“I . . . think I’d rather go home,” I said, and began to hurry away.
“Oi . . . no. You—get back here!”
When I looked back, the man was in pursuit, but the effort needed for a brisk walk appeared to make him puff and blow. He was a thin man and decidedly gaunt: the more I stared at him, the more alarming I found him. A strange shock of white hair sprouted from under his cap, pushing out from underneath the brim like weeds in a poorly kept garden. His bushy mustache was noticeably longer on one side and yellowed by tobacco. All things considered, this was not a man I much wanted to associate with. I readied myself to run.
“Wait!” the man called out, the word half a cough. “Oliver Maximilian Diplexito, son of Sandleforth and Edwina Diplexito, stop there and listen!”
That was enough to make me pause. Even if I ran away, the stranger knew who I was and where to find me. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t a lunatic.
“Who are you?”
The man stumbled closer, stopping for a few moments with his hands braced against his knees. “Urgh! My name is Reggie. Reggie Scant.”
The other Mr. Scant, or more properly Mr. Gaunt, had very little in common with his brother. But as he led me to a funny little tearoom so we could have a sit-down and some tea, he told me they were in fact twins. Though both Scant brothers were tall and wiry, I would never even have guessed they were related.
“You’re . . . really different from how I expected you to be,” I said.
Mr. Scant’s brother took a sip of his Earl Grey and then gurgled in horror. “Forgot the sugar,” he said. He had been stirring the tea for at least half a minute. “But yes, yes, people would tell us that all the time. Very stiff, was Heck. Whereas me, I liked jokes, pranks. He was the one who enjoyed, oh, you know—lining things up in order of size.”
As Mr. Gaunt heaped no fewer than four spoonfuls into his cup, I tried to remember if I had ever seen another grown-up take sugar in tea.
“Did you say ‘Heck’?” I asked.
“Mmm. And now of course he’s . . . he’s there, doing the gentleman’s gentleman bit. Yes? Your father’s valet.” Mr. Scant’s brother scrubbed at the back of his scalp with a hand, which I assumed was a nervous habit. He had taken off his cap when we came into the little tearoom, revealing that his bushy hair didn’t start until three-quarters of the way back around his head. “Now, don’t you worry now, I’m the only one who knows where Heck works, so I’m the only one who, ah . . . who figured out who the boy was who came with him for the book yesterday. You! It’s . . . you. Isn’t it, Oliver?”
If he refused to answer my questions, I’d refuse to answer his. “Mr. Scant says you’re held against your will. They make you steal—”
“Hushhhh! Shush!” Mr. Gaunt almost sprang from his seat. “There are things to say and things to not say,” he whispered, looking furtively at the other patrons in the tearoom, none of whom had paid us the least bit of attention until he had started waving his hands at me.
“Sorry,” I said. “It must be hard for you.”
His tired eyes blinked at me once or twice, and I wondered how long it had been since anyone had said such a thing to him. Then he gave a little shrug, picking up his teacup. “Things can be difficult. There are ways to manage. But!” He brought his cup down too hard on his saucer, spilling a little tea over the rim. “You’re a good boy, Oliver Diplek— . . . Diplexito. Yes. I can tell you are. I can tell. You remind me of my Ellie—she’s your age. A few years older.”
“Your daughter?”
Mr. Gaunt nodded, with a little smile.
“Is she well?”
“She is, I think. I think so.” The thought seemed to sober him. He cleared his throat and sat forward, rubbing his hands together. “At the very least, she is safe. She’s in a university near Paris, where they say she’s the most brilliant female mind since . . . since, uh . . . Oh, tip of my tongue.” Then he clicked his fingers so loudly it made me lean away. “Since Maria Agnesi. They may just be being nice, but that’s quite a thing. I’m told. And yes, yes—yes! That’s why we’re here. Because you remind me of her, and we’re here to talk about keeping you safe. That is important, you know, being safe, and whatever Heck seems to think about . . . about how to protect the young’ins, huh! Doesn’t seem to be doing a good job of it, does he, now? Does he? I mean, look at you, stripling of a twig of a lad, and what do I hear? He’s taking you down there with the Valkyrie! The Valkyrie, for the love of Mike!”
“I’m not a stripling.”
“Oh, no stripling thinks it’s a stripling—that’s the rules,” he replied.
“I wasn’t in any danger,” I said. “I was only meant to watch, and it was . . . It was my own fault I got in harm’s way, because I got it wrong, what Mr. Scant wanted me to do.”
“Hearken to you defending him. Look, Heck is my brother even after all that’s happened—even now, when he still thinks I need him looking after me. I know him. I’ve known him a long, long time. Several times as long as you’ve had in this world, little twig. So you listen to me when I tell you—Heck, he is a dangerous, dangerous man. If you really think he’s taking you under his wing for some kind of . . . charitable work, you should think what’s in it for him. Yes. Heck always has three or four plans going at once, and they all bend his way, trust me on that.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “What exactly are you accusing him of?”
“No accusations! No accusations. Only thoughts upon which to ponder, butterflies to be chased, so on and whatnot. Beauty is truth, and truth beauty, isn’t that it? So both are in the eye of the beholder.”
Mr. Gaunt took a triumphant final gulp of his tea. “Consider, when he nurtures your trust, what he stands to gain. What he is lacking. Consider why he chose you and your family. Perhaps think a few years down the line, when young Oliver has some control over the company his father built. Maybe he knows a brilliant but failed engineer, already employed by the family. Maybe he could get that old man a senior position. His fingers in the pies, as it were. Consider that maybe one day he’ll be so trusted that if anything were to happen to the new head of Diplexito Engineering and Combustibles, he’d be the one in charge.”
Mr. Gaunt slammed a palm down onto the table for emphasis, rattling the crockery and causing the owner to give him a sharp look. He held up his hands in apology. “Food for thought,” he concluded and rose to saunter away. As I was about to call after him, he changed direction and sauntered back before producing a funny little floral purse. “I forgot to pay,” he said, drawing out some pennies. And then he turned and left in earnest.
I sat alone, finishing the pot of tea. After all, it wouldn’t do to let it go to waste. The tea had yet to cool enough for me to drink without blowing on it, making me wonder if Mr. Gaunt had a tongue made of leather.
He had not been at all as I had expected him to be. More than his eccentric behavior, I thought about his reasons for seeking me out. Did he really come solely to tell me that his brother, Heck—short for Hector, I assumed—was not what he seemed? Perhaps Mr. Gaunt was content with his lot in life and wanted his brother to stop interfering. Could it be true that Mr. Scant had designs on Father’s company? I hadn’t even considered that I might take over some day. Somehow, I doubted Father would be very keen on that idea. And besides, that plan would move at an incredibly slow pace for someone who could steal whatever he liked.
The conversation also prompted a new worry. If Mr. Gaunt were loyal to his captors, and knew who I was and where I lived, he could quite easily betray not only his brother but me as well. I had to speak with Mr. Scant about this, and so hurried home after I finished the tea.
Without one of his nods toward the Ice House, however, talking with Mr. Scant was impossible. He remained angry with me, and all evening he stayed close to Father. I had to wait until the next day, after I returned home from school. When I determined Mr. Scant was not with Father, I went to the Ice House and cast about for the concealed handle. Th
e door opened, which meant it was unlocked and Mr. Scant was inside. With a new sense of resolve, I ducked in.
A moment later, something very heavy slammed into my chest. Somewhere, a handbell rang, and I heard someone running in my direction. As my vision blurred, I felt a weight pushing down on my shoulder and a knife pressed to my neck.
VIII
Paper Riches
t’s the boy, it’s the boy!”
Those words were my salvation. As I heard them, the pressure on my shoulder relented. As I coughed and gasped for breath like a man rescued from drowning, someone began to dust me down: Mr. Scant. Behind him, the scarred coachman took a step back, returning his knife to his belt.
“There, no harm done,” said Mr. Scant. “Steady yourself now, boy. Here.” He produced something to drink from a hip flask, and I swallowed it without thinking. As I began to cough uncontrollably, Mr. Scant went on: “That should do it. You must excuse Mykolas—he has more to lose being discovered here than even I do.”
“Please forgive my caution,” the scarred man added, in an accent that might have been Russian.
Mr. Scant cleared his throat. “Since we haven’t had one yet, perhaps a proper introduction is in order. Master Oliver, I would like to present Dr. Mykolas Mikolaitis, sometimes known also as the Velinas. He is an expert on the old magicks from the region north of Prussia, currently under occupation. Mykolas, it is my pleasure to introduce Master Oliver Diplexito.”
“I hope I gave no offense,” Dr. Mikolaitis said with a bow.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I wheezed, offering my hand.
“Forgive me also for the shooting,” said Dr. Mikolaitis, squeezing my hand rather too hard. “In the spa, under the ground. I aim to miss, but I must pretend to be a louse to be amongst lice.”
“‘Lice’ is what Mykolas calls the Woodhouselee Society,” said Mr. Scant.
“Makes sense, no? Woodhouses, woodlouses, lice.”
Once my vision cleared, I saw that I had set off some kind of security apparatus and been knocked to the ground by a large log on a rope. My ribs felt bruised, but at least this mishap had distracted Mr. Scant from his anger over the Valkyrie. “Come, let’s get you seated,” he said.
Once I we reached the bottom of the chamber and I sat, wincing, Mr. Scant explained that Dr. Mikolaitis was a scholar whose country had fallen to a great empire, a place where the people longed to be free. His father, whose own parents had died in a famous uprising, had wanted nothing more for his own son than for him to escape the empire he’d been born into. He taught the young Dr. Mikolaitis two things—to study and to fight. His father spent his life’s savings sending his son to France to study, where young Mykolas’s thesis on the pagan gods from the lands around the Baltic Sea brought him to the attention of a member of the Royal Geographical Society. This new benefactor offered Dr. Mikolaitis a position in London. Though Dr. Mikolaitis eagerly accepted, he soon found his benefactor was a member of the Woodhouselee Society. Instead of the life of learning he had hoped for, he was expected to work his way up the ranks of the Society.
“They knew I could fight, so they made me act as their thug,” Dr. Mikolaitis told me. “It was a bad time. There is a place in the Yorkshire Dales, the beautiful Yorkshire Dales. You find a river there called the Strid. It looks oh so pretty, but those waters are deep, and they move so quickly that if a man is thrown in, he never comes out again. So easy, to make such things look accidental. I had to tie a man’s hands behind his back and walk him there. The professor who had said such beautiful things about my thesis took him from me and pushed him into the river. For the rest of my life, I will see his face when I close my eyes.”
“Mykolas decided to write a letter to expose the Society,” said Mr. Scant.
“To the Times, though in truth, I would never send it,” said Dr. Mikolaitis. “They would only call me a lunatic.”
“Fortunately, I saw him writing his letter, there at his guard post,” said Mr. Scant.
“From above,” said Dr. Mikolaitis. “Nobody ever thinks to look upwards.”
“This was before the Ruminating Claw, before there was any plan to create forgeries. But I would perform reconnaissance on Reginald’s lab, to see him work. There I met Mykolas, and he became my staunchest ally within the organization.”
“They tell me very little, and ask very much,” Dr. Mikolaitis said, “but I know what to say to please them, and they think my people are weak-willed and obedient, so we are safe.”
“Before you let yourself in, we were discussing your mishap with the Valkyrie,” Mr. Scant said, and Dr. Mikolaitis laughed such a booming laugh that I felt sure people outside would be able to hear it.
“Yes! You are brave young boy,” he said, his smile making his scars twist into strange patterns. “A boy after my own heart, that is how to say it?”
Mr. Scant nodded. “It is. But let us not encourage recklessness. No more launching yourself at dangerous fighters, Master Oliver, unless you want to end up with a face like Mykolas’s.”
“My face?” Dr. Mikolaitis shook his head at me. “He jokes. My scars, they are from when I am very small, very young child. Well, most of them!” Once again, he laughed as though this were tremendously funny.
“I feel really awful about . . . doing the wrong thing,” I said. “I’m sorry. I should have understood. I know what to look out for now.”
“Good,” said Dr. Mikolaitis. “Sharp eyes will keep you alive. And . . . strong heart!”
“And a strong mind,” said Mr. Scant. “Mishaps aside, we are making good progress. I only hope there will be no more complications.”
“No more complications, that’s right,” I said—and hastily began to reconsider mentioning Mr. Scant’s brother. Rather to my surprise, I wanted little more than to continue this peculiar apprenticeship, and I would do nothing that could jeopardize it. But even if I chose not to mention the meeting, I couldn’t ignore Mr. Gaunt’s words altogether. After a bit of thought, I said, “Isn’t it a shame you didn’t invent something for Father’s engines, so you could work in his company?”
“What do you mean by that, Master Oliver?”
“Well, that way you wouldn’t have to be his valet any more. You could . . . concentrate more on your brother.”
Mr. Scant looked to his friend Dr. Mikolaitis with faint amusement, and Dr. Mikolaitis laughed uproariously. “My dear Master Oliver,” Mr. Scant said, “it is not for want of money that I took on this role. Let me show you something.”
On one of the nearby platforms sat a large camera, the type with bellows and a sheet the photographer disappears underneath. “Do you know what this is?”
“A camera.”
“Note specifically a few discrete points. Here, allowing the particular fit of the lens. Also here, where the aperture can be adjusted. The small parts ensuring a steady hold on the film inside. Each of these elements was somebody’s invention. Or perhaps the invention of a group of men. Just as dozens and dozens of parts make up your father’s engines, each refined to perfection by a specialist, so too has the work of many men produced these cameras. And in this instance, I was one of these dozens and dozens of men. I am also responsible for certain parts in pocket cameras, in modern gramophones, and in the records they play. Myself, I own a few patents, under various names.” Mr. Scant held up a sheaf of papers thick as an almanac.
“Are you telling me . . . you’re rich?”
“Rich? Not beside your father, or Mr. Beards, or Mr. Binns. Compared with other valets and butlers? Certainly. But I remain head of your father’s household because it is useful.”
“It is?”
“It is. This is where I want to be. It is not unusual for me to be in your father’s workshops when I need particular tools. I can take parts and materials—with proper payment, of course. And I actually rather enjoy myself. This vocation keeps me active. This may come as a surprise, but Mrs. George has the sharpest ears of anyone I know. Sneaking past her makes
for excellent practice. If I could change places with your father, Master Oliver, I would have to decline.”
I nodded. Of course, Mr. Scant was capable of convincing lies, but this didn’t seem like one of them. Why, then, was his brother so suspicious? Had Mr. Gaunt’s captors poisoned his mind? Whatever the case, I needed time to think before I informed Mr. Scant about our meeting.
“Come up here and let’s look at the plans of the vaults that Mykolas has brought us,” Mr. Scant was saying. I hurried to join them. “Tonight, you must learn the history of the British Museum,” Mr. Scant added. “Because, at the soonest possible juncture, I mean to return that wretched grimoire to where it belongs. Which is in a hidden chamber deep underneath the Reading Room.”
Dr. Mikolaitis grinned. “Breaking into the British Museum. You get to have all the fun. Try not to die.”
IX
Smoke and Flash Powder
the time we were on our way back to London, I felt almost comfortable with the task ahead. After all, this wasn’t the first time I would break into a famous museum.
Diligently, I had done as Mr. Scant asked. I learned that the British Museum was home to the British Library, with most of the books housed in the famous dome of the Reading Room. The museum itself was not only large but continually growing. Mr. Scant said the current construction of a new wing, named the King’s Galleries in honor of the late King Edward, would simplify our entry.
Because agents of the Crown kept the library vault hidden from the public eye, Mr. Scant assured me that he did not anticipate any guards. “The grimoires are effectively national secrets. Therefore nothing about their disappearance reached the newspapers,” he explained. “The theft happened while the book was under the protection of a member of the Woodhouselee Society, and as such, there is no reason to suspect the Ruminating Claw.”
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