A Discovery of Witches - Deborah Harkness [102]
Matthew looked up sharply.
“Good to see you two again. Is it okay if I check my e-mail down there since the witch is here with you?”
“What’s your name?” I asked, smothering a smile.
“Timothy,” he answered, rocking back on his heels. He was wearing mismatched cowboy boots, one red and one black. His eyes were mismatched, too—one was blue and one was green.
“You’re more than welcome to check your e-mail, Timothy.”
“You’re the one.” He tipped his fingers at me, pivoted on the heel of the red boot, and walked away.
An hour later I stood, unable to control my impatience. “The manuscript should have arrived by now.”
The vampire’s eyes followed me across the six feet of open space to the call desk. They felt hard and crisp like ice, rather than soft as snowfall, and they clung to my shoulder blades.
“Hi, Sean. Will you check to see if the manuscript I requested this morning has been delivered?”
“Someone else must have it,” Sean said. “Nothing’s come up for you.”
“Are you sure?” Nobody else had it.
Sean riffled through the slips and found my request. Paper-clipped to it was a note. “It’s missing.”
“It’s not missing. I saw it a few weeks ago.”
“Let’s see.” He rounded the desk, headed for the supervisor’s office. Matthew looked up from his papers and watched as Sean rapped against the open doorframe.
“Dr. Bishop wants this manuscript, and it’s been noted as missing,” Sean explained. He held out the slip.
Mr. Johnson consulted a book on his desk, running his finger over lines scrawled by generations of reading-room supervisors. “Ah, yes. Ashmole 782. That’s been missing since 1859. We don’t have a microfilm.” Matthew’s chair scraped away from his desk.
“But I saw it a few weeks ago.”
“That’s not possible, Dr. Bishop. No one has seen this manuscript for one hundred and fifty years.” Mr. Johnson blinked behind his thick-rimmed glasses.
“Dr. Bishop, could I show you something when you have a moment?” Matthew’s voice made me jump.
“Yes, of course.” I turned blindly toward him. “Thank you,” I whispered to Mr. Johnson.
“We’re leaving. Now,” Matthew hissed. In the aisle an assortment of creatures was focused intently on us. I saw Knox, Timothy, the Scary Sisters, Gillian—and a few more unfamiliar faces. Above the tall bookcases, the old portraits of kings, queens, and other illustrious persons that decorated the walls of Duke Humfrey’s Reading Room stared at us, too, with every bit as much sour disapproval.
“It can’t be missing. I just saw it,” I repeated numbly. “We should have them check.”
“Don’t talk about it now—don’t even think about it.” He gathered up my things with lightning speed, his hands a blur as he saved my work and shut down the computer.
I obediently started reciting English monarchs in my head, beginning with William the Conqueror, to rid my mind of thoughts of the missing manuscript.
Knox passed by, busily texting on his mobile. He was followed by the Scary Sisters, who looked grimmer than usual.
“Why are they all leaving?” I asked Matthew.
“You didn’t recall Ashmole 782. They’re regrouping.” He thrust my bag and computer at me and picked up my two manuscripts. With his free hand, he snared my elbow and moved us toward the call desk. Timothy waved sadly from the Selden End before making a peace sign and turning away.
“Sean, Dr. Bishop is going back to college with me to help solve a problem I’ve found in the Needham papers. She won’t require these for the rest of the day. And I won’t be returning either.” Matthew handed Sean the boxed manuscripts. Sean gave the vampire a dark look before thumping them into a neater pile and heading for the locked manuscript hold.
We didn’t exchange a word on the way down the stairs, and by the time we pushed through the glass doors into the courtyard, I was ready to explode with questions.
Peter Knox was lounging against the iron railings surrounding the bronze statue of William Herbert. Matthew stopped abruptly and, with a fast