Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore

“I have gathered you here to speak of two things,” Corvina says, “and this is the first.” He lifts one of the blue-bound books and holds it up for everyone to see. “After many years of work, your brother Zaid has presented his codex vitae.”

Corvina nods, and one of the black-robes steps forward and turns to face the crowd. The man is in his fifties, thickset under his robe. He has a face like a boxer, with a smooshed-down nose and splotchy cheeks. This must be Zaid. He’s standing straight, his hands clasped behind his back. His face is pinched; he’s trying hard for fortitude.

“Deckle has validated Zaid’s work and I have read his book,” Corvina says. “I have read it as closely as I know how.” He really is a charismatic dude—his voice has a quiet but irresistible confidence. There’s a pause, and the Reading Room is silent. Everyone is waiting for the First Reader’s judgment.

Finally, Corvina says simply, “It is masterful.”

The black-robes whoop and rush forward to embrace Zaid and shake his hands two at a time. Three scholars near me start belting out a song, which sounds like a for-he’s-a-jolly-good-fellow sort of tune, but I’m not sure because it’s in Latin. I clap my hands to fit in. Corvina raises a hand to quiet the crowd. They move back and settle down. Zaid is still standing up in front, and now he raises a hand to cover his eyes. He’s crying.

“Today, Zaid is bound,” Corvina says. “His codex vitae has been encrypted. Now it will be shelved, and the key will remain secret until his death. Just as Manutius chose Gerritszoon, Zaid has chosen a trusted brother to carry his key.” Corvina pauses. “It is Eric.”

Scattered cheers again. I know Eric. There he is in the front row, a pale face under a splotchy black beard: Corvina’s courier to the store in San Francisco. Black-robes are clapping him on the shoulders, too, and I can see him smiling, a bloom of color on his cheeks. Maybe he’s not so bad. That’s quite a responsibility, keeping Zaid’s key. Is he allowed to write it down somewhere?

“Eric will also be one of Zaid’s couriers, along with Darius,” Corvina says. “Brothers, come forward.”

Eric takes three sure steps forward. So does another black-robe, this one with golden skin like Kat’s and a tight cap of brown curls. They both unbutton their robes. Underneath, Eric is wearing his slate-gray slacks below a crisp white shirt. Darius is in jeans and a sweater.

Edgar Deckle also steps out of the crowd, carrying two wide sheets of thick brown paper. One at a time, he hoists a book from the dais, wraps it crisply, and hands the package off to a courier: first Eric, then Darius.

“Three copies,” Corvina says. “One for the library”—he lifts the blue-bound book again—“and two for safekeeping. Buenos Aires and Rome. We entrust Zaid to you, brothers. Take his codex vitae and do not sleep until you have seen it shelved.”

So I understand Eric’s visit better now. He came from here. He was carrying a fresh codex vitae, delivering it for safekeeping. And, of course, being a jerk about it.

“Zaid adds to our burden,” Corvina says gravely, “just as all the bound before him have added to it. Year by year, book by book, our responsibility grows heavier.” He swivels his gaze to take in all of the black-robes. I suck in my breath and scrunch in my shoulders and try to disappear behind the tall blond-haired scholar. “We must not falter. We must unlock the Founder’s secret, so that Zaid and all who came before him can live on.”

There’s a deep murmur from the crowd. Up in front, Zaid is no longer crying. He’s composed himself, and now his face looks proud and severe.

Corvina is silent for a moment. Then he says, “There is something else we must speak of.”

He gives a little wave with his hand and Zaid returns to the crowd. Eric and Darius head for the steps. I think for a moment about following them, but quickly reconsider. Right now my only hope is to blend in completely—to crouch in this shadow, not of normalcy, but of deep strangeness.

“I have spoken recently with Penumbra,” Corvina says. “He has friends in this fellowship. I count myself among them. So, I feel compelled to tell you about our conversation.”

There are whispers all around.

“Penumbra is responsible for a great transgression—one of the greatest imaginable. Thanks to his negligence, one of our volumes was stolen.”

Murmurs and groans.

“A logbook containing details of the Unbroken Spine, its work in San Francisco for years, unencrypted, laid out for anyone to read.”

My back is sweating under the robe and my eyes feel itchy. The hard drive in its Bicycle box is a lump of lead in my pocket. I try to appear as unconcerned and uninvolved as possible. Mostly this involves looking at my shoes.

“It was a grave mistake, and not the first that Penumbra has made.”