The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [7]
"Well," Jack said, slowly swirling the drink in his hand, "rumour has it the Bookman's not left town. They're panicking, Orphan. They are panicking. There's increased security at the Palace, but for all they know his next victim could be the Byron automaton, or Prime Minister Moriarty, or just some dumb fool who buys the wrong book at the wrong time." He looked up from his drink and his mouth twisted into a smile. "The Establishment is teetering, Orphan. And they are all going to end up against the wall, when the revolution comes."
Orphan looked at his friend, concerned. Usually, Jack was good company, but when he was like this – when his revolutionary sentiments got the better of him – he could be savage, almost frightening. Orphan didn't know what grievance his friend had against the Calibanic dynasty. He didn't need to. There were many other people like Jack, angry people, people who hated lizards, or poetry, or both. People, he thought, like the Bookman.
He finished his drink and, mirroring him, Jack did the same. "I'm going to sleep," Jack said. He stood up and laid the glass on the table with a little more force than was necessary. "Make sure you open the shop in the morning. And try to get some sleep. See you tomorrow, china. And congratulations."
When he was gone, Orphan blew out the two halfmelted candles that perched precariously on two opposing shelves and stretched himself on the bed. Sleep claimed him at once, and his dreams were full of Lucy.
THREE
The Parliament of Payne
As with the commander of an army, or the leader of any enterprise, so is it with the mistress of a house.
– Isabella Beeton, The Book of Household Management
Orphan had first met Lucy one day at the bookshop. She came through the door like – sunshine? Wind? Like spice? Orphan wasn't that much of a poet – looking for a book about whales. He fell in love the way trees do, which is to say, forever. It was a love with roots that burrowed deep, entangled, grew together. Like two trees they leaned into each other, sheltering each other with their leaves, finding solace and strength in the wide encompassing forest that was the city, holding together in the multitude of alien trees. Orphan loved her the way people do in romantic novels, from the first page, beyond even The End.
When the door opened he hoped it was her, but it wasn't. The door opened and closed, the bell rang, and footsteps – their sound a dry shuffle – approached the counter behind which Orphan sat, bleary-eyed and untidy, a mug of coffee (the largest that was available) and the morning paper resting by his side.
"Good morning, good morning!" a voice said chirpily. Orphan, wincing, looked up from his reading. "Good morning to you too, Mr. Marx. All's well?"
"All's well that ends well," Marx said, and sniggered. He ran his fingers through his large, overgrown beard, as if searching for a lost item within. "Jack about?"
Orphan mutely pointed towards the small door that led to the basement. Marx nodded thoughtfully but didn't move. "Have you, um, come across any of the volumes I ordered?"
"Let's see," Orphan said. He reached down to the shelves built into the counter. "We have–"
"Quietly, please," Marx said. He looked left and right and back again and said, apologetically, "The walls have ears."
"Quite," Orphan said. Though he usually liked Karl, the man's constant movement, like an ancient grandfather clock, between high paranoia and boisterous cheer, grated on his fragile nerves that morning. "Well," he whispered, "we managed to acquire M. Verne's narrative of his expedition to Caliban's Island,