shoulders and gently guided him down the steps towards the door, where his mother was waiting, briefcase in hand.
'I think it means it's better to be seen, but not heard,' the librarian remarked privately in his ear.
Blake nodded, then glanced over his shoulder at the manuscript in its glass coffin. 'I still think it's a boy,' he murmured to himself.
The sun was shining brightly when at last they emerged from the library.
Paula Richards held the door open for Mephistopheles, who was undecided whether or not to go out. He stretched lazily, half in and half out of the door, although Blake noticed that she finally nudged him out with her foot.
'The library is no place for the likes of you,' she told the cat warningly.
Blake grinned. He remembered her telling him how Mephistopheles had once been trapped in the library overnight and left her a 'little present,' which it wasn't part of her duty to clear up.
Juliet Winters led Duck and Blake down the steps and round a small circular lawn that faced the library. A warm breeze followed them through the trees and cast a shimmering pattern of light and shade on the path. Mephistopheles bounded ahead, leapfrogging over shadows.
They passed under a stone archway, thick with matted cobwebs, and continued along the side of an immense building with protruding diamond-paned windows: the dining hall. A stairwell led up to the main doors, which were stippled with carved roses, but they carried on, round the buttery, until they came to a long, covered passageway.
This was the oldest part of the college, dating back to the fourteenth century, when St. Jerome's was home to an order of Benedictine monks. Back then, it had been a warren of stone buildings with neatly tended herb gardens and cloistered passages leading to the chapel; now, it was a good place to whoop and holler, since the low ceilings and colonnaded walkways rang out with echoes.
Blake raced ahead, disturbing centuries of peace and quiet.
To his right, dusty staircases spiraled up to what had once been the monks' dormitories, but were now book- lined offices, while, to his left, a series of stone arches gave way to a central plot of land, in which a giant plane tree was growing. A bench had been positioned beneath its lowest branches — 'for quiet comtemplation,' his mother had said, meaning it was not for him or Duck to clamber on.
Almost exactly opposite, just visible through a screen of ivy, was the Old Library. A series of jagged curves, like teeth, had been carved around its entrance, making it resemble a snarling lion. A low wooden door, slatted with iron bolts, barred the way in. Blake longed to see inside — he could imagine all sorts of treasures on its shelves — but like many things in Oxford it was closed to tourists, and especially children.
Blake did not wait for his mother to catch up, but stepped into an adjoining courtyard. He gazed up at the honey-colored walls. As always, the college reminded him of a castle. Stone battlements crowned with square towers engulfed him on all sides. Gargoyles grinned at him from the gutters. They weren't drooling rainwater today, which was fortunate, but basking in the strong sunlight.
Blake closed his eyes and, like them, let the warm air cushion his cheeks.
'Come on, Quasimodo,' his mother called out, turning unexpectedly towards the Fellows' Garden. Duck giggled and screwed up her face at him before following their mother. Blake charged after them.
The Fellows' Garden was a private area extending behind the chapel to the eastern edge of the college, where a tiny door opened on to a tree-lined boulevard that divided St. Jerome's from its neighbors, St. Guineforte's and Frideswide Hall. Thick walls guarded the flowerbeds from view, although Blake could detect a faint summery sweetness in the air.
'Aren't you going to the Porter's Lodge?' he asked, trying to redirect their steps towards the small building inside the main gate, where the post arrived. It was unlikely that a letter from his father would have been delivered since that morning, but he wanted to make sure.
'I thought we'd go for a short stroll instead,' answered his mother, shading her eyes with her hand. 'Then walk back to the house. It's such nice weather. It'd be a shame to waste it.'
She turned to unlock the gate.
Blake was happy to get some exercise — the previous weeks had been rainy and cold, and they'd traveled in on a bus each day — but he wasn't in a hurry to return to Millstone Lane. The house there didn't feel like home yet. It was damp and dreary, no matter what the weather, and there wasn't even a TV or computer to keep him company during the long evenings.
'Well, can I go and check?' he said. He knew he was pushing his luck and scraped a line in the gravel with the toe of his shoe.
The key grated in the lock.
'Oh, go on,' she said, 'but be quick. We'll wait for you over here.'
She indicated a stretch of grass just inside the wrought-iron gate, where a few late flowers were soaking up the sun. Blake nodded and dashed back the way he had come.
It was about time a letter reached them. They had been in Oxford for almost two weeks now and he'd already written several postcards home. He'd not been able to say as much as he wanted to, since his large, loopy handwriting filled up the space too quickly. Worse, his words left a lot unsaid. He wasn't sure whether he ought to tell his father how he liked the college, Mrs. Richards and the library — or how much he missed home. He hadn't many friends at ForestHeightsSchool, so he wasn't particularly lonely, but it still felt kind of weird to be skipping the start of the new year. What if everyone thought he'd failed?
Yet even his dad had recommended the break. 'Oxford's a great place,' he'd said when the opportunity first came up. 'You never know, you might enjoy it. Think of it as an adventure.'
Duck had agreed. 'Alice in Wonderland, The Lord of the Rings,' she'd said, listing her favorite titles. 'They were written there. I can't wait to go!'
Blake, however, was not so sure. Nor really, had he known it, was his father. The smile on his father's face that morning had been faraway and sad, and there was a quiver of doubt — or defeat — in his voice.
Blake tried to block out the memory. The lodge was a short distance ahead and he sprinted towards it.
A man with dark curly hair had arrived moments before him. Dressed in a black leather jacket that made a crunchy sound when he moved, he sauntered up to the main counter and deposited an iridescent green helmet, like a decapitated head, on its surface.
The porter was busy slipping letters into a number of pigeon-holes on the wall behind him and signaled the motorcyclist to wait.
Drumming his fingers on the countertop, the visitor turned to survey the room.
Blake, streaking past a pile of suitcases near the door, met the stranger's cool, confident gaze and skidded to a halt. He looked away in confusion and went over to check a laminated sign that had caught his eye. It had been created on a special notice board in the corner.
The poster welcomed members of the Ex Libris Society to its annual conference, to be held conjointly at St. Jerome's and AllSoulsColleges throughout the week, and featured a prominent image of an enormous Bible on a fancy wooden desk. A caption at the bottom read: 'Notable speakers to include Sir Giles Bentley,
Blake was reminded of the blank book he had found in the college library and wondered whether this could be of any interest to the society. Probably not, he gathered, judging from the lavish tome on the poster: that book had a burnished silver binding, inlaid with rubies and pearls, whereas his own had a broken clasp and moldering brown cover.
He was interrupted in his reverie by Bob Barrett, the porter, who had finished sorting through the post and turned to greet the visitors. 'Right,' he said. 'Sorry about the delay. And you, sir, are…?'
'Professor Prosper Marchand,' responded the man, as though he needed no introduction.
Blake whirled round. Sure enough, the man in the leather jacket matched the name on the poster. He had been watching Blake with an amused expression and now winked. Blake blushed.
