"Nothing," she said again.
"What do you mean, nothing?" he snapped, suspecting a trick. "You're joking, right?"
His voice was louder than intended and his mother turned round to make sure they weren't arguing. He smiled at her sheepishly and she continued on ahead.
"I'm serious," said Duck. "There were no words in his book. He was staring at a blank page — just like in your book."
She watched to see how he took the remark.
He remained silent and thoughtful for a while. "That doesn't mean anything," he said finally. "It could have been a notebook. Maybe he was going to write something in it when you interrupted him."
"But he wasn't holding a pen," she said quickly. Obviously, she had been thinking this through.
"Or maybe he'd just finished reading a novel and was thinking it over when you came along," suggested Blake. "Some books have blank pages at the end, you know."
"Possibly," she conceded, "but I got a closer look at it than you, and I don't think it was a novel. Or even a notebook. Besides, he stared at you in such a funny way. That suggests there was definitely something fishy about the book — or about you."
She gave him another look.
He grunted, unwilling to take the bait. "He was just irritated because you interrupted him, that's all," he answered, and quickened his pace to catch up with his mother. Either Duck was being annoying or else she was mistaken. The man had certainly looked like he was reading something. The possibility that there could be two blank books in one day seemed too unlikely to be true.
They had arrived at a busy intersection. To their right stood an ancient stone tower with two gold-helmeted figures ready to strike the hour on the bells with their clubs, while several hundred meters away, beyond a college and its meadows, lay a low bridge, which crossed the river towards the neighborhood in which they lived. Already Blake could sense the cramped row of houses in Millstone Lane growing nearer and shivered.
"Two blank books in one day," Duck mused aloud. "I think it's a mystery. And, if it is, then I'm going to be the one to solve it."
"Oh yeah?" he retorted. "You'll have to do so without me."
"Good," she said. "I was planning to do just that."
But Blake took no notice of her remark. He had already resolved to steal away from the dinner that night and return to the college library. He would find the blank book and this time read the riddle over and over again until he understood it.
5
Blake fingered the torch in his pocket apprehensively.
He had expected the dinner to take place in the cavernous dining hall, a room full of drafts and sputtering candles; but it had been relocated to the Master's Lodgings, a cozier but no less opulent building tucked away in a far corner of the college. He wondered how, or if, he was going to be able to sneak away to the library.
Little lanterns lit their way, emitting a ghostly glow that barely illuminated the path. Plants with spiky fronds clutched at his clothes, while tangled shadows climbed the walls.
Ahead was a large house. Even now he could hear the din of voices breaking from the ground-floor rooms and felt tempted to run back to the peace and tranquility of the library; but his mother put a hand on his shoulder and steered him onwards.
"Now, I want you two to behave," she whispered as they climbed the stone steps to the door, which was flanked on either side by stiff marble columns. "There are important people present."
The hallway was dominated by an enormous chandelier that descended from the ceiling in a fountain of frozen light. Duck danced beneath it, pirouetting on her heels, while Blake gazed at the paintings that once again graced the shot-silk walls. The largest was of an old man in a desert, with a disproportionately small lion at his feet. Wrapped in a scarlet cloak, he was scribbling feverishly in a book, although Blake couldn't decipher any of the words. They were gibberish to him. The saintlike figure, however, reminded him of the homeless man and he wondered again what he had been reading when Blake and Duck had stumbled upon him.
Juliet Winters did not pause to take in her surroundings, but guided them into a little cloakroom further down the corridor. A row of black robes had been strung up along the walls like dead birds. Blake noticed that his mother took one before putting her coat on the vacant peg. He placed his jacket over hers and was about to reach for a robe too, when she put out a hand to stop him.
"Gowns are for Fellows only," she warned him, shrugging the black material on to her shoulders.
Blake didn't mind forgoing the formality — his mother looked like a disheveled crow, he thought — but Duck was itching to try one on. She brushed her fingers along the embroidered sleeves and dreamed of being an Oxford scholar. She refused, however, to take off her raincoat.
Juliet Winters glanced at her reflection in a gold-framed mirror and then opened the door to an adjoining room. A multitude of people stood before them in conspiratorial circles, discussing books. Blake moved around the edge of the crowd, carefully avoiding conversation. An elbow jogged him once or twice and he apologized, but otherwise no one paid him attention.
Before long he found himself by a cabinet on which a cluster of glasses had been arranged like sparkling jewels. He couldn't resist. He reached for a glass of sherry as soon as his mother's back was turned. The amber liquid had a beguiling aroma and tasted warm and sweet when he tested it with his tongue. Not too horrible. He took a deeper sip and swallowed.
Immediately, a fire erupted in his throat and rushed up the sides of his face. He winced. Quickly, before his mother caught him, he put the sherry back on its tray and opted for a safer glass of orange juice instead.
Bleary-eyed, he looked around the room.
A series of marble busts perched like birds of prey atop the large chimneypiece that dominated one wall, while portraits of still more scholars jostled for space along the others. Everywhere he turned, resentful faces peered out at him form dark canvases, as if envious of the living. He turned away, unable to hold their stares.
His mother was clearly in her element. She was chatting easily with the other professors, a confident smile on her face. "Mingling," his father had called it on the phone earlier that evening, although his mother preferred a more powerful word: "networking."
Duck, too, was making the most of the occasion. She was standing in front of a small semicircle of people, all of whom seemed to be marveling at the things she said. One gooselike lady, wearing a chintzy dress and reeking of gardenias, kept clucking her amazement. "Yes, yes, oh very clever, yes," she said, pulling at a pearl necklace. Later he overheard her telling his mother that Duck was "an astonishing girl, so bright for her age — except for that coat. Most peculiar. And you have a son, you say?"
He dodged through the crowd to avoid detection.
He ended up by a large window and pulled back an edge of curtain to peer outside. It would be the perfect opportunity to escape. There were so many people in the room; no one would notice the disappearance of a small boy.
Just then, he became aware of a woman with silver hair standing beside him. In a sensuous voice that made his skin shiver, she said, "You must be Blake. I am Diana, Sir Giles Bentley's wife."
The sound seemed to settle like snow on the back of his neck and he looked up, mesmerized by the feel of it. She wasn't wearing a gown like the other members of the college, but had draped a cream-colored shawl across her shoulders instead. It was fastened together with a mall silver clasp, fashioned into the shape of a delicate butterfly. Blake studied it admiringly. Its papery wings seemed so lifelike; they appeared to move.
She indicated a man in a special robe with gold embroidery on its sleeves, who was standing in the center of the room, surrounded by a large number of people. Blake gulped. Sir Giles Bentley: he had a shock of white hair, glowering dark eyebrows and eyes as hard as gemstones. Arms folded across his chest, he was huffing and puffing in response to some other man — a cringing scholar in an ill-fitting, toad-colored suit. Paula Richards, the l
ibrarian, stood between them, trying to keep them apart.
"They're disagreeing about editions of Goblin Market," said Diana Bentley with a lisp that again seemed to tickle the back of Blake's neck.
"What market?" he asked, not understanding what she meant.
"Goblin Market," she repeated. "It's one of my favorite poems, written by Christina Rossetti in 1862. It's about two sisters who are tempted to eat exotic fruit offered them by little goblin greengrocers. 'Come buy, come buy,' they sing to the girls, one of whom succumbs and the languishes from hunger. The language is wonderful. Lurid and alluring. Of course, it can be read on different levels."
Blake understood even less of what she was saying and felt his attention begin to wander. While his ears listened faintly to what she told him, his eyes roamed the room.
Yet more members of the Ex Libris Society had arrived. All around him were murmurs about the future of books, which seemed to be threatened because of a new plan to digitalize the Bodleian Library's collection. As Blake watched, Prosper Marchand, one of the leaders of the digitalization project, made a beeline for his mother, with two glasses of wine in his outstretched hands.
Suddenly Sir Giles roared with rage. "Puce, I tell you! Christina's copy was puce! You, sir, are an ignoramus!"
Sputters of confusion circled the room. A short middle-aged woman with lank, brown hair, who appeared to have just stepped off her broom, jumped slightly and remarked to her companion in a voice like a squeaky balloon, "I wish he wouldn't do that. He frightens me to death!"
Diana, however, seemed unfazed by the outbreak.
"Giles," she continued softly, taking Blake's arm, "believes that the first edition of Goblin Market is the only one scholars should refer to; but I prefer a later version, because the illustrations make the goblins appear more sinister, more beguiling, and therefore more dangerous." She smiled and he nodded, thinking this was somehow an appropriate reaction.
Without his noticing, she had led him away from the window towards a large table spread with food. A butler was busily removing lids from plates crammed with lobster, monkfish and orange-glazed duck, accompanied by mountains of steaming vegetables.
What fascinated Blake even more, however, was the selection of fruit. Apart from the usual pineapples, plums and peaches were things he had never seen before: fruit shaped like stars and others like spiky sponges. There were also orange berries partially hidden inside leafy cages that looked like paper lanterns. He like the look of these especially. It was just like the goblin market Diana Bentley had been describing.
As if confirming his thoughts, the woman hummed "Come buy, come buy" while her eyes traveled up and down the table. "It's a splendid feast," she said to him, and then rejoined her husband near a tureen of pumpkin and coriander soup.
Blake piled his plate high with food and started to eat.
"I'm surprised she didn't offer you Turkish delight," muttered Duck as soon as she joined him. "I don't like her. She seems icy."
Blake shrugged. "You're just jealous because she didn't pay you any attention."
"Yeah, right."
"What is Turkish delight, anyway?" he asked with his mouth full, to change the topic.
"That stuff," said Duck, pointing to a plate covered with squares of orange and purplish jelly coated in icing sugar. "Only evil characters in books like it."
"Oh yeah?" he said, grinning. Unable to resist the temptation, he reached for a piece and shoveled the large shivery portion into his mouth.
"Don't!" squealed Duck.
Immediately, he wished he hadn't. It tasted awful! The spicy sweetness of the jelly made his teeth twinge. He went to search for a glass of water to rinse his mouth. When he returned, he found Paula Richards deep in conversation with Duck, who was still keeping an eye on the Turkish delight.
To avoid them, he moved over to the selection of fruit. Even though the star-shaped fruit looked tempting, he took one of the lantern-like berries instead, wondering what it would taste like. He hesitated, then plopped it into his mouth.
An elderly gentleman behind him gasped.
Blake turned round, with the orange berry stuck like a gobstopper between his teeth. The man was holding his cheek as if he had a toothache. He looked at Blake and winked. "I defy you to bite that," he said. "It tastes just like shampoo!"
Blake bit down and grimaced. The berry burst in a bubble of flesh that tasted at first sweet, then sour, then slightly sweet again, before finally leaving a bitter residue in his mouth. Shampoo was a good word for it. He loved the sensation and immediately took another.
"They're known as winter cherries," the man explained in a deep, benevolent voice. "The appellation makes them sound sweet and appetizing, I find, but nothing prepares you for that ghastly taste! Never trust a euphemistically named fruit, that's what I say."
"I like them," said Blake dumbly, even though one side of his mouth felt curiously numb.
"You must be Juliet's son," said the man, as though the contradictory remark had proved the point. "My name is Jolyon. I used to teach your mother."
He extended a hand so large and strong it seemed to engulf the boy's. Blake could feel the bones in his hand compressing like the quills of a fan and only barely managed to wriggle free. Without another word, the professor moved to a plump leather armchair in the center of the room, away from the assembled members of the Ex Libris Society. Blake trailed after him, as if pulled by a gravitational force. He sat down next to him and gave the man a closer look.
Jolyon's gown was shabby and frayed, with long threads dangling from the armpits like untidy spiderwebs. Beneath this, he wore a tweed jacket with a checked shirt and stained tie. Apart from his coarse white hair, which stood up in crests and waves like an unruly sea, he looked just like an overgrown boy who had dressed up in layers of oversized clothing. Blake liked him.
The professor remained silent and thoughtful for a while, with his eyes closed. Blake knew he oughtn't to interrupt, but a question was rattling around inside his brain and gradually he built up the confidence to ask it.
"Um, was my mother a good student?" he asked, with a shy smile that broadened into a mischievous grin.
The professor opened one eye and said quizzically, "It depends on how you define good."
Blake shifted uncomfortably where he sat, and groaned. Like his parents, the professor was getting him to define his words more accurately. It was a game he didn't like much, since he wasn't very good at it.
The old man, noticing his distress, relented. "I beg your pardon. It's a trick I play when I feel my students haven't formulated their questions properly. Sometimes it's more difficult to know the question than to find an answer."
Blake gave him a puzzled look.
"Your mother was Juliet Somers then," explained the man, unmindful of the man's confusion. "She was a capable, clever and highly motivated student, who finished her dissertation in good time, I believe, despite your father's efforts."
Jolyon glanced at Blake to see if he understood the last remark and was confronted by two amazingly light blue eyes, as watchful as mirrors.
Taken aback, he continued in a softer voice, speaking more honestly than Blake had expected, "She was, I dare say, even then, more conscious of her career than her vocation. I am not sure that she loved books, but she analyzed what was in them very well. Still, without that passion, she was never, I fear, my best student."
It felt odd to hear someone criticizing his mother and Blake looked around the room uneasily until he spotted her. There she was, still talking to Prosper Marchand, who was now offering her a glass of ruby-colored port. They appeared to be on familiar terms. Too familiar, perhaps. Blake scowled.
"No, that distinction," resumed Jolyon, "goes to your father. He was my most promising student."
Blake's eyes zipped back to the old man's face. "My Dad?" he asked, thinking he had misheard.
The professor eyed him astutely. "Oh, yes, your father had a most remarkable imagination. Not alway
s accurate, mind, but blessed with an insight I have rarely seen."
Insight. The resonated in Blake's mind, reminding him of the blank book he had found in the library. It had appeared in the final line of the poem.
Suddenly a grandfather clock started to chime the hour. It sounded so old and frail Blake thought it would expire before it reached the last toll. Seven, eight, nine o'clock…The numbers wheezed by, accompanied by a prolonged bronze echo.
Jolyon, following his gaze, seemed alarmed to notice the time. "Good heavens," he said. "I had no idea."
Blake was momentarily distracted.
"Huh?" he said. He had just caught sight of Duck tugging on Sir Giles Bentley's sleeve. The old man looked down at her with barely concealed contempt. His stare would have crushed a lesser opponent. Diana stood nearby, observing them both with mild detachment.
Jolyon staggered to his feet. "You'll forgive me, I hope, if I make a hasty departure." Once again, he extended a hand, which this time Blake noticed was spattered with ink. "It's been a pleasure, my boy."
"Um, yeah," said Blake, sorry to see him go. There were still so many things he wanted to know about his parents.
The man clearly sensed his disappointment, for he said, "You appear to have more questions in you yet. Why not come round to my office once you know precisely what you want to know." He seemed to appreciate the riddle in the last part of this sentence and winked. Chortling softly to himself, he began to walk away.
For some reason, the question slipped out before Blake could prevent it. Immediately he wished the words unsaid, but there they were, out in the open, hovering in the space between them.
"What is Endymion Spring?"
What is Endymion Spring? The professor wheeled round sharply and stared at the boy, astonished. Evidently, this was not the question he had been expecting.
Blake backed away. For a moment he thought he could detect a glimmer of desire on the man's face — a lean, hungry look that reminded him of the homeless man outside the bookshop. Luckily, this was wiped clean almost instantly and was replaced by a more affectionate expression.
Endymion Spring Page 5
