“Hecate, this was your second day. Even you must admit a greater degree of patience is required.”
“He doesn’t trust me, I can see it in his eyes. He’s given me heaps of papers to sort.”
“Then sort them, and do it well.”
“I shall, but I know there will be more to follow. Oh, don’t look at me like that. You are right of course. I must prove myself. Earn his trust.” She paused and then smiled, mimicking him. “Have a ‘greater degree of patience’!”
“Just so. Let me have that,” he said, holding out his hand for the box and returning it to the rejected stack. “Tell me what it is you are so eager to have access to. What treasures have caught your eye?”
“There are so many!” she said, jumping up to sit atop a particularly large crate, swinging her feet as she spoke, her eyes bright. “The books themselves, of course. Hundreds! Some centuries old. And most in a good state of repair. The ecclesiastical proportion is high, understandably, but there are other things, too; records of battles, books on natural history and geography—you would love those—even works of poetry, much to Reverend Thomas’s displeasure. And the Mappa Mundi! Father, it is magnificent. It will take me weeks, months even, simply to learn the names of everything it depicts. It has such…” She paused, searching for the word. “Presence,” she said at last.
Her father nodded. “It is a marvelous thing. I have seen other medieval maps in my travels. There is a splendid one in the Cairo library, but none can match Hereford’s Mappa. Such an exquisite example of its kind.”
“And there’s something else. A cabinet. A locked cabinet. Kept secured to two stone pillars as if the case itself might try to escape. It’s a little apart from the other shelves, and the master of the library became quite agitated when I questioned him about it.”
Edward raised his eyebrows. “Describe it to me.”
“It is no bigger than that trunk over there but significantly heavier, I should imagine. It seems to be made from a hardwood of some sort, very reddish in color.”
“Mahogany, perhaps?”
“Possibly. And it has inlay decorating it, beautiful and yet somehow forbidding. The pattern is swirling and geometric. It makes one dizzy to look at it for more than a moment. The lock is, in truth, out of all proportion to the case.”
“How so?” he asked, ceasing his rummaging, giving her his full attention.
“It is set upon a broad plate of beaten gold.”
“Unusual. Gold is a soft metal. Its use must be purely decorative.”
“There may be something stronger beneath it. There is a keyhole, a large one, and a pair of padlocks to either side of that.”
“Secure indeed. Intriguing. What exactly did Reverend Thomas tell you about it?”
“He said it was kept locked at all times for safety. His tone was clear; I was not to even think about opening it. I find it hard to understand. I mean to say, I know I will not be trusted with the lowliest illuminated page for a considerable amount of time, but, despite my impatience, I do believe he will, eventually, permit me to read even the most valuable books in the chained collection. But not the ones in that box.” She shook her head slowly. “They must have a terrific value for their safety to be so much more important than that of any of all the other wonderful books in the library.”
Her father looked at her seriously then. “In my experience, the only things that are kept more securely locked up than treasured things are things that are dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“Have you considered, Hecate, that the master of the library may not have been speaking of keeping those books safe from you, but keeping you safe from those books?”
4
The following morning, Reverend Thomas had a small announcement to make. He delivered it to his audience of one—Hecate—with a certain force, as if wishing to underline the point that he was in charge. He stood in front of his desk, his color still high from climbing the stairs.
“I have taken the decision to dispense with Mrs. White’s services as cleaner here in the library. Now that you have taken up your post I think it more appropriate that you undertake her duties.”
“Of course, Reverend. I’d be happy to,” said Hecate, and meant it. Rather than considering such work menial, she saw it as an opportunity to get closer to everything in the collection.
“No caustic substances or abrasive materials are to be used. In the corner cupboard you will find everything you need. The books are to be dusted in situ fortnightly, the shelves polished weekly, other pieces of furniture you may attend to as you have time. The Mappa Mundi itself is not, under any circumstances, to be touched, do you understand?”
“I do.”
“It requires expert cleaning annually. I see to that myself, and this year you may observe me in my work. However, the frame will need dusting once a week, with a dry, soft cloth. No beeswax, nor feather duster. Is that clear, Miss Cavendish?”
“Perfectly, Reverend.”
“Good. You may set aside your paperwork and spend this morning polishing the desks, chairs, and so forth. Once you have finished, with a clean cloth, you can dust the frame of the Mappa.” He looked at her as if for the first time, taking in her slight build and lack of height, and added, “You will require the small set of steps. Be sure to approach the map from the side, not directly, lest you stumble and cause damage.”
“From the side, of course, makes complete sense,” she confirmed, nodding. As she fetched the cleaning things from the tall cupboard she recalled her brief conversation with Mrs. White the previous day. Had the dean listened to her pleas regarding her workload and suggested to the master of the library that he could do without the cathedral cleaner? It seemed likely, and how like the librarian to reframe the change so that it bolstered rather than undermined his authority. Hecate cared not who had instigated the new system. What mattered was that now she had the perfect excuse to closely examine everything in the room, including the map and the locked cabinet.
For the next two hours she worked diligently, beginning with her own chair and desk, then two oak coffers, followed by an unimposing cupboard that housed the materials used for map and book repairs. The smell of beeswax polish rose to prominence over other aromas in the room. When Reverend Thomas moved to the tall ladder on the first set of shelves to inspect something, he told her to take that moment to polish his desk and chair. Hecate decided that as soon as he was ensconced in his own work, she would take her duster to the locked cabinet. After her father’s reaction to it the night before, she had been itching to have a closer look. Her superior had not specified when the cabinet was to be cleaned, but nor had he expressly told her not to touch it. She reasoned that it could fall into the category of “and so forth” regarding individual pieces. At least, that would be her defense should he remonstrate with her. Polishing his desk took a maddening amount of time, as first she had to clear piles of papers, boxes of pencils, magnifying glasses, and other sundry items he liked to keep close at hand. She glanced up when she had nearly finished and was relieved to see the librarian, still perched atop the ladder, deeply absorbed in reading a parish record from sometime in the last century.
Although she moved toward it swiftly, when Hecate reached the locked cabinet, she hesitated. Her father’s words were fresh in her mind—keeping you safe from those books. She had pressed him to expand on this startling thought. How could books be dangerous? What words could they contain that required people to be protected from them? He had shrugged then, explaining that he had never seen the cabinet and had no knowledge of its contents. He advised only that she respect the librarian’s wishes where it was concerned, for he must have good reason for the warning he had given. Now, face-to-face with the strangely beautiful work of carpentry, she experienced a blend of excitement and wariness. As if she were standing on the top of a tall building, peering over a low wall, the vertiginous drop seeming to pull her forward, the wish to experience the thrill of danger fighting against the innate gift of self-preservation. She decided it was silly to be so timid. Whatever supposed dangers might be hidden inside, the locks were impressive and the box sturdy, and there could be no harm in merely dusting the thing. She ran her cloth over the top of the cabinet, surprised to find she had been holding her breath. She smiled at her own foolishness as she polished the rich red wood. The cabinet itself was not going to reveal anything regarding what it housed. She would have to find the right moment to persuade Reverend Thomas to talk about the mysterious books inside it.
Next she made her way to the Mappa Mundi. As instructed, she took out a clean cloth, tucked it into her pocket, and then fetched the set of small wooden steps. Following her remit exactly, she positioned the steps side-on to the map, taking great care never to put the precious artifact in any danger of being damaged. She climbed onto the second step and took out her duster. This was the closest she had yet been to the map, and with the benefit of midday light flooding in from the north- and east-facing windows, so much more detail was revealed to her. Though age had blurred the edges of many of the drawings, and time had faded its colors, the workmanship was still quite breathtaking, and the subject matter endlessly fascinating. Hecate picked out her favorite images; those depicting the mythical creatures. She muttered their names under her breath as she found them.
Unicorn, phoenix, dragon, sphinx …
She paused when she found the griffin, the sight of him making her smile. Such a curious little beast, part lion, part eagle. Its chest all puffed up with pride, its talons sharp, and yet somehow it failed to look in the least bit threatening. She stared hard at those claws, remembering how one had seemed to move. The creature remained static, one foot raised, poised, as if ready for an action that had not occurred for over a thousand years.
With great care, she took her cloth and leaned forward to slide it along the worn edge of the frame, picking up any dust that sat there, being sure not to simply disturb the motes and send them airborne in case they should resettle on the map itself. She worked slowly, moving the duster into the bevels and grooves of the frame, not letting it touch the vellum on which the map was drawn. She recalled reading about that vellum. There had been a calf specifically bred to provide the skin that would be cured and prepared for the mapmaker. That calf had lived a good life, being well fed to produce the best possible quality calfskin. She liked to think of him enjoying abundant food and green pastures until his time had come. Not everything had gone entirely to plan, however. While the calf frolicked or dozed in those meadows through its bright, single summer, its plumpness did not go unnoticed by an opportunist fly. This fly had settled onto the flank of the young beast and laid its eggs beneath the surface of that supple skin. Those eggs had later hatched, and left behind a tiny, circular scar. Through all the processes, despite all the skill of the deftest tanner, that tiny blemish remained. Hecate knew it was there. She narrowed her eyes, searching for it. At last she found it, a dark knot between the cartographer’s lines. Instinctively, her finger still shrouded in the cloth, she reached forward and touched that ancient flaw.
As if it had been waiting for her all those centuries, the map responded to that touch.
The creatures depicted upon it came to life, flapping their wings, rearing up on their hind legs, snorting through great, fiery nostrils, squawking and braying and bellowing and shrieking. They jumped and stamped as if testing the confines of the tiny space in which they existed. At the same time, the dozens of people on the map began shouting or calling, some in anger, some in terror, others in welcome, so that Hecate was assailed by a cacophony of sound, her mind shocked by so much sudden and impossible noise and activity. She instinctively pulled back, almost losing her balance, forced to clutch at the top handle on the steps, only just able to stop herself falling. The second she removed her hand from the vellum the commotion ceased. In the blink of an eye, the beasts fell silent, all movement and chaos stopped. The map returned to its normal, soundless, static condition.
She became aware that there were people behind her talking. She turned quickly, certain the librarian would have heard the noise and come running. Instead she saw that Mr. Gould had entered the library and the two men were conversing. As her heart rate returned to a steadier rhythm, Reverend Thomas descended his ladder and came to speak to her.
