'We'll be closing soon. Can I help you?' he asked.
'I,' began Jonathan and found his mind had gone blank for a moment. 'I'm doing some research. I'm trying to find a family who lived in this area.'
The pale young man sighed. 'You've only got half an hour.'
'I don't have much time anyway,' said Jonathan, hunter's urgency upon him. 'Can I start?'
'Okay,' nodded the pale young man. 'Look, things are a bit of a mess. What do you need?'
Jonathan's mouth hung open. Come on, Jonathan. You have a degree in history. You know how this works.
'I need the census. Do you have a census?'
A wisp of a smile on the pale face. 'I'm afraid you'll need to be a bit more specific.'
No place like home, Jonathan remembered, Millie Branscomb, aged 8, 1856.
'Eighteen sixties. Eighteen seventies.'
'Sure. You might as well come in,' said the young man.
There were rooms to the right and left, darkened, full of displays of furniture and clothing and blown-up photographs. Jonathan and the librarian passed beyond those into a large room lined with old bookshelves of varying heights. There were tables littered with books and files. On the walls were giant maps of the county and aerial photographs of the airport. There were filing cabinets, giant staplers and a statue of a Paul Bunyan figure with a scythe instead of an ax.
'Jeannie and I have been trying to file all this stuff,' said the young man.
'All what stuff?'
'Oh. Everything,' said the young man. 'We got all these memoirs to file, old photographs, things like that. Have a seat, I'll find you a copy of the 1875 census. It isn't all that long.'
Jonathan sat down, shaking. There was a smell. A smell of pancakes. Very hot, slightly charred. Was that wind stirring his hair?
I am losing my mind, he thought.
Very gently, in the distance, he heard cattle lowing. He wanted to weep, but not from dismay. He wanted to weep from yearning. For grass and huge buttercups and the sound of air moving across distances.
'It was, uh, it was retyped,' said the young man.
I'll just look her up. Here. I'll find her. Jonathan held a sheet.
EXPLANATION
In 1875 the townships of Riley County were Ashland, Bala, Grant
That's right, Bill said she didn't live in Manhattan. She lived near it. Where did Bill say?
Madison, Manhattan, May Day, Ogden and Zeandale
None of it rang a bell. There was still the sensation of moving air. Jonathan felt sick. His throat clenched and there was a nasty taste in his mouth.
'This will be fine,' he said, his voice clenched. He needed air. 'Can you Xerox it for me?'
'We have to charge,' said the librarian's assistant.
'Okay. Anything else?'
Dear God, stop me being sick. I can't be sick here.
'Some of those memoirs. One of those memoirs, I can read it tonight.' Jonathan clutched his throat. He could feel the ribs of his voice box.
'I need some air. Could I step outside, please, while you Xerox them? I'm terribly sorry. I don't feel well.'
He could feel his face coated with sweat as if he had smeared Brylcreem all over it.
The librarian's assistant was concerned. 'Listen, give me a couple of minutes and I'll have these ready for you. You step outside, sure.'
The Riley County Historical Museum was made of plates of limestone, laid flat into the wall. It was set on a green slope, and halfway down that slope there was a barn and an old house.
1850s, said Jonathan's clock.
Breathing in sunset shadow, calming his stomach and his killer instinct, he stumbled down the hill toward the house.
It was made out of stone, obviously having grown in extensions from a smaller core. A large wooden room had also been added about the same time, now painted orange with green shutters. Another young person was climbing out of it, with a key.
'How old?' asked Jonathan. 'How old is it?'
'The first rooms of the house were built in the 1850s. Do you know about the Goodnow House?' The delivery was practiced, polished.
'I'd love to,' said Jonathan.
'Well, okay. The first rooms were built in 1855 when Isaac Goodnow and his wife, Ellen, came to live in
