The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [96]
"She died," Orphan said. "They both died."
"How do you know?"
"I…" He didn't. It was what he was told. By… Gilgamesh? How did he fit into all this? Orphan remembered the fragment of Gilgamesh's diary. He had been to the island once. Had he been there again?
"Who was your father?"
"He was a Vespuccian sailor."
Catherine's face was a moue of disapproval. Orphan almost laughed.
"How long have I been asleep?" he asked, sitting up. He felt refreshed, almost light-headed.
"Nearly fifteen hours," Catherine said. "It's morning now."
Purpose returned. "I want to see the Nursery," he said.
"Elizabeth will show it to you."
"I need some food," he said.
"There's some–" Catherine said, and Orphan sighed and said, "Mushrooms?"
"Yes."
"Fine."
"You could do with a wash, too," Catherine commented.
Orphan agreed.
"There's a warm pool outside."
"Thanks."
"It's so good to have you back, William," Catherine said. Orphan muttered something inaudible. He did not intend to stick around if he could help it.
"Where is the book?" he said.
Catherine didn't answer immediately. Orphan stood up and stretched. Yes, he felt a lot better now. Ready to tackle the island. Ready to act. And to find a way off it. He tried his thumb, felt it no different. If he didn't look at it too closely it was just like it was before… Good. One step at a time then. If his mother – was it really his mother? – could find her way out, then so could he. The Bookman must have intended him to.
If he kept repeating that he might actually believe it.
"Where it has always been," Catherine said in a low voice. "But it would be hard to get to. In the tree, on the edge of the crater."
"Good," Orphan said, "because the crater is the next place I want to pay a visit to." And he wandered out of the door and went looking for the warm pool, whistling as he went.
THIRTY
Launch
We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
– Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere's Fan
Orphan had washed and cleaned himself, and was given clothes by the man with the crown of hair over his balding head, who was apparently his uncle, if by marriage. He was Elizabeth's father. Which made him, Orphan, her cousin, didn't it? He wasn't sure how he felt about that. The thought of suddenly having a large (and somewhat mushroom-obsessed) family was a little overwhelming.
He also got the impression that the uncle wasn't very keen on him. The man moved furtively. But then, they all did, Orphan realised. They moved like unwanted strangers in someone else's home, meek and nervous.
The clothes, though worn, were comfortable. Loose trousers and shirt, both grey.
When he finished his bath and dressed he saw Elizabeth approaching. She held a small object in her hand, and looked distressed.
"Hello," Orphan said, awkwardly.
Elizabeth came closer, then stopped. "I brought you the book," she said.
"What? But it's dangerous to–" He stopped. Elizabeth shrugged. "I go out alone all the time," she said. "I wouldn't have found you otherwise, would I?"
Orphan couldn't argue with that. He took the book from her hands and Elizabeth immediately looked relieved.
Orphan turned the book in his hands. The leather binding looked worn, rotting in places. The title was hardly discernible, the gilt having been chipped away. The page edges looked rusted. Holding it, he felt Mary's story becoming truth. It was the book his mother had held. The way she once may have held him. Carefully, he opened the book onto the first page.
It was empty.
The paper was brittle and yellowing, with spots of water damage and rust. It was, in booksellers' terminology, foxed. It was also blank.
Orphan turned the pages one after the other, but none were printed. Nothing but empty pages. Frustrated, he leafed through till the end. Only there, on the back endpaper, did he see something. A small, barely legible mark in fading blue ink, hand-written in an oldfashioned script. He peered at it. It said, "Under the Nursery, the mushrooms grow