He hesitated for a moment and then went on, “Apple blossom can be most attractive, can it not?”
“Certainly it can.”
He began to twirl the ends of his fine mustache. It was a habit she had noticed in him when he was either deep in thought or a little perplexed. Even knowing him as she did, it was hard to tell which was the cause at that moment.
“How is your bicycle?” he asked suddenly.
Hecate stopped and stared at him. “My bicycle?”
“Yes. Fine piece of engineering. American, I believe you mentioned. Very fine.”
“Phileas, my bicycle is exceptionally well, thank you so much for inquiring after its health.”
“Now you are laughing at me.”
“Do you wonder?”
“Dash it all, Hecate. I’m not a man for frivolous small talk. You know that.”
“Then why try?”
He waved an arm in the direction of Charlie who was already at the far end of the second row of apple trees. “I might bore you with so many details of the farm. Your brother is right. My … interests may not be, well, of interest … to ladies.”
“First of all, I am not ‘ladies’—you’ve known me since I was eight and we are friends, are we not?”
“Indubitably!”
“Secondly, we came here today because Father and I know how much Charlie enjoys it and he needed fresh air.”
“He’s a fine lad. Happy to help.”
“And thirdly…”
“Dear Lord, has there to be a thirdly?”
She put her hand on his arm. “If you start making silly small talk at me I will never speak to you again. Now, tell me about your cider.”
A broad smile rearranged his attractive features, his eyes sparkling. “Right. Good! Ha! Cider, yes, of course. So, half these trees are Tremletts and the other half are Foxwhelps. They are pest resistant and known to give a fair yield. More importantly, they will provide a good mix for a dry cider, which is what we’re going for here at Kynaston. None of your sugary nonsense. A traditional, golden cider. I think it will be quite the rage. Nothing too heady, of course…”
And so he fell to telling her with great enthusiasm about his new enterprise, and they strode on through the old orchard, ducking drowsy bees, happy to have banished the awkwardness that had initially accompanied them.
On her second day of work, Hecate arrived early at the cathedral. She wanted to take the opportunity to explore the building for a short while, to begin to learn its secrets for herself. Having parked her bicycle she slipped quietly through the south door and wandered down the aisle that led to the main transept. This was on the opposite side of the nave and the altar from her ordinary route, so it was an area she knew only slightly. She passed the entrance to the vestry where she had yet to be sent to make tea. She was on the point of turning into the south transept when a large woman with high color came bustling out through the vestry door, pushing a cart laden with feather dusters, rags, and tins of beeswax polish and brass cleaner. Even without the tools of her trade, Hecate would have recognized her as Mrs. White from the dean’s description, not so much by her appearance as her manner.
“I shall fall behind with my duties this day and every other, the way things are!” The cleaner dispensed with any greetings in favor of launching into a complaint concerning the restoration work that was in progress. “Stonemasons cannot but produce dust, and that dust must be dealt with. I am one person and one only, with just so many hours in my day,” she pointed out, as if her day might be shorter than anyone else’s.
Hecate gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile and held out a hand. “Mrs. White? I am Hecate Cavendish, come to assist the master of the library.”
Mrs. White took the proffered hand and gave it a limp squeeze. “It had not escaped my notice that Reverend Thomas has been provided with help, whereas my own entreaties for reinforcements have fallen upon deaf ears. Oh, I do not begrudge your presence, Miss Cavendish, dear me, you will think me a termagant!”
“Not at all…”
“’Tis only that I wish to maintain the high standards I have always provided. And now I find I cannot! Corners are being cut, Miss Cavendish. Cut, I tell you!”
“Your distress is entirely understandable, Mrs. White. Perhaps another conversation with Dean Chalmers would be worth your while? I do not believe he would wish to see you so overwhelmed.”
The older woman seemed a tad reassured to hear these words and calmed a little.
“The dean is a fair-minded man … but I dislike bothering him with my woes,” she said suddenly. “I will do as I always have, Miss Cavendish; I will manage. I will endure.” So saying she pushed her trolley onward, away along the aisle, its wheels rattling as it trundled over flagstones, then tiles, and back to flagstones once again.
After lingering awhile in the nave to gaze upon the gorgeous goldwork on the altar cloth and the fabulous carved reredos behind it, Hecate took the steps into the north aisle. She passed the open door to the tiny Stanbury Chapel, and as she did so she saw a soldier sitting, head bowed in silent prayer, the light filtered through the stained-glass windows setting the scarlet of his uniform ablaze. She tiptoed past and took the spiral staircase up to the library. The door was unlocked. Reverend Thomas appeared to give the impression he had been there some time, looking up from his desk with raised eyebrows as the tower bell struck nine o’clock, but the fact that he was still puffing from the climb somewhat undermined his subterfuge.
“Good morning, Reverend Thomas,” Hecate said brightly, hanging her coat on the hook on the coat stand. “Another lovely day. I was only just saying to Mrs. White—”
“You would do better not to engage that lady in conversation. She is given to exaggeration and chatter, neither of which is a good use of your time.”
She opened her mouth to reply but thought better of it, hurrying to take her place behind her desk instead. To her left there was a box containing the documents she had been given the day before. Despite her diligent efforts, it was still more than half full. On her right were two boxes into which she was required to sift and organize the pages once she had identified and logged them. As Hecate settled to her work, so the atmosphere of the room settled around her. It was filled not with silence, but by a busy quiet, punctuated by a loose windowpane being gently rattled by a spring breeze, Reverend Thomas’s faintly wheezing in-breaths, the occasional rustling of paper or vellum as the two of them applied themselves to their labors, the distant sound of footfalls upon flagstones, or snatches of singing from the choir practicing in the hall of the cloisters. Underlying these was another sound. It was of such a timbre that Hecate could not be certain it did not exist only in her own head, like the thud of her heartbeat reverberating against her eardrums. It was a soft humming, a vibration of some sort, and it ran continuously, underscoring all the other small noises. In addition, the room had its own smells; old books, leather, turpentine, glue, varnish, beeswax, gas lamps, metal polish. They were familiar to Hecate from a childhood spent in her father’s study or in the attic, where he would clean, repair, and preserve treasures and tomes acquired through his years as an archeologist. She breathed in those smells now, steadying her own breath as they calmed her, absorbing the atmosphere of the room while it in turn absorbed her. She became part of it. A tiny cog in a mighty engine. Her own thoughts adding to those recorded in the books and maps, her mind open to the whispers of the ancients whose wisdom and stories sat upon the shelves surrounding her.
She raised her gaze from her paperwork to glance across the room at the locked cabinet. A slant of sunshine threw shadows of the window tracery upon its polished wood and the gold of its finger plate. She could not help wondering what it contained, and the librarian’s reluctance to tell her only increased her interest. She had not had the opportunity to ask her father if he knew about it, as upon their return from Kynaston the previous evening he had received a visitor from the city museum. She resolved to ask him the moment she saw him next. Her plan had always been to compose a reading schedule, so that she could work through the most thought-provoking and unusual works in the collection. How could she know where to start without knowing the contents of that cabinet?
She stretched her back for a moment, moving her arms to free them of a stiffness born of close, still work. As she did so she turned her head so that she was looking at the map on the wall to her right. If the library held secrets, the map held mysteries of its own. She fell to picking out the mythical creatures, naming them in her head, committing them to memory.
Unicorn, phoenix, dragon, sphinx, griffin, manticore …
She stopped, her eyes flicking back to the griffin. She could have sworn she saw it move. Just the tiniest bit. A brief flexing of one of its talons. She stared hard at it, waiting. Nothing. Her imagination was playing tricks. She straightened her shoulders and turned back to the work on her desk.
3
Outside, the afternoon was cooling as she wheeled her bicycle across the Cathedral Green. The fresh air helped soothe her mind, which still seethed with the stimulation of her second day as library assistant. There was so much she wanted answers to, and to force herself to be patient was, for Hecate, the hardest of challenges. She had just reached the narrow entrance to Church Street when she heard her name being called. Turning, she saw Clemmie waving to her from the other side of the Green.
