Free Arcanum by Simon Morden Page B

grate.
    “Well, some of everything, I suppose.”
    Sophia dutifully cut a wedge of bread and leant across to place it on Thaler’s plate, then returned with the jug of wine.
    “So, will you be relieving me of the Maimonides?” Morgenstern held out his own platter for Sophia to load.
    “We have translations, but not a Hebrew text next to the Latin one. Copying should only take a couple of months. It’s not a huge book.”
    “And you have someone who can write Hebrew?”
    “Even if they don’t understand it, they can copy it.”
    “These words. Are words.” Morgenstern trembled, and Sophia had to steady his hand. “Get one stroke wrong and you change the whole meaning. The text. Worthless.”
    Thaler’s mouth sneaked a smile. “We have someone who can not only write Hebrew, they can read it.”
    The old man snorted. “You shouldn’t joke about these things. It’s important to us, and it should be important to you.”
    “I’m sorry.” Perhaps he should be slightly abashed. Certainly Sophia was frowning at him.
    “Sorry enough to return the sefer you have?”
    Thaler raised his hands. “I can’t do anything about that.”
    “But when you’re the master librarian?” pressed Morgenstern.
    “Not even then. They’re part of the collection, and the collection is less without them. Let’s not go round the square with this again.”
    Morgenstern shook his head and adjusted his little black skull cap. He was wearing the one with the gold-thread edging. “Each one a lifetime’s work. Just sitting there. Not even being read,” he muttered. Thaler’s conscience was tweaked: he was sitting at the man’s table, eating his food and drinking his wine, and insulting his religion all at the same time. “We don’t have sacred texts,” he said.
    “Would it kill you to respect those who did?”
    “Father,” said Sophia, in a tone that brooked no argument.
    “Yes, daughter mine.” He bit into his cheese and chewed thoughtfully.
    “You’re our guest, Mr Thaler.” She refilled his cup. “Guests are always welcome in this house.”
    “I …” said Thaler. “Look, I may never get to be master librarian. I’m not the oldest under-librarian. I’m not even the most senior, though that doesn’t mean everything – the librarians usually choose their own master. And there are precedents.”
    “Don’t worry yourself about it, Mr Thaler. What’s done is done. More bread?”
    “No, thank you. I’m fine.” He drank the wine though, and stared at its glassy surface, stained slightly with the oils from the cheese transferred to the liquid via his upper lip. “If you would just come into the library…”
    “Jews don’t,” said Morgenstern. “Even this Jew won’t.”
    “Now who’s being intransigent?”
    “Gentlemen,” said Sophia, “neither of you are behaving well. I insist on harmony at my table.”
    Old Morgenstern harrumphed. “
Your
table?”
    “My bread, my cheese, my cooking, my going to market, my visiting the wine seller, my setting out, and undoubtedly, my cleaning up. So yes.” She leant back and stared defiantly at her father. “My table as much as it is yours.”
    “Marriage.”
    “No one will have me.” She looked quite pleased with herself.
    “Is that any surprise? You make yourself unmarriable!”
    “And who would look after you, you old fool? You’d spend all day wandering the house in your nightgown, wondering what time it was.” She reached out and patted his hand, which Morgenstern rightly interpreted as being entirely patronising. “When you’ve gone, then I shall marry.”
    “If I thought you would marry, I’d go tomorrow.”
    “Perhaps I should leave,” offered Thaler.
    “He’s just in a bad mood, Mr Thaler. Do stay.” She smiled at him, but was looking at her father. “It’s so rare I get intelligent conversation.”
    “And this from the mouth of my own flesh and blood? Oy.”
    “Tell Mr Thaler what’s put you in a bad mood, Father.”
    “Apart from