'What was his name?'
'Ignatius,' she said, much to his disappointment. His face fell. She regarded him curiously for a moment. 'Why the sudden interest?'
Blake pretended to study a leaf floating belly up in a puddle. He could still feel the weight of the blank book in his hands; the memory haunted him. 'No reason,' he said, unwilling to divulge his discovery to anyone just yet.
His mother shrugged. 'Well, it's a fascinating story. Ignatius claimed to have seen the Devil entering the city with a book of forbidden knowledge on his back. No one believed him, of course, and no one ever found the book. It's a piece of apocrypha really. But I was interested in it because of my research on Faust.'
'Who?' said Blake, looking up.
'Faust,' said Duck, showing off. 'He sold his soul to the Devil.'
'Did not,' muttered Blake, and swung his knapsack in her direction. She ran off, squealing.
His mother gave him a warning glance. 'Duck's right. According to some, Faust was a German necromancer who craved all the knowledge and power in the world, made a pact with the Devil and was dragged down to everlasting hellfire by a legion of devils.'
Blake's eyes lit up. He didn't know what a necromancer was, but he could imagine a sorcerer dabbling with black magic and being consumed by a ring of fire.
'And Dad?' he asked. 'What did he think of the manuscript?'
'Your father had a much more speculative theory,' answered his mother, more evasively. 'He believed there was some truth to the legend and thought he could prove it.'
Blake's heart was pounding fiercely inside him. Perhaps his dad had hoped to find the forbidden book? Perhaps he knew where it was hidden?
'And did he?' he asked breathlessly.
'He never got the chance.' His mother snorted contemptuously. 'Sir Giles saw to that.'
Blake kicked at a twig that had fallen to the ground.
'It would have made his reputation had he been right,' his mother added regretfully, 'but…' Her voice broke off and she gazed at the scaly branches of an overhanging tree. 'But he was probably wrong.'
Blake blinked in surprise. He wanted to know much more about his father's ideas, but Duck was more interested in Sir Giles Bentley's collection of books.
'Like, how much do you think Sir Giles's books are worth?' she asked.
Her mother shook her head. 'No one knows precisely what Sir Giles paid for the Ignatius manuscript, not even where he found it,' she said, 'but his private library is rumored to be worth more than a million pounds.'
Duck whistled. 'What does he do with all his books?'
'He's a collector,' responded her mother. 'He doesn't necessarily do anything with them.'
Blake glanced at Duck, appalled.
'It's the thrill of the chase that excites him,' their mother continued. 'He hunts down rare books like endangered species and exhibits them on his shelves. They're like gold in the bank.'
Duck's eyes lit up greedily. 'Do you think we can see his books, if we ask nicely?' She was proud of her collection at home and probably wanted to compare notes.
'You can ask him whatever you like,' said Juliet Winters, glancing at the invitation in her hands. 'He's giving a special lecture this week. But I wouldn't waste your breath: he doesn't share his collection with anyone.'
They came to a broad street interspersed with stone-fronted colleges and tall tilting shops, all selling the same merchandise: Oxford jerseys, Oxford scarves and Oxford teddy bears. Tourists flocked from one to the other, shepherded by guides with colorful umbrellas.
Even though Blake knew his way around the city now, he still felt like a foreigner himself. His accent made him stand out like a flag. Nevertheless, he was beginning to appreciate life in Oxford. Inside each tawny college lay a forgotten world of libraries, chapels and dining halls. It was like stepping back in time. He kept expecting to bump into people with powdered wigs, silk stockings and dark robes — like caped crusaders from long ago.
Unexpectedly, his mother stopped. She was standing next to a secondhand bookshop, staring at a display of fine leather books and novels in torn dust jackets. Before he could prevent her, she had gone inside, telling him to look after Duck. There was something she wanted to look at. 'I'll only be a minute,' she called out over her shoulder as the door jangled shut behind her.
Blake rolled his eyes. He'd heard that one before.
Annoyed, he wandered over to the curb and started swinging round an old-fashioned lamppost, letting the city swirl past him in a blur of sensations.
It felt liberating to be outside. During the previous weeks, he'd seen mostly dun-colored museums and waterlogged statues from the misted heights of a double-decker bus. This afternoon, however, the city blazed with life: colleges glowed under an azure sky and pigeons spiraled round the towers on whistling wings. Golden clock faces, scattered around the streets, told a multitude of times.
And then he saw him.
The man was sitting close to the bookshop, reading what looked to be an old battered book. Blake slowed to a crawl — then stopped completely.
The stranger was dressed in a brown leather robe and had an unfashionably long, scraggly beard. Despite the heat, he was wearing a peculiar hat that looked like sort of like a nightcap with a fur trim on it. Blake had never seen anything like it before. It was as if one of the many statues in the city had come to life and was resting unnoticed on the pavement. Was he homeless?
All the while the boy stared at him, the man didn't move, didn't even turn a page, but concentrated on his book. In fact, he could have been carved out of stone; he was motionless.
Most of the people passing by didn't pay him any attention, but those who did dropped a few coins at his feet and hurried on. The silver coins glistened like gobs of spit on the ground. The man, however, neither noticed their looks nor pocketed their change. He was lost in his own private world.
A wiry hound with perky ears lay on a tattered blanket beside him, a bright red bandanna wrapped around its neck. Duck walked straight up to it.
'I like your dog,' she said, bending down to stroke the animal, which thumped its tail lethargically.
Even then, the man didn't look up, but continued reading. He clutched the volume in grubby fingers that looked like gnarled tree roots.
'Duck!' hissed Blake, trying not to disturb or offend the old man. The dog might have fleas, or, worse, might bite her; but neither possibility really worried him. He was much more concerned with what his mother would say if she found Duck talking to a stranger. He was supposed to be looking after her, after all.
'Duck!' he hissed again.
This time she heard him and looked up, smiling.
'What's your dog's name?' she said, but still the man ignored her.
Blake went to drag her away by the arm.
Then, suddenly, the man lifted his head. It was as if he had come to the end of a complex sentence or an extremely long paragraph. He looked at Blake with an expression that was not altogether hostile, but not entirely friendly either. It was a searching, penetrating gaze, as though he was surprised to find a young boy standing in front of him, casting a shadow over his book. He seemed to have woken up from a deep sleep.
Blake felt uncomfortable and immediately turned away, pulling Duck after him.
Just then the shop door opened and Juliet Winters returned, without the book she had wanted. She gave the man a quick, dismissive glance and led the children away.
'What did he want?' she asked idly as they drifted towards the main shopping area and blended in with the crowds.
Blake didn't answer. He had looked back just once — as they were crossing a side street — and was alarmed to see that the man was following them with his eyes.
