Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore

Corvina clasps his hands behind his back—a teacher’s pose. “Ajax. I’m glad you returned, because I’ve made my decision, and I wanted to tell you myself.” A pause, then a solicitous tilt of the head. “It’s time you came back to New York.”

Penumbra squints. “I have a store to run.”

“No. It cannot continue,” Corvina says, shaking his head. “Not filled with books that have nothing to do with our work. Not overflowing with people who know nothing about our responsibility.”

Well, I wouldn’t say overflowing, exactly.

Penumbra is quiet, eyes downcast, brow deeply wrinkled. His gray hair rises up around his head like a cloud of stray thoughts. If he shaved it off, he might look as sleek and impressive as Corvina. But probably not.

“Yes, I do stock other books,” Penumbra says finally. “Just as I have for decades. Just as our teacher did before me. I know you remember that. You know that half my novices come to us because—”

“Because your standards are so low,” Corvina interrupts. His gaze strafes across Kat, Neel, and me. “What good are unbound who don’t take the work seriously? They make us weaker, not stronger. They put everything at risk.”

Kat frowns. Neel’s biceps pulse.

“You’ve spent too long in the wilderness, Ajax. Come back to us. Spend what time remains among your brothers and sisters.”

Penumbra’s face is a grimace now. “There are novices in San Francisco, and unbound. Many of them.” His voice is suddenly husky, and his eyes catch mine. I see a flash of pain, and I know he’s thinking of Tyndall and Lapin and the rest, and of me and Oliver Grone, too.

“There are novices everywhere,” Corvina says, waving a hand as if to dismiss them. “The unbound will follow you here. Or they will not. But, Ajax, let me be perfectly clear. The Festina Lente Company’s support for your store has ended. You will receive nothing more from us.”

The Reading Room is utterly silent: no rustle, no clink. The black-robes are all staring down at their books, and they are all listening.

“You have a choice, my friend,” the First Reader says gently, “and I am trying to help you see it clearly. We are not so young, Ajax. If you rededicate yourself to our task, there is still time for you to do great work. If not”—his eyes angle up—“well, then you can squander what time remains out there.” He gives Penumbra a hard gaze—it’s a look of concern, but the really patronizing kind—and repeats, finally: “Come back to us.”

Then he spins away and stalks back toward the wide steps, his red-slashed robe fluttering behind him. There’s a roar of scratching and scuffling as his subjects all throw themselves into the imitation of study.

*   *   *

When we flee the Reading Room, Deckle asks again about coffee.

“We will need something stronger than that, my boy,” Penumbra says, attempting a smile, and almost—but not quite—succeeding. “I would very much like to speak with you tonight … Where?” Penumbra turns to me and makes it a question.

“The Northbridge,” Neel cuts in. “West Twenty-ninth and Broadway.” That’s where we’re staying, because that’s where Neel knows the owner.

We leave our robes and take our phones and wade back out through the gray-green shallows of the Festina Lente Company. As my sneakers scuff the brindled corporate floor-covering material, it occurs to me that we must be directly above the Reading Room—basically walking on its ceiling. I can’t decide how far down it is. Twenty feet? Forty?

Penumbra’s own codex vitae is down there. I didn’t see it—it was somewhere on those shelves, one spine among many—but it looms larger in my mind than the black-bound MANVTIVS. We’re scurrying away under the shadow of an ultimatum, and it seems to me that Penumbra might be leaving something precious behind.

One of the offices along the wall is larger than the others, its frosted-glass door set apart from the rest. I can see the nameplate clearly now:

MARCUS CORVINA / EXECUTIVE CHAIRMAN

So Corvina has a first name, too.

A shadow moves against the frosted glass, and I realize he’s in there. What’s he doing? Negotiating with a publisher on the phone, demanding exorbitant sums for the use of grand old Gerritszoon? Offering up the names and addresses of some pesky e-book pirates? Closing down another wonderful bookstore? Talking to his bank, canceling a certain recurring payment?

This isn’t just a cult. It’s also a corporation, and Corvina is in charge, above and below.

THE REBEL ALLIANCE

IT’S RAINING HARD in Manhattan now—a dark, noisy deluge. We have taken refuge in the hyper-boutique hotel owned by Neel’s friend Andrei, another startup CEO. It is called the Northbridge, and it’s the ultimate hacker hideout: power outlets every three feet, air so thick with Wi-Fi you can almost see it, and in the basement, a direct connection to the internet trunk line that runs beneath Wall Street. If the Dolphin and Anchor was Penumbra’s place, this is Neel’s. The concierge knows him. The valet gives him a high five.