bag, an agitated shadow that seemed to sink towards the ground, as if drawn by a magnetic force.

'What's wrong with it?' said Duck, peering over his shoulder.

'I'm not sure. It feels like a paperweight or something. A brick. Really heavy.'  He frowned. 'It's almost as if