Free The Accidental Keyhand by Jen Swann Downey Page A

Miranda to shout for her imaginary dog and no dinner pots to wash with her father and no familiar blue comforter with the hole that sighed feathers over her. And no chance of her mother easing open the door to whisper, “Good night, Sweet and Sour.” But she and Marcus had stumbled upon something incredible, and it hadn’t cost her even her bargain with Tiffany Tolliver.
    Dorrie thought about the Irish monk on the other side of his archway. When she’d dashed past him, had he really been sitting in an entirely different time? One filled with oxcarts and court jesters and bows and arrows? Her head hurt pleasantly at the thought. Back in Passaic, now was now, the past almost a dream, and the future unknowable. In Petrarch’s Library, now must be something else entirely.
    Despite the shadow cast by the unmet director of security, a small thrill spun through Dorrie’s chest. She fell asleep, leaving any farther thinking in the room to the mouse hunting for crumbs in a shadowy corner.
    ***
    After what seemed like mere minutes, Phillip woke Dorrie with a little shake and the news that she and Marcus had slept half the morning away, that he would soon have to leave on business outside Petrarch’s Library, and that Ebba was on her way over to keep them company until Hypatia returned.
    Dorrie stretched. “What should we do while we wait?”
    â€œWell, I suppose you could curl up and read a book. We’ve got a few of those around. Or count dust motes. Or wash the windows in here.” He gently shook Marcus, who responded with all the animation of a sack of sand. “Of course, if you’re the sort of person who would prefer to explore the Library, well, there’s no accounting for taste.”
    Dorrie grinned at Phillip and took over the job of waking Marcus. As she used her fists to pound her brother into groggy awareness, Phillip crouched by the fire and pushed a little three-legged iron pot deeper into the flames. “I’ll eat a lot of things out of books, but I draw the line at coffee.”
    In the morning brightness, Dorrie noticed that over the mantel hung an enormous black chalkboard painted with a grid of white lines and words crowded in between the lines. At the top, large letters shifted and swam like eels before Dorrie’s eyes, finally spelling out the words “Mission Docket.”
    â€œWhy do the words in this place do that?” asked Dorrie.
    Phillip glanced at the blackboard. “Ah, one of the Library’s useful peculiarities. Instant translation. If I say or write it in Latin, you hear or see it in…”
    â€œEnglish,” said Dorrie, catching on.
    Phillip poured the steaming coffee into a mug. He held up the iron pot, beaming. “Coffee, anyone?”
    â€œSure,” said Marcus, as though he drank it every day at home.
    Phillip poured a second mug full and handed it to Marcus, who took a substantial sip. An instantaneous facial paralysis seemed to strike him. As soon as Phillip turned away, Marcus promptly spit the coffee back into the mug.
    â€œHand me that book of Basho poems, will you?” Phillip said to Dorrie, jerking his chin toward a thin volume with a marbled paper cover that sat on the cleared table. “Ursula brought it over when she realized you were going to sleep right through breakfast. Her own copy.”
    Dorrie passed the book to him. Phillip settled himself comfortably back in his chair and flipped through the book’s pages. “You can’t beat haiku for the quick breakfast.” He stopped at a page near the back. “Ah! Here’s just the thing.” With the fingertips of one hand resting gently on the open book, Phillip cleared his throat. Seeming to focus all of his attention of the page below his fingertips, he began to read out loud. “Coolness of the melons, flecked with mud, in the morning dew.”
    Dorrie stared as Phillip began to draw his thumb and forefinger together