Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore

Who will do the deed? Penumbra is too wobbly for stealth. Kat and Neel are credible accomplices, but I have other plans. As soon as the possibility of a book-scanning mission arose, I made a decision: I would do it alone.

“I want to come with you,” Neel insists. “This is the exciting part!”

“Don’t make me use your Rockets & Warlocks name,” I say, holding up a finger, “not with a girl in the room.” I make my face serious. “Neel, you have a company, with employees and customers. You have responsibilities. If you get caught, or jeez, I don’t know, arrested, that’s a problem.”

“And you don’t think getting arrested is a problem for you, Claymore Red—”

“Ah!” I cut him off. “First: I have no actual responsibilities. Second: I’m basically already a novice of the Unbroken Spine.”

“You did solve the Founder’s Puzzle.” Penumbra nods. “Edgar would vouch for you.”

“Besides,” I say, “I’m the rogue in this scenario.”

Kat raises an eyebrow and I explain quietly, “He’s the warrior, you’re the wizard, I’m the rogue. This conversation never happened.”

Neel nods once, slowly. His face is scrunched up but he’s no longer protesting. Good. I’ll go in alone, and I’ll leave not with one book, but two.

There’s a whip of cold wind from the Northbridge’s front doors and Edgar Deckle comes bounding in out of the rain, his round face framed by the hood of a plasticky purple jacket pulled tight. Penumbra waves him over. Kat’s gaze meets mine; she looks nervous. This will be a crucial meeting. If we want access to the Reading Room and to MANVTIVS, Deckle is the key, because Deckle has the key.

“Sir, I heard about the store,” he says, panting and setting himself down on the couch next to Kat. He gingerly peels back his hood. “I don’t know what to say. It’s terrible. I’ll talk to Corvina. I can convince him—”

Penumbra holds up a hand, and then he tells Deckle everything. He tells him about my logbook, about Google and the Founder’s Puzzle. He tells him about his pitch to Corvina, about the First Reader’s rejection.

“We’ll work on him,” Deckle says. “I’ll mention it from time to time, to see if—”

“No,” Penumbra cuts in. “He is beyond reason, Edgar, and I do not have the patience. I am quite a bit older than you, my boy. I believe the codex vitae can be decoded today—not in a decade, not in a hundred years, but today!”

It occurs to me that Corvina isn’t the only one with outsized confidence. Penumbra really does believe that computers can deliver the goods. Is it strange that I, the person who rekindled this project, don’t feel so sure?

Deckle’s eyes go wide. He glances around as if there might be a black-robe lurking here in the Northbridge. Not likely; I doubt anyone in this lobby has touched a physical book in years.

“You’re not serious, sir,” he whispers. “I mean, I remember, when you made me type all the titles into the Mac, you were so excited—but I never thought…” He takes a breath. “Sir, this is not how the fellowship works.”

So it was Edgar Deckle who built the bookstore’s database. I feel a surge of clerkly affection. We’ve both laid our fingers on the same short, clackety keyboard.

Penumbra shakes his head. “It only seems strange because we are stuck, my boy,” he says. “Corvina has held us frozen. The First Reader has not been true to the spirit of Manutius.” His eyes are like blue laser beams and he jabs a long finger down into the magnetic-tape table. “He was an entrepreneur, Edgar!”

Deckle is nodding, but he still looks nervous. His cheeks are pink and he’s running his knuckles through his hair. Is this how all schisms start? Huddled circles, whispered sales pitches?

“Edgar,” Penumbra says evenly, “of all my students, you are the dearest to me. We spent many years together in San Francisco, working side by side. You possess the true spirit of the Unbroken Spine, my boy.” He pauses. “Lend us the key to the Reading Room for one night. That is all I ask. Clay will not leave a trace. I promise you.”

Deckle’s expression is blank. His hair is damp and disheveled. He searches for words: “Sir. I didn’t think you—I never imagined—sir.” He is quiet. The Northbridge lobby doesn’t exist. The whole universe is Edgar Deckle’s face, and the thoughtful turn of his lips, and the signs that he might say no, or—

“Yes.” He draws himself taller. He takes a deep breath, and he says again, “Yes. Of course I’ll help you, sir.” He nods sharply, and smiles. “Of course.”

Penumbra grins. “I do know how to pick the right clerks,” he says, reaching across to slap Deckle’s shoulder. He barks a laugh. “I do know how to pick them!”

*   *   *

The scheme is set.