Free The Gallery by Laura Marx Fitzgerald

span of the last few years.
    And then I remembered where I’d heard that name, Ovid, before Alphonse. It was the book thedoctor noted on Rose’s bedside. The book, he suggested, was too provocative, too stimulating for such a fragile woman. Maybe any woman.
    Was the doctor right? Was this Ovid helping to drive Mrs. Sewell crazy?
    Maybe the words in these books were some kind of ancient spell, I mused as I hunted for the number (873.01), where the Ovids were meant to be found. Maybe they were designed, when read, to scramble your mind or spark an insane frenzy,
    True to the register, in a section with a small brass plaque labeled 870-880, half the shelf was empty. I eyed the ransacked shelf with suspicion. Maybe an ancient spell wasn’t entirely believable. But then what could be so dangerous here? And what was the subject that held Rose’s fascination? Art? Botany? Fruit?
    I warily plucked up one of the leftovers.
    The soft, expensive leather gave nothing away, but after a few brittle pages Ovid’s name was revealed, followed by
Fasti
, as if this explained anything. I flipped to the middle:
    â€œ. . . When from her saffron cheeks Tithonus’ spouse shall have begun to shed the dew at the time of the fifth morn, theconstellation, whether it be the Bear-ward or the sluggard Bootes, will have sunk and will escape thy sight. But not so will the Grape-gatherer escape thee . . .”
    The doctor might be right about the books. Writing like that would drive anyone crazy.
    I tossed the volume back on the shelf and grabbed another:
A Commentarie and Arguement, Most Humbly Submitted, on a Translation of the Most Noble Verses, Metamorphoses
 . . . The title dribbled over at least a page and maybe into two. This book at least contained pictures, although not even in color: just black-and-white block prints.
    As I flipped the book open, it fell to the center plate.
    Here I saw a girl clinging in terror to a rock, shinking away as a scaled creature rose out of the waves that crashed at her feet, his talons threatening to rip open her flesh.
    On closer inspection, I saw that she was actually chained to that rock, with no chance of escape.
    I quickly turned the page.
    The next illustration was no better. Here a creature hulked over a waif of a girl, cornered in the dead end of an elaborate maze. Some kind ofhalf-and-half monstrosity, with the body of a strong and strapping man, but the head and feet of a snarling bull: it was labeled
The Minotaur
. Teeth bared, horns glinting, he drew upon the quivering maiden.
    But I never found out what happened next because with the sound of the library door swinging open, the book dropped from my hands.
    â€œWhat!”
    Just that one word, in Ma’s mouth, said everything.
    (This is the problem with books. When they’re bad, they drive you away with their forthwiths and thithers, and you’ll never finish them, no matter how much your teacher harangues you. But when they’re good, they lure you in and won’t let you go, and that can get you into just as much trouble.)
    I snatched up the Ovid and shoved it back on the shelf, whether in the 100s or 900s, I didn’t know or care. From my apron pocket I produced that spitty rag and began frantically polishing the books with Alphonse’s saliva.
    â€œI was just walking by, and the door was open, and I was going to close it, but the books looked so dusty. I mean, look at that dust . . .” I coughed, I thought, convincingly. “And we’re all a team here, aren’t we, so I just thought I’d pitch in.”
    â€œThat’s rubbish. This room is
never
left unlocked. Unless . . .”
    Her eyes narrowed a bit, and I did feel bad that Alphonse was going to take the blame.
    â€œLocked or no,” she continued slowly, “you should never enter this room without permission. There’s not just the matter of Mr. Sewell’s private