Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore

Penumbra nods. “Clark was brilliant. He was always off on his own, following his intuition wherever it led him.” He pauses, cocks his head, then smiles. “You would have liked him.”

“So you’re not disappointed?”

Penumbra’s eyes go wide. “Disappointed? Impossible. It is not what I expected, but what did I expect? What did any of us expect? I will tell you that I did not expect to know the truth in my lifetime. It is a gift beyond measure, and I am grateful to Griffo Gerritszoon, and to you, my boy.”

Now Deckle approaches. He’s beaming, almost bouncing. “You did it!” he says, clapping me on the shoulders. “You found them! I knew you could—I knew it—but I had no idea how far it would go.” Behind him, the black-robes are all chattering to one another. They look excited. Deckle glances around. “Can I touch them?”

“They’re all yours,” I tell him. I haul the Gerritszoon punches in their cardboard ark out from under a chair in the front row. “You’ll have to officially buy them from Con-U, but I have the forms, and I don’t think—”

Deckle holds up a hand. “Not a problem. Trust me—not a problem.” One of the New York black-robes comes over and the rest all follow. They bend over the box, oohing and aahing like there’s an infant inside.

“So it was you who set him on this path, Edgar?” Penumbra says, arching an eyebrow.

“It occurred to me, sir,” Deckle says, “that I had at my disposal a rare talent.” A pause, a smile, and then: “You do know how to pick the right clerks.” Penumbra snorts and grins at that. Deckle says, “This is a triumph. We’ll make fresh type, reprint some of the old books. Corvina can’t argue with that.”

Penumbra darkens at the mention of the First Reader—his old friend.

“What about him?” I ask. “He—uh. He seemed upset.”

Penumbra’s face is serious. “You must look after him, Edgar. As old as he is, Marcus has little experience with disappointment. For as firm as he seems, he is fragile. I worry about him, Edgar. Truly.”

Deckle nods. “We’ll take care of him. We have to figure out what’s next.”

“Well,” I say, “I’ve got something for you to start with.” I bend down and lift a second cardboard box out from under the chairs. This one is brand-new, and it has fresh plastic tape in a wide X across the top. I tear the tape and fold back the flaps, and inside, the box is full of books: shrink-wrapped bundles of paperbacks packed tight. I poke a hole in the plastic and slide one out. It’s just plain blue and on the front it says MANVTIVS in tall white capitals.

“This is for you,” I say, handing it to Deckle. “A hundred copies of the decoded book. Original Latin. I figured you guys would want to translate it yourselves.”

Penumbra laughs and says to me, “And now you are a publisher as well, my boy?”

“Print on demand, Mr. Penumbra,” I say. “Two bucks each.”

*   *   *

Deckle and his black-robes ferry their treasures—one old box, one new—to their rented van outside. Pygmalion’s gray-haired manager watches cautiously from the café as they sweep out of the store, singing a happy carol in Greek.

Penumbra has a contemplative look on his face. “My only regret,” he says, “is that Marcus will certainly burn my codex vitae. Like the Founder’s, it was a kind of history, and I am sad to see it go.”

Now I get to blow his mind a second time. “When I was down in the library,” I say, “I scanned more than Manutius.” I dig into my pocket, pull out a blue USB drive, and press it into his long fingers. “It’s not as nice as the real thing, but the words are all here.”

Penumbra holds it up high. The plastic glints in the bookstore’s light, and there’s a wondering half smile playing on his lips. “My boy,” he breathes, “you are full of surprises.” Then he arches an eyebrow. “And I could print this for just two dollars?”

“Absolutely.”

Penumbra wraps a thin arm around my shoulders, leans in close, and says quietly, “This city of ours—it has taken me too long to realize it, but we are in the Venice of this world. The Venice.” His eyes widen, then press shut, and he shakes his head. “Just like the Founder himself.”

I’m not sure where he’s going with this.

“What I have finally come to understand,” Penumbra says, “is that we must think like Manutius. Fedorov has money, and so does your friend—the funny one.” We’re looking out across the bookstore together now. “So what do you say we find a patron or two … and start again?”

I can’t believe it.

“I must admit,” Penumbra says, shaking his head, “I am in awe of Griffo Gerritszoon. His achievement is inimitable. But I have more than a little time left, my boy”—he winks—“and there are still so many mysteries to solve. Are you with me?”

Mr. Penumbra. You have no idea.

EPILOGUE

SO WHAT’S GOING to happen after that?