Endymion Spring

Duke Humfrey…

Blake started to run.

Rows of leather volumes gave way to modern textbooks, which turned into books with bright dust jackets, as he streaked through the stacks. Ahead he could see an endless line of gray cardboard folders. He was on the right track.

Spying a wrought-iron staircase in the corner, he sprinted towards it and clambered up the tight corkscrew of steps, his feet ringing out on the cold metal.

And then he remembered:  Duke Humfrey…Duck had mentioned it after visiting the bathroom. It was somewhere up the main stairwell. He knew where to go!

Bursting through the brightly lit tunnel, which connected the entrance of the Bodleian to the stacks, he emerged into the dim corridor just outside the gift shop. The main entrance had been sealed off, closed for another day, and the walls echoed with the lonely sound of his footsteps. No one was around to help him.

He worked his way up the deserted staircase, climbing the wide wooden stairs. Each step filled him with a chilly sense of foreboding. Would Duck be all right?

The sight of two regal blue and gold doors, partially open, brought him to a standstill near the top of the stairwell. The Duke Humfrey Library…A fusty smell of learning seeped from the darkness within.

The chamber was almost exactly as Duck had described it. Thousands of ancient volumes sat on the wooden shelves, set behind thick balustrades. Sturdy ladders climbed to a further tier of books, all crammed beneath a decorated ceiling, covered with scrolls of painted flowers and majestic crests. It looked like a chapel devoted exclusively to reading.

A porter in a navy-blue suit was clearing a desk in the middle of the room, preparing to lock up. Blake paused on the threshold of the library and then, as soon as the man's back was turned, slid into position behind a banister directly opposite. He squeezed himself between the railing and a bench, which he hoped would shield him from view.

On the underside of the shelves above him gleamed a constellation of stars, gilded onto a checkered background of red and green squares. Otherwise, the room was thick with shadow. He checked his watch. Only three minutes left. His pulse throbbed wildly as the seconds ticked away.

Very carefully, he unzipped his bag and put both the Last Book and Duck's jacket, which he had rescued from downstairs, inside. He then sealed the bag and threaded his arms through the straps and gripped them tightly to his back. He would not surrender anything until he knew she was safe.

Whistling to himself, the porter fetched his keys from the desk, locked the far doors and then started towards Blake's hiding place. Blake shrank even lower and held his breath. He was shaking all over.

The porter took a last look around the closed-up library, then pulled the doors shut and locked them behind him with a prison-like finality.

Silence fell.

The room was eclipsed in darkness.

All Blake could do was wait.

?

Minutes dragged by, agonizing in their slowness.

Then, when Blake could stand the suspense no longer, he heard a metallic quiver thrum the air as an invisible clock chimed the hour. This was followed almost immediately by a tiny, scratching noise at the opposite end of the room.

He raised his head, alert. A key whispered in the lock.

The door opened — just a little — and a shadowy form slid into the room. The hooded figure was dressed entirely in black.

Blake barely breathed.

The person glanced round the murky room and then drifted on soundless feet towards his hiding place.

Blake closed his eyes, not daring to look. He hoped that by remaining perfectly still, by shutting out the outside world, he, too, might disappear.

One thing was clear. Duck was not with the Person in Shadow. They were alone in the ancient library. He had been tricked.

Crouched like a sprinter, he considered making a mad dash for freedom, hoping to summon help from outside; but then he felt the floorboards beside him stiffen slightly and a black shape fell over him.

A gloved hand slid silently over the railing near his shoulder and grabbed him by the wrist.

'Hello, Blake.'

The chilly female voice sent shivers up and down his spine. He know instantly who it was. He looked up.

'Isn't this a surprise?'

Diana Bentley greeted him with a cold smile.

Blake couldn't bring himself to respond. The sound of her voice, the touch of her glove, both seemed icy now, despite the special butterfly clasp she always wore as decoration and the dark woolen cloak she had draped over her shoulders.

Blake blinked, confused.

The butterfly had singed wings, like burnt paper.

'You should mind your knees,' she said, pulling him to his feet. 'They'll get dirty.'

He looked down at the hard wooden floor and dumbly rubbed his jeans, which were patched with dust. His clothes were torn and filthy.

'You poor boy,' she murmured. 'You really are in trouble. Sneaking into the Bodleian like this. What will your mother think?'

'She doesn't know,' he said miserably, then bit his tongue.

Diana observed him with mock sympathy. 'Ah, I see. You're on your own.'

Blake grimaced, realizing his mistake. 'Where's Duck?' he barked.

'All in good time,' she said. 'First, where is the book?'

'I don't know what you mean.'

She locked his arm in a tight, vicious grip and wrenched it behind his back. He yelped, surprised by her strength.

'Be careful,' she warned. 'You don't want to make things worse than they already are.'

Her words brought the gravity of his situation home. He stopped struggling.

'The book,' she said again. 'Where is it?'

She levered his arm slowly upwards and he gasped as hot spears of pain shot across his shoulder.

'My mother,' he managed at last, between clenched teeth. 'She'll be furious if we don’t turn up soon. She'll go to the police…and…aah!…tell them we're missing.'

He risked a look at Diana, but she seemed unfazed by the remark. She eyed him with steely composure. 'What's in your bag, Blake?'

He squirmed and she jacked up his arm one notch. He winced.

Blake could feel her fingers spidering along his back and wriggled to prevent her from discovering the book inside his knapsack. Once again, she tightened her grip on his arm and he fought back tears. It was as if her desire to obtain the book had given her superhuman strength — and ruthlessness.

'Of course,' she said, breathing softly into his ear, 'there would be no reason to go on inconveniencing your mother — or Duck — if we came to a mutual agreement.'

The image of Duck's lifeless yellow coat, stuffed hastily into his knapsack, filled Blake with guilt. All of this was his fault. He'd got obsessed with the book — to the point of abandoning her. Still, he couldn't help it:  the book was his. Endymion Spring had chosen him. For hundreds of years scholars had searched for what he, Blake Winters, had found. And the Person in Shadow — Diana — wanted it for all the wrong reasons.

Slowly, she tilted his chin towards her, so that he could see into her cold, gray eyes. They were as hard and unflinching as stone. 'Where is the Last Book, Blake?'

His heart cowered inside him. He had no choice but to hand over the book to save his sister. The sinister riddle from two nights ago had warned him as much: