Free The Gospel of Sheba by Lyndsay Faye Page A

upon countless further topics. Last week it was rare species of maidenhair ferns, this week the principles of bridge engineering. Next week, I brace myself to field queries upon monophonic chants and perhaps the dietary habits of the domestic black pig.
    The life of a sublibrarian surely wasn’t intended to be quite this difficult? Walking through St. James’s Square towards the queerly narrow building, the fog’s perennial grime painting a thin veneer upon the Portland stone and the many windowpanes distorting movements of blurred, faceless strangers within, I feel worn after merely setting boot upon the Library’s foyer rug. By the time I’ve hung my overcoat in the cloakroom, I’ve practically exhausted myself. I adore learning of all types, but one cannot imagine that Sisyphean labour was countenanced in Carlyle’s day.
    Or perhaps it was, and the sublibrarians present wisely elected not to record their woes.
    To boot, Lettie’s travels leave me the indisputable guardian of little Grace’s heart and mind. I find myself fretting over this critical task more often than is remotely necessary, given that 1) I am a scholar of some note, and an intellectual omnivore, and thus should act with confidence 2), Grace is a singularly apt and gentle child, and 3) Lettie has not been at home for longer than a fortnight in six months’ time, so I ought to be accustomed to this by now.
    Her absence is far more wearing than her presence is costly. Mind, I knew when we wed that her tastes ran more to champagne and cracked oysters than beer and peanut shells. But Lettie is brilliant in her own whimsical fashion, and back when I rhapsodized more over lights flickering across her hair arrangements than what was beneath the tiara, we hadn’t a daughter demanding to know whether moonbeams possess the quality of weight. Lacking Lettie, who would have delivered a wonderfully silly answer, I found myself at an absurd crossroads this morning between wanting to assure Grace that one could feel the weight of a moonbeam if sensitive enough and to tell her that, according to recent postulations, velocity is much more relevant to the subject than density.
    Well, never mind Lettie. I ever want to think of her as happy, and I’ve told her so numberless times, and she is happiest when singing. Therefore the rest of us will toddle along on our own and no one the worse for it. I shall think of Lettie with her golden hair piled atop her head, smiling in a sly, knowing fashion over the footlights, and be content.
    After all, I find myself effortlessly contented when with Grace. And she with me, shockingly. All is watercolours and learning to whistle, and nothing extraneous to distract us from the immediate bright sun of the rear yard or the cheerful green ivy paper of the nursery walls. Arrogantly, I suspect spending more time with Grace will prove a benefit to her. I trust that Miss Church does her best, but she is neither a close reasoner nor an artist, and thus as a governess cannot be expected to shape a child into anything other than a prosaic mouse.
    Earlier today, speaking of mice, I enjoyed a bizarre appointment with one at the London Library. Mr. Theodore Grange entered my little office with the stated purpose of consulting me upon the subject of ceremonial magic, but he could as easily have wondered where the best cheese rinds were to be found (either way, I am armed with sufficient books to oblige him). His thin lips twitched following every pronouncement, his eyes were dull and brown, his hair without shine, his blinks frequent, the skin beneath his eyes too loose, his aspect altogether melancholy.
    â€œI was sent to you upon the very best recommendation, Mr. Lomax,” he squeaked, mopping the sweat from his upper lip though it is quite frigid in the library for September, and the light through the windows tinged coolly blue. “It’s imperative you tell me everything you know about black