The Book of Peril

by Melissa McShane

  “If they are mistakes. At least they’re all for the same person.” I shook a few more potato chips onto my napkin. Barbecue potato chips would be my downfall someday. “It’s as if Abernathy’s can’t make up its mind which future to choose.”

  “Or about who’s asking the question.” Judy absently took a chip from my pile and crunched down on it. “It’s too bad we can’t contact the person and see if they were planning to ask for an augury. The wrong person, I mean.”

  “I know. I tried looking up Ethan Fifielt online and couldn’t find him. If it were just a matter of not seeing who was asking… it could be Abernathy’s reaching too far into the future.”

  “But choosing multiple books for an augury is different. Have you checked the instruction manual?”

  “I’m going to look into it tonight.” I decided not to mention my fear that there was something wrong with me. Being open and honest was one thing, but sharing my paranoia was something else.

  “I ought to make an index for it,” Judy said, “but I don’t want to.”

  “It’s a huge task, and without a computer, it will take forever.” I stuffed the last potato chip into my mouth and crumpled my napkin, balled it up and threw it at the garbage can. It missed and rolled a few inches away.

  “Have you thought any more about getting a computer?” Judy stood and retrieved my napkin, putting it and her refuse into the can. “There are a lot of tasks around here that should be automated.”

  “Mr. Briggs was so adamant—”

  Judy made a dismissive noise. “Nathaniel was old-fashioned and a reactionary. His mother thought computers were of the devil, so he did too. It’s not like we’re going to put the catalogue online. Just manage our billing and correspondence.”

  We’d produced a new catalogue a month earlier, and the memory of that nightmare task made me shudder in anticipation of doing the next one. Three times a year, ugh. But no, it couldn’t be automated any more than Abernathy’s stock could be inventoried. “I’ll think about it. You’re probably right.”

  The bells jingled. “Just what this day needed, another customer,” I said, pushing back my chair. “Would you go to the bank in an hour or so? The drawer is getting full.”

  I didn’t exactly drag my feet, going to the front counter, but I didn’t skip, either. All I wanted was to get through the day’s mail-in requests without Abernathy’s going up in flames, or imploding, or whatever fresh hell it might decide to rain down on me. Doing auguries in person, with the possibility the augury could go wrong and I’d have to face that person and look like a fool, made me almost wish I’d taken the job at the Pick ‘n’ Pack. Almost.

  “Good afternoon, how can I—” I stopped as the customer turned to face me.

  It was Chet.

  ey, Helena,” Chet said. He pushed his hair back from his forehead, a nervous gesture I was all too familiar with. It was a gesture that said he’d done something wrong and hoped not to be in trouble for it. I privately called it the Snoopy Look, since it made him resemble a sheepish beagle.

  “Why are you here, Chet?” I said, managing (I hoped) to sound polite and inquiring rather than exasperated, which is how I actually felt. “We don’t have anything left to say to each other.”

  “I wanted to apologize for ruining your party.” Chet shoved his hands into the pockets of his letterman’s jacket; he’d been a state All-Star in baseball his senior year. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Thanks, but don’t worry, you didn’t ruin it.”

  “Good. I’m… good.”

  Silence stretched out between us. Where was Judy? Why couldn’t she intrude with one of her cutting, tactless remarks that would send Chet running? “Was that all?”

  “Um. I guess. No, I—” Chet took a few steps toward me. I put the counter between us. I wasn’t afraid of Chet—that would be like being afraid of a sad beagle puppy—but I didn’t want him close enough to touch me. My movement made him stop, startled, as if he’d only just noticed the counter existed. “Helena, why did we break up?”

  His words were so plaintive my heart went out to him, against my better judgment, against what I’d told Malcolm. “It wasn’t your fault, Chet,” I said, which was only partly true. “I wasn’t in love with you. It’s not much of a relationship if one of you doesn’t want to be there.”

  “But I love you. I’d do anything for you. You know that. Doesn’t that matter to you?”

  I wanted to tell him You don’t love me, you only think you do, but that struck me as unnecessarily cruel. Who was I to tell him how he felt if I didn’t want him doing that to me? “People don’t fall in love just because someone loves them. I’m sorry, and I—” I caught myself before I could say I wish things were different because I didn’t. “There’s no future for us.”

  “But I’ll change. I’ll be more attentive. I’m making more money now, and I can afford a nicer place—you could move out of your parents’ house finally. Please, Helena.”

  “I did move out. I’m on my own now. And I like it that way. Chet, this isn’t going to work. I keep telling you it’s not about you.”

  “It’s that guy, isn’t it? The one who punched me. He’s what you left me for?”

  Had he seen something between Malcolm and me even I hadn’t? “He’s a friend. We’re not together.”

  “Helena, you shouldn’t be with someone who thinks he can solve problems with violence. You never know if he’d turn that on you. I’d never hit you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Malcolm would never hit me, and it doesn’t matter because we’re not together. I’m not dating anyone. I think you should leave now.”

  Chet’s eyes lit up. I remembered that look. I’d believed for so long it was love. “So you’re single.”

  “Yes.”

  “That means I have a chance.”

  “Chet—”

  He turned and put his hand on the doorknob. “I’ll prove I’m worthy of you, you’ll see.”

  “Chet—”

  The door slammed shut behind him. I buried my face in my hands and groaned from the depths of my soul. “He needs a couple of whacks with the clue bat,” Judy said.

  I turned my head to look at her. She had her phone out and held it like a weapon. “Wouldn’t most men have taken the hint after that?”

  “Some men are denser than others. Some women too. I was ready to call the Wardens if he got violent.”

  “Chet’s not like that. But thanks.”

  “You never know what will make someone flip out.” Judy put her phone away. “Maybe I shouldn’t go to the bank. In case he comes back.”

  “I think I’m safe from him. I’m only afraid of what he might do to prove his worthiness.”

  Judy shrugged and left the room, heading back toward the office. I toyed with the keys on the cash register and let the sun warm my back. Chet wasn’t dangerous, at least not in the conventional sense. He wouldn’t hurt me, but he might do something reckless and stupid to impress me. Maybe I needed to set him up with someone else. Mike could arrange it. I figured he owed me one after Saturday’s fiasco. Or maybe I should let things run their course, give Chet time to realize we were never getting back together. That was easier, and with everything else I had to do, easier was appealing.

  I worked my way through the mail with no interruptions until around three, when Lucia called. “What exactly are you getting at?” she said with no preamble when I answered.

  Startled, I said, “I wondered if Abernathy’s might be affected by something that’s wrong with me.”

  “Like what? Davies, tell me. My life isn’t going to live itself.” Her Italian accent was stronger when she was annoyed.

  What’s the worst that could happen? “The oracle is behaving strangely. I want to know if it’s possible something’s wrong with me instead of it.”

  “What kind of strangely? No, don’t bother, it won’t mean anything to me. There’s no direct relationship between a custodian and her Neutrality. By which I mean if you
got cancer, Abernathy’s wouldn’t become ill. You already know this. When Abernathy’s was attacked by those invaders because its wards were weakened, you didn’t start dying, right?”

  “No. You’re right, I’d forgotten. Damn it. That would have been an easy solution.”

  “What, you wanted to have cancer?”

  “No, of course not, but doctors know how to cure human illnesses. I’m not sure there’s a doctor for a Neutrality.”

  Lucia sighed. “All right, tell me. It still won’t mean anything, but maybe I can help.”

  I told her what had been going on, about the false auguries and the multiple auguries. It made for quite a short story. When I finished, Lucia said, “I wish I could tell you I was sure nothing like that has ever happened before, but Abernathy’s custodians have always been pretty tight-lipped about the place. Except for you. And the Briggs family was worse than most.”

  “Mr. Briggs wasn’t the only one?” I remembered blond, short Mr. Briggs with his half-moon spectacles and pictured a long line of him, all ages.

  “His mother and grandfather were both custodians. If he’d had children, they probably would have been, too. But all three of them tended to look at their responsibility as some kind of sacred obligation, to be protected from the unwashed masses at all costs. They’d never have dreamed of admitting to anyone what you’ve just told me.”

  “I’m starting to think I should keep a diary for the benefit of future custodians.”

  “Maybe you should.” I’d been joking, but Lucia sounded serious. “Anyway, I’m afraid I don’t know anything about it. But I can tell you what might.”

  “What?”

  “The Athenaeum. It’s, well, you know Abernathy’s is the greatest oracle since Delphi? The Athenaeum is the spiritual successor to the Library of Alexandria. It’s a repository of knowledge like no one’s ever dreamed of. If there’s an answer, it might be there.”

  “That sounds perfect. Where is it?”

  “Switzerland.”

  Hope, which had risen within me, evaporated. “I can’t go to Switzerland. Why would you get my hopes up like that?”

  Lucia chuckled. “Don’t get your panties in a wad, Davies. It’s not like that’s the only place you can find it. There are access points all over the world, everywhere magi have set up communities. Ours is downtown, and it’s open all hours. You can go after closing tonight. Take plenty of sanguinis sapiens—you’ll need it for the access fees.”

  “Fees?”

  “It’s not a public library, paid for by your tax dollars. The Athenaeum charges for its services like Abernathy’s does.”

  “But I don’t have any sanguinis sapiens.”

  “This is an official inquiry. Use some of the oracle’s.” I heard someone else speaking, a low mutter I couldn’t make out. “I have to go. Any other questions?” She hung up before I could answer. What she hadn’t told me was where downtown to go. I sighed and put my phone away, and went looking for Judy.

  “The Athenaeum. I should have thought of that,” Judy said. “It’s on 11th Avenue near Washington. I’ll give you directions.”

  “You can’t come with me?”

  “I’m my father’s hostess for a party tonight. Sorry. Don’t worry—you’ll be fine. I’ll tell you everything you need to know about getting in. The rest is up to you.”

  “What should I expect? Is it some kind of internet connection?”

  Judy shook her head. “I can’t explain it. You’ll have to see for yourself.”

  “Lucia said take sanguinis sapiens. How much is enough?”

  “For this,” Judy said, pursing her lips, “you’d better take a lot.”

  After closing, I ate a quick dinner—my mother was convinced I’d starve to death left to myself and kept my refrigerator stocked with leftovers—and drove downtown, cursing the traffic and wishing I’d dared leave this to later in the evening. Viv would be so hurt if I missed her performance, and I still had to go over the instruction manual. Also, there was a part of me that superstitiously feared, despite what Lucia had said about the Athenaeum being open twenty-four hours, I’d arrive to find it empty and dark.

  I parked in a paid lot, though there were street side spaces available. This could take a while, and I didn’t like the idea of coming back to find my car towed. The lot was a few streets over from Washington, and I strolled along northward, wishing I’d worn a sweater against the evening chill. Ruddy sunlight cast long shadows whenever I crossed a street, but for the most part, the street was in shade that evening, and I felt even colder. A few cars noodled along the street, lazy as if their day was over, too, and getting home was all they cared about. Traffic was heavier in the distance, toward Burnside, but where I was, the street was almost quiet.

  I turned right and crossed another street. Three of the four corners of the intersection held office buildings, one of them an old red brick with white framing that could have come off the set of a spaghetti Western. On the fourth corner stood an Art Deco-inspired building with rounded corners and a short tower, painted taupe with forest green trim. It looked like a ‘30s era theater, something that might have been called the Orpheum or the Lyceum. But down the side of the tower, where the theater’s name would have been, was the word FLORIST. Big spidery ferns in pots hung outside the door and along the eaves, and above the smell of car exhaust, I scented the rich green odor of wet plants, a lot of wet plants all in one place.

  I slowed my steps as I approached the building. It didn’t look like the access point for a worldwide information network. It looked like a florist’s shop. And Abernathy’s looks like a hole-in-the-wall bookstore. I pushed the door open and was met by a wall of warm, moist, floral-scented air. It felt like being hit in the face by a perfumed sponge. Bells like the ones I’d had installed in Abernathy’s jingled, but no one appeared. I stopped to look around.

  Most florists’ I’d been in before, not that there were many of them, had display cases, refrigerated cases, counters, signs the florist was in charge. Here, there was nothing but masses of flowers and green plants stuffed into an odd assortment of vases, some of them waist-high to me. Long-stemmed roses of all colors made a rainbow across the back wall; tiny, delicate violets grew in pots no bigger than my fist. There were more flowers than I could name, crammed together so there was barely enough room to walk. The shop was like a living, growing version of Abernathy’s maze of bookcases, one that smelled so strongly of dozens of different perfumes I had to hold my nose against the urge to sneeze.

  I took a few steps, jostled a tall, narrow Greek vase, and caught it with my fingertips before it could topple and take its neighbors with it. There was no point in moving farther when I didn’t know where to go. “Hello?” I called out. “Guillermo?”

  No one answered. The hush was so profound I imagined, crazily, I’d disrupted the plants’ naptime. I settled the Greek vase more securely and took another step. “Hello?”

  A mass of yellow and green striped grass rustled, and a head poked through, blinking at me. The man had long, dark hair tangled with the grass, an unshaven face, and a thick black mustache. “¿Que?”

  “I’m, um… hello?”

  The man said something in rapid Spanish my high school education couldn’t follow. “I’m here for a hortaflora orchid,” I said, despite myself enunciating each syllable as if that would somehow make my words intelligible. I prayed I’d remembered the name of the fake flower correctly. Why hadn’t I paid better attention in Señora Hastings’ class?

  The man straightened and brushed the grass away from his face. “You’re no magus,” he said in clear and unaccented English.

  “I’m the custodian of Abernathy’s.” All my assumptions were falling apart. “I guess that makes us colleagues.”

  The man grinned, displaying shiny white teeth and a single gold incisor. “Not really,” he said. “I’m just a flunky. The Curator lives in Switzerland. Come on through. What’s your name?”

  “Helena.”

>   “I’m Guille. Welcome to the Portland Athenaeum.” He held the long stripy grass aside so I could pass through the low, dark opening beyond. I tripped, caught myself before I could fall, and then a pair of fluorescent bulbs came on, revealing a small square room with white walls and several narrow tables about chest-high to me. It smelled, not of fresh greens, but of dark, rich loam, though I saw no dirt anywhere. Guille brushed past me politely and moved one of the tables away from the wall. “Do you have payment?”

  I held out one of the vials of sanguinis sapiens to him, but he waved it away. “You’ll pay at the meter. Now, watch your step.”

  He bent to take hold of a ring painted black to match the floor, hauled on it, and a section of floor rose to reveal a space as dark as the floor around it. Guille dropped the hatch with a thud and knelt beside the hole, which was about three feet across. He reached inside and flipped a switch. With a faint buzz, more lights came on, these within the hole and extending down past where I could see. I walked to Guille’s side and looked down. Ladder rungs clung to the side of the hole, which was lined with shiny aluminum.

  “Hope you’re not claustrophobic,” Guille said. “Down the hole, through the passage, then follow the instructions. There’s a bell at the bottom for when you’re ready to return. Got it?”

  I nodded. Anything I might have said would have come out as a squeak. Guille stepped back and swept his hand toward the ladder, a courtly invitation. I made sure the sanguinis sapiens was stowed securely in my pocket and crawled backward to where I could put my feet on the first rung. Feeling about for each rung, I descended.

  I lost count of the rungs after fifty. The white light, which came from the walls themselves, kept the shaft from being too claustrophobic, but I was still conscious of being closed in on all sides. It felt like being trapped in a ventilation system on some TV show, infiltrating a villainous corporation, except I was here by permission, and if the Athenaeum was a villainous corporation, Abernathy’s was part of it. I risked looking down and had to cling to the rungs, motionless, for a few seconds. Up. Looking up was good. Or straight ahead. I’d reach ‘down’ soon enough.