Endymion Spring

8

Blake rubbed his brow and reached for his watch, wondering what time it was. He knew he'd overslept; he just wasn't sure for how long.

His heart rang out in alarm. It was more than two hours after he was supposed to get up! His mother would be furious.

Jolted awake, he scurried into the clothes he had left on the floor and tried desperately to think of an excuse to tell her.

He'd had so many strange dreams. He couldn't remember them all, but weird images had flitted through his mind all night like a nightmarish picture book come to life. In one, voracious goblins had escaped from their pages and were attempting to devour books in a library he had never seen before. They had greedy, gluttonous faces with beastly teeth — like sharp, red pomegranate seeds — which they used to shred paper and pulverize words. He shivered at the recollections, wondering where they had come from.

The house seemed disconcertingly quiet and he crept down the stairs like an intruder, careful not to make a sound. There was no sign of his mother or sister anywhere. The kitchen was empty and even the regular clutter of cereal boxes on the dining-room table, which he and Duck used to build a wall so they didn't have to look at each other, had been cleared away.

A note on the table confirmed his suspicions.

Duck had added her own postscript in lopsided writing:

Blake tore the note into tiny strips and tossed them in a bin under the kitchen sink. He wasn't going to talk to his sister about anything. She was just being nosy as usual. But it was harder to know how to deal with his mother. There was no "Good morning, Blake," or "I love you, Mum" to lift his spirits. It was the shortest possible note — a continuation of the silent treatment from the night before. He would have to make sure he arrived early for lunch to avoid further trouble.

A that moment, the letter box in the front door slapped open and shut.

Blake looked behind him, surprised. Apart from a few flyers, mostly for Indian takeaways, nothing had been sent to them at Millstone Lane before.

He stepped into the hall, wondering if his father had finally written him a letter, and came to an abrupt halt. A piece of bright red cloth lay on the mat just inside the door. It had been tied so as to form a small pouch, the ends drawn together and secured with a tight knot. Attached to it was a little note, written in wobbly letters on a piece of torn paper, which read: "To the Boy of the House."

Blake gulped. Immediately, he glanced at the door, but all he could see was a tiny moon of glass shining above the latch: a peephole. He checked it. No one was there.

Just to make sure, he unlocked the door and stepped outside.

An oily drizzle was falling, turning the leaves on the path to a slippery mulch. A damp autumnal smell filled the air. But apart from a hardy jogger crossing the road towards the river, a few blocks away, Millstone Lane was deserted. It was a regular September morning.

Blake rubbed his arms to ward off the chill, then closed the door and bolted it firmly behind him.

He tapped the cloth lightly with his foot. Nothing stirred inside it.

A funny smell had now reached him: a muddy, furry scent that made the insides of his nose twinge. The beginnings of a sneeze teased his nostrils. It smelled like a wild animal.

And then the answer struck him. The cloth belonged to the dog he had seen outside the bookshop. It was its red bandanna!

Quickly, he bent down to pick it up. It was incredibly light. In fact, he wondered if there was anything wrapped up in the cloth at all. The bandanna felt suspiciously empty.

Handling the package carefully, as though it were a bomb, he tiptoed through the kitchen and laid it out on the dining-room table. Cautiously, he loosened the knot and peered inside. Instinctively, he jumped back.

What was it?

At first glance, it resembled a large grasshopper or a cadaverous insect. A ghostly exoskeleton covered in hundreds of horned ridges, like scales, cowered at the bottom of the pouch. He half-expected the creature to leap into the air or spring out at him, but nothing happened. The creature was dead.

With his heart aflutter, Blake edged back to the table and this time untied the package properly.

It wasn't a grasshopper, but a lizard with a long tail snaking behind it, barely longer than his hand. Each of its reptilian legs ended in a sharp set of claws, ready to rip any unsuspecting prey to shreds. He prodded it gently with his finger. It rocked back and forth, perfectly harmless. Despite the scales plating its body like armor, it felt soft and light — like a husk. Picking it up, he realized that it was made from folded paper.

A strange sensual ripple traveled through him, setting off sparks in his mind. His heart began to thud. He knew exactly where the paper had come from…Endymion Spring!

He studied the scaly creature more closely, cradling it in his jittery fingers. It had to be the most intricate piece of origami he had ever seen.

For a moment, he considered unfolding it to see if the paper contained any extra information. And yet he didn't have the heart to destroy the lovely lizard. There was no sign of ink leaching through the scales and he doubted anything would be inside if he dismantled it. It was as if the object itself really was the message: a greeting or invitation or even a clue. But what did it mean?

Turning the lizard over in his hands, he unexpectedly triggered a mechanism that unleashed two scrolls of paper on either side of the animal's body. Near-invisible wings of parchment unfolded in his fingers. They were smoother and stronger than silk, yet virtually transparent. He held them up to the light. A network of fine veins glowed from within — just like the book he had found in the library yesterday.

He swallowed hard, his breathing in rapid, shallow bursts.

The creature wasn't a lizard, but a paper dragon: a dragon made from the most marvelous paper he had ever seen; paper that seemed to communicate with him directly; paper that could possibly connect him to Endymion Spring himself.

But that didn't explain anything.

9

Blake was so engrossed in his discovery that he almost forgot about the time. Luckily, his stomach intervened and a rumble of hunger, like distant thunder, reminded him of his rendezvous with his mother. She would be furious if he missed lunch as well as breakfast.

Grabbing an apple from the kitchen, he charged upstairs to get ready. As he passed his sister's bedroom, he felt a faint tugging motion in his right hand, as though the dragon were struggling to escape. A quiver of scales brushed against his skin.

He looked from the origami dragon to the closed wooden door. "Hey, you're mine, not hers," he told the creature firmly. "I'm not sharing you with anyone."

He placed the dragon on his bedside table.

Once he had eaten his apple and brushed his teeth, he snatched his jacket from the back of a chair and shrugged his knapsack onto his shoulders. Then, remembering the dog's bandanna, he rushed back downstairs to retrieve it. He stuffed the cloth next to the overlooked worksheets his teacher had given him to work on in his absence and finally place the dragon carefully on top. Wondering what he would say to the homeless man if he saw him, he took the spare key from its hook in the hall and let himself out.

The rain had stopped, but the air was damp and fresh. A cool wind tugged at the clouds, pulling them apart like fleece. He thrust his hands into his pockets and turned towards the river.

Twenty minutes later, he passed the bookshop where he had spotted the homeless man the previous afternoon. Apart from tourists wrapped in colorful windcheaters, the street was deserted. There was no sign of the man or his dog.

Disappointed, Blake watched idly as a young man rearranged a pile of books in the cluttered shop window. He was suddenly struck by an idea. Perhaps he could find the book his mother had liked as a child and buy it for her as a present — as a way of apologizing for last night. He knew a serious confrontation with her was coming, but surely this would help her to forgive him. He smiled at his own brilliance.

Glancing at his watch, he reckoned he had just enough time to locate the book, which he knew was about butterflies, and then sprint to the dining hall to meet his mother for lunch. Without another moment's thought, he went inside.

A little bell jingled above him and he stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, uncertain where to go. The shop was longer and narrower than he'd expected and the walls were crammed with books. Mismatched volumes spilled from the shelves onto the floor, where stacks of oversized hardbacks grew like primitive rock formations. Apart from the man rearranging bruised paperbacks in the window, the shop appeared to be empty.

"Excuse me," Blake murmured, "where—"

"Fiction in front; Literature behind; History round the corner," the man started, without looking up. "Nature, Crafts and all that Granny Stuff, not that you'd be interested, to the left; First Editions locked behind glass, away from grubby little fingers like yours; Modern Languages, Classics and Children's Literature upstairs."

Blake listened in astonishment as the man recited all this in one long, short-tempered breath. With each new addition, his eyes bulged a little more and traveled along the rows of disorderly shelves. He still did not know where to go.

"What, you still there?" asked the man, sensing the boy's confusion. This time, he stood up. Not much taller than Blake, he had thick, bristly eyebrows that met in the middle like warring caterpillars, and was wearing a faded T-shirt with the name of a rock band Blake had never heard of before: the Plastic Dinosaurs. A hand-knitted scarf straddled his neck like a lazy python, its rainbow-colored ends trailing down to the ground.

Blake stepped back, feeling as though he had stumbled into a scene from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Duck's favorite book.

The man, sensing his apprehension, softened his approach. "How can I help you?" he asked more reasonably. His mouth cracked into a grin and Blake realized that he was only pretending to be grumpy and troll-like.

Remembering what his mother had told him about the book she had liked, Blake tried his best to describe it.

"I don't recall a children's book being there," replied the man seriously, scratching the back of his neck. "Of course, it might have been sold since then — books in the window tend to go fast — but I put everything that was there this morning under the New Acquisitions. I didn't pay much attention to them myself. Science Fiction is the way to go."

As if to prove his point, he pointed to a pyramid of cloned silver novels he had built in the window.

"Um, thanks," said Blake, wandering over to the section the man had indicated.

He put his head down and got to work. It was going to be more difficult than he'd expected. A tower of brown books reached high above him, almost to the ceiling. Some had detached covers, held together with elastic bands; others mottled pages that either reeked of tobacco or ponged of damp churches the moment he opened them. Still more had fancy covers and gilt edges, like the finest strands of hair. And then, nearer the floor, were books in brightly colored dust jackets. These looked more promising and he knelt down to study them more closely.

Gradually, he became aware of a man standing close beside him, almost pressing into his back. A pair of dark trousers leaned against him and an expensive watch ticked above his ear. Blake felt uncomfortable and shifted his knapsack in front of him, guarding it with his body, just in case the man crushed the paper dragon he had placed inside.

Slowly but surely, the man picked his way down the stack of books, selecting a few volumes and then replacing them on the shelves with a dissatisfied grunt. He clearly knew what he was looking for.

Then, like birds of prey, his hands swooped past Blake's shoulders and grabbed a volume he was about to look at.

"Hey!" grumbled Blake. "I was just about to—"

Glancing up, he realized with a start that it was Sir Giles Bentley. The man glared down at him coldly, his eyebrows as dark as thunderheads.

Blake immediately went quiet and shielded the remaining books from view. With a disdainful snort, Sir Giles continued flipping through the book, almost ripping the pages, his eyes ploughing through the text.

Blake reached for the next volume.

A faint rustling movement inside his knapsack stopped him in his tracks. He looked down. The top of his bag twitched. He was about to open the compartment to risk a look inside, when he noticed a half-hidden volume at the back of the shelf nearest him. Sir Giles careless motion must have caused it to slip behind the others. It had become wedged between shelves. Trapped.

With small fingers, he reached in and tweezed it free.

Imediately, the paper dragon in his bag went still and a chill crept over him. Unlike Endymion Spring, this book didn't feel warm, comforting or inviting. Thin, bruised and bound in black leather, it seemed as ominous as a tombstone. A few specks of mold mottled its cover like lichen and a faint symbol, like a dagger, had been pressed into its surface: the shadow of a shadow.

Frightened, Blake opened the book. A vicious f slashed across his vision like a knife blade and his blood went cold. Printed in red ink, the initial went on to form a word in sharp, seriffed letters:

fAustbucH

The F matched the design on the cover.

Blake recognized the first part of the title. Faust. Wasn't he the person his mother had mentioned the previous day, the sorcerer who had sold his soul to the Devil? Hadn't she believed that he was somehow linked to the legend of the lost book of knowledge, the book his father had longed to find and which Sir Giles had ensured was beyond his reach?

Blake's fingers shook. What had he unearthed?

On the facing endpaper, smeared with dirt, was a list of names in faded brown ink, the color of dried blood. H. Middleton, L. de la Croix, J. Fell, N. Hart…the book's previous owners. Judging from one of the inscribed dates — MDCLXVI — he guessed the book must be hundreds of years old.

Blake's mouth felt dry and he shivered involuntarily as he leafed through the volume.

The book itself was in bad shape. Many of the pages had been torn and only a few jagged strips of paper survived in their place, coated in shady spots that spread through the volume like a pox. The bumped covers smelled earthy and damp, as though someone had once tried to bury it.

Occasionally, his eyes alighted on broken strands of text, which he tried to sew together to form a story. It was difficult. The sentences were punctuated by rips and tears. One passage, however, grabbed his attention:

In his simplicitie the boy has founde a marv

Booke which though blank does contayne

elusive knowledge. Methinks it is tha

which Ignatius claims did enter O

Devil's back. The quiet boy fears

I have found a way to see inside

Blake's heart began to gallop. His mind was racing. Wasn't Ignatius the monk his parents had been researching? The one who believed a book of forbidden knowledge had actually found its way to Oxford? Could this terrifying volume really be part of the puzzle?

He wanted to read on, but became aware of Sir Giles peering over his shoulder.

"Hey, I was here first," he snapped. "Go and find your own book."

Sir Giles, however, did not apologize; nor did he move.

Blake held on to the Faustbuch fiercely. He was unwilling to let this book go. Even though it filled him with trepidation, he sensed that it must be important. He could feel it in his bones. The paper dragon had drawn him towards it and now that it was in his possession the creature was dead still.

Slowly, Blake flipped through the volume and eventually found a price penciled lightly on the inside cover. His heart sank. It cost more than he had. A note beneath indicted that the book was "sold as seen." He frowned.

Sir Giles was hovering behind him like a wasp, ready to seize the volume as soon as he put it back on the shelf. His hands clutched the air.

Deciding to haggle, Blake walked up to the counter, where the Plastic Dinosaurs man was now supervising the shop. "I'd like to buy this book," he said, "but—"

"But what?" said the man sharply, suspecting a catch.

"But I don't have enough money to buy it right now," confessed Blake. "This is all I have."

He emptied the contents of his pockets onto the counter. The foreign coins, which still felt heavy and unusual to his North American fingers, danced and spun for a moment and then collapsed in a paltry heap. They didn't amount to much.

"What's it say inside?" said the man, disinclined to be generous.

"Twenty pounds."

"And what have you got?"

Blake performed some quick mental arithmetic. "Nine eighty-three," he said weakly, scrunching his nose.

The man pursed his lips.

"But it's falling apart!" exclaimed Blake. "It's probably worth nothing at all! Please, it's important."

The shop assistant looked skeptical. He made little suction motions with his mouth and started to scratch the back of his neck, where the python scarf was slipping. Finally, he opened the cover of the book and read the title. An involuntary laugh escaped his lips.

"'A True Historie of the Faustbuch, as witnessed by one of God's owne servants…' That's pretty sophisticated reading, isn't it?" he said.

"Maybe," said Blake, unwilling to give up. His mind fished rapidly for alternatives. "Of course, if you're willing to wait, I could—"

"—pay you twenty pounds for it right now," Sir Giles finished the sentence, and slapped a freshly folded banknote on the counter. "For me," he added, "and not the boy."

"But that’s not fair!" shouted Blake.

"Sir, the boy was here first," said the man responsibly, although Blake could tell that the money tempted him. Helicked the corner of his lips and his eyes returned to the banknote again like a frog targeting a fly.

"That may be," said Sir Giles, pushing Blake aside, "but the boy can't afford to buy it…unless he means to steal it."

A lethal glare from Sir Giles warned Blake not to make a sound. Perhaps he did recognize him from the college dinner, after all…

Blake clenched his hands into fists, but remained silent.

"Here, I'll tell you what I'll do," said Sir Giles, taking control of the situation. He withdrew another banknote from his wallet. "I'll double your asking price. That's my final offer. As the boy said, it really is in appalling condition."

"But—" appealed Blake mutely.

"There, there," said Diana Bentley, suddenly appearing from behind her husband and placing a comforting hand on Blake's shoulder. "You shouldn't concern yourself with grubby old books. It's probably contagious."

"It was…it was for my mum," lied Blake, hoping to appeal to her emotions. "I was going to surprise her with it."

She gave him a compassionate look. "How sweet," she murmured. "But really, Blake, I should think your mother would prefer a less contaminated sort of book. Why not flowers, perhaps?"

A playful smile teased her lips.

"But I think it could be important," said Blake helplessly.

"This decrepit thing?" She brushed the cover with a gloved fingertip, as though disdaining to get his skin dirty. "Surely not. Giles likes repairing old books. He'll rebind it and give it a fresh lease on life."

Sir Giles let out a humph of protest. "For heaven's sake, woman, stop humoring the child." He turned his attention back to the man behind the till. "Well?"

The shop assistant, weakening under the assault of Sir Giles' black eyebrows, looked from the man to the boy and back again. "I'll take it," he said finally, snatching the notes and entering them in the till before he could change his mind.

He shrugged at Blake and then said, "Sorry, mate, but books nowadays are a business."

"Don't fret," said Diana mildly, helping Blake on with his knapsack and escorting him away from the shop. "You can always come to our house if you'd like to see the book again." She smiled at the idea. "Yes, Giles has a magnificent collection. You must come by."

10

Blake walked the rest of the way to the college with slumped shoulders. Not only had he slept in, but he'd lost the blank book — and now another potentially important one. Nothing was going right!

He kicked at the stray leaves that had fallen overnight and didn't look up once, not even when he ducked through the small wooden door set into the massive gate guarding St. Jerome's and from habit marched straight into the Porter's Lodge.

"Why, there's a message for you," said Bob Barrett hurriedly, bending down to retrieve it. "With your name on it, too!"

"Thanks," said Blake gloomily, taking the envelope without looking at it.

"Come on, it can't be that bad. What's the—"

Just then the telephone rang and Bob paused to answer it. Blake took the opportunity to leave without another word. He didn't feel like talking to anyone right now.

He waved a hand in a halfhearted farewell and headed toward the library, where Mephistopeles immediately pounced on his feet, hoping to exact revenge on him for last night.

"Stupid cat," he growled as the animal leaped away. He stooped to retie his shoes.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Paula Richards bustling around the interior of the library, fetching things from shelves, a whirling dervish of activity. He didn't want to face her either, just in case she suspected him of damaging the books last night, and decided to redirect his steps to a bench under a tree on the far side of the lawn, where he could wait for his mother and sister in private.

He sat down on the bench, which was beaded with raindrops, and turned the letter over in his hands, careful not to let it get wet. A few more spiteful spots of rain shimmied through the leaves and landed on the back of his neck, but it was the driest place he could find.

The envelope bore the college coat of arms on its crisp, white paper: a ring of stars surrounding a knight's glove, which clutched a sharpened quill instead of a sword. Sure enough, his name was written on the front in a flourish of swirling letters:

Blake Winters, Esq.

He wondered what an Esq. was, but whatever it meant, the title made him feel distinguished and important, rather like a knight himself. He sat up a little straighter.

He opened the envelope. Inside was an abbreviated message in the same ornate writing:

Questions?

He glanced up, suspecting the anonymous author had read his mind. His head was teeming with questions.

He turned over the invitation, where he encountered further instructions.

Answers await you in the Old Library. Two o'clock if convenient.

Hope to see you there.

Professor Jolyon Fall

A smile grew on Blake's face. Not only would he get a chance to see inside the Old Library, but he might be able to learn the secret of the blank book, too! Things were definitely looking up.

He craned his neck to see if he could see the Old Library from where he was seated, but only the tip of the tower above the cloisters was visible, partially hidden behind a screen of leaves. Nevertheless, a quiver of excitement — a bit like a slide whistle of pleasure — passed through him.

The sound of his sister's voice on the other side of the lawn brought him crashing back to reality. His first obstacle: obtaining his mother's permission. Would she let him go? Judging from the was she was clutching her briefcase in her hand, she was going to spend the whole afternoon in the Bodleian Library. That could mean only one thing. He would be the obligated babysitter.

He sighed and, as if in sympathy, a volley of raindrops slid through the leaves and landed on his invitation, causing the ink to smear.

"Mum's got e-mail access," Duck announced as soon as they were within shouting distance. "Isn't that great?"

"Yeah, great," he replied, unconvinced. He got up to find a damp, heart-shaped patch on the seat of his jeans. Duck snickered.

Blake knew that his mother had found an elusive manuscript in the Bodleian Library and was eager to contact Professor Morgan, the Chair of her Department, for permission to prolong her trip. Secretly, he hoped the college would ignore her request to install an internet connection in her office, since then she couldn't apply for an extension so easily; but now it seemed a distinct possibility.

"Now we can e-mail Dad every day," said Duck cheerfully. "I've already written to ask if he's finished any of his new drawings yet. He could be reading my message right now. It's like he's here with us!"

"No, it's not," sulked Blake. "He's on the other side of the world, in case you hadn't noticed."

Duck had skipped happily ahead and not heard; his mother, however, had. She gave him a sharp look — like a pinprick — and he winced. He could sense that she had not forgotten about the trouble he had caused last night and decided to walk on ahead. He wandered towards the dining hall.

Blake's dad had been working from home for several months, ever since tiring of the rat race and leaving the firm he had worked for in the city. Blake preferred it this way: he enjoyed his dad's company and the extra attention he and Duck received while their mother focused on her career. Just before they'd departed for England, however, Blake had heard his dad despairing that his designs would give a whole new definition to the term "blank canvas." He wondered if Duck's e-mail would only make him feel worse.

He was debating whether to send a message of his own, when he noticed his mother looking at the card in his hand. He showed her the name on the envelope.

"It's from Professor Jolyon," he said, deciding to speak first. "He wants to see me this afternoon."

"Really? What for?"

She sounded skeptical.

"I'm not sure," he lied.

His mother didn't look convinced.

"Can I see Professor Jolyon too?" piped in Duck suddenly. "Please!"

"No!" snapped Blake.

His mother gave his a reproachful look.

"But it's none of her business!" he protested. "She's always butting in." He reached out to pinch her.

"Ow! Quit it!"

"I barely even touched you!"

"Yes, you did!" Duck sobbed petulantly and batted his hand away.

His mother cuffed him by the wrist and brought him to a sudden halt. "That's enough," she said. "I don't want any more trouble from you!"

Blake could detect a serious recrimination behind her words and wriggled free from her grasp. He dodged up the steps to the dining hall.

He twisted the heavy iron handle of the arched wooden door and entered an immense, oak-paneled room lined with benches and long wooden tables that generations of banqueting scholars had worn smooth. Little lamps with brass stands and red shades, like toadstools, sprung up at intervals, emitting weak coronas of light. A warm meaty aroma oozed through the air like gravy.

On a raised platform at the front of the hall, surrounded by dazzling diamond-paned windows, was a luxurious table spread with bottled water, silver cutlery and bowls of fresh fruit. A stained-glass crest shone above it like an incandescent sun, dabbing the tablecloth with splashes of color. This was where the professors sat, although not Juliet Winters. It was one of the concessions she'd had to make to have her children with her.

She looked longingly at the High Table, while Duck and Blake bickered.

"But she can't come," Blake was still complaining. "Professor Jolyon invited me. It's my name on the invitation, not hers." He knew he was whining, but couldn't stop himself.

"I know it is," said his mother wearily, "but it's the least you can do after last night. I need to finish some work in the Bodleian Library and it would be convenient — kind — if you looked after Duck for a few hours. After all, I was hardly able to stick to my normal routine this morning…"

Blake shook his head and groaned. It was like this every day. He was always taking care of his little sister — even when he wasn't guilty of sleeping in or sneaking away at night.

They queued in silence to receive servings of steak and kidney pie from a hatch near the kitchen and then followed Duck to a table she had chosen in the middle of the room, next to a section that had been roped off for members of the Ex Libris Society. A gallery of wasp-waisted women in bejeweled dresses and Puritanical men in dark robes with wan, preacher-like complexions stared at them from the walls.

His mother poured them each some water from a jug on the table. All of the glasses were stained and scratchy, but she chose the cleanest ones.

Blake could tell that something was troubling her, something even more significant than his behavior, for she swirled the water in her glass for a moment, blending her thoughts in its vortex of reflections. Then, in a slow, serious voice that was more solemn than any tone she had used before, she said, "This morning, Mrs. Richards told me that someone had disturbed a number of books in the library last night. Not just disturbed them — attacked them, ripped them to shreds."

She settled the glass on the table and fixed him with her eyes. "Blake, please tell me you don't have anything to do with this."

Duck was watching him closely, chewing with her mouth open.

Blake was appalled by the insinuation. "Of course not!" he spluttered, his face flaming with anger and humiliation. He glanced at a painting of Nathaniel Hart (1723-1804), a lugubrious man in a clerical coat with a woolly wig on his head. His portrait seemed to be hanging over him in judgment.

"Blake, look at me."

Blake forced his eyes back to the table. "No, I don't know anything about it," he said more forcefully.

"This is serious, Blake," she said, tapping her tray with her finger. "Are you sure you didn't see anything on your walk last night?"

He could hear suspicion lurking just behind her words and turned away. "No, I swear I don't know who did that," he said, fighting to keep his voice under control. "I didn't see anyone downstairs in the library, OK?"

At once he realized his mistake. He'd admitted to being in the library. The truth had slipped out before he could prevent it, and he took a swig of water to hide his confusion.

His mother closed her eyes in despair. "Oh, Blake," she said. "I sincerely hoped you wouldn't be caught up in this."

He looked up, surprised. What did she mean?

He glanced at Duck, who had discovered a piece of kidney on her fork and was picking it off with fussy fingers.

His mother shook her head.

"Look," he said, feeling flustered. His temples were throbbing and his face turning a brighter shade of scarlet. "I'm sorry I worried you, OK, but I honestly don't know what happened to the books! I was upstairs at the time. I was trying to fetch the cat, which had slipped in after me."

Duck looked at both of them expectantly.

His mother sat silently for a while. "Well, just in case," she said after a long, pregnant pause, "I think it would be better if Duck accompanies you this afternoon. Perhaps she can teach you a thing or two about responsibility."

Duck cheered happily, but Blake groaned inwardly and stabbed at his food with his fork. A ring of gravy had congealed around the edges of his plate and the forest of overcooked broccoli had wilted and turned cold. He bashed at the brain of puff pastry covering his pie.

When at last he looked up, he was annoyed to find Prosper Marchand swaggering towards them. A silver skull dangled from one of his earlobes.

"So these are your two?" said the professor wit a specious grin, patting Duck familiarly on the head. Instinctively, she raised the hood of her coat and turned her face away, scowling. "They look like quite a handful."

The curly-haired professor, still in his leather jacket, winked at Blake. Coldly, Blake slid his tray across the table, his appetite gone.

Juliet Winters ignored the remark.

"He really is the spitting image of his father, you know," continued the professor, unfazed. "So how is Christopher, anyway?"

Blake stiffened.

"Fine," responded Juliet Winters tersely, her shoulders tense. "The same."

"Ah, I see," said the professor. Without warning, he crouched down beside her and whispered something in her ear that Blake couldn't quite catch. His leather jacket flexed its slippery muscles. As Juliet Winters listened, she flicked a strand of gray hair away from her eyes. The unconscious, girl-like gesture irritated Blake and he coughed.

Like a vampire interrupted mid-bite, Prosper Marchand glanced up. "Don't worry, I'm simply inviting your mother to coffee." His smile gleamed with polished teeth. "It's perfectly innocent. You're welcome to come too, if you like."

Blake tried to outstare the professor, but lost.

"So how about it then?" continued the man, victorious, turning towards Blake's mother. "Three o'clock, the old place?"

Blake felt a sudden swell of anger and resentment inside him. He opened his mouth to protest but caught his mother checking her watch. She looked at both children and then quickly away. Duck stared back at them from behind the rim of her hood, her face inscrutable.

"OK," she agreed. "Just coffee."

"I wouldn't dream of anything else," remarked the professor suavely, and strutted across to the section that had been cordoned off for the members of the Ex Libris Society.

More than sixty scholars, of varying age and nationality, were now assembled there, avidly discussing books. Blake could hear the rumble of voices in the air. Dressed in almost identical turtlenecks and khakis, they resembled hunters preparing for an expedition — although they were armed with bifocal glasses and catalogs of rare books instead of arms. Still, Blake didn't trust them. He knew from his mother the lengths scholars would go to to protect their interests.

He looked daggers at the professor's back. "But what about—"

"I'm sure Jolyon won't mind looking after you for a little longer," answered his mother calmly. "If not, I'll meet you as usual in the college library."

11

Blake paced up and down the long passageway outside the Old Library. A cold rain pattered softly against the leaves of the plane tree growing in the enclosed garden beside him, and a chill breeze roamed the stairwells like a ghost. Hunched wooden doors led at intervals into secret rooms all along the cloisters.

There had been no response when he'd hammered on the solid oak door just a few minutes ago and he was beginning to despair that Jolyon had forgotten his invitation. Restlessly, he began to trace his fingers along the rows of jagged teeth carved around the entrance, glancing idly at the monk-faced figures hunched in the corners of the dark, beamed ceiling.

At that moment, a rush of footsteps rounded the corner and Jolyon appeared, stooped and out of breath. He wore the same scruffy jacket and soup-stained tie as the night before.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he panted, towering over the children. "There was an incident in the library last night and Paula Richards asked me to assess the damage." His voice came out in stops and starts. "Another visit from our nocturnal book-breaker, I fear."

"Book-breaker?" asked Blake, confused.

He peered up into the man's face, which was as craggy as a cliff, but softened by tufted outcrops of hair. Deep, cuneiform lines surrounded his eyes.

"Scoundrels who tear books apart," wheezed the professor. "They rip maps and illustrations from old books and sell them for profit." He took another deep breath. "St. Jerome's, I'm afraid, has had its fair share of book-breakers through the years."

Blake averted his face. Unlike the professor, he suspected he knew exactly wha the culprit had been looking for.

If the man noticed his agitation, he didn't care to comment on it. "Never mind that now," he said lightly. "We have other things to discuss. More important things."

A charge of excitement, like electricity, flashed through Blake, riveting him to the spot.

Jolyon beamed down at him. "I'm delighted you could make it, my boy. And this, unless I am mistaken, must be your sister—"

"Duck," said Blake, introducing her. She was standing a little way off, gazing up at the glowering sky, her thoughts elsewhere. She had been strangely subdued since lunch. "But that's not her real name. Everyone calls her that because of the coat."

The old man acted as though the name and yellow raincoat made all the sense in the world. "I see, I see," he said happily. "I'm pleased to meet you, Duck."

She gave him a shy smile, as if uncertain whether or not to trust his jovial nature.

"I would have come alone," said Blake quickly, "only my mother told me to look after he. I hope you don't mind."

"It's quite all right, my boy, quite all right," said the professor agreeably. He tested a reassuring hand on Blake's shoulder, which sagged slightly under its gentle pressure. "Duck may have a part to play in this uncanny mystery of ours. She looks like an exceptional character."

Blake was grateful for the way Jolyon treated him like an equal, but was displeased to hear how his sister had already impressed him with her intelligence. She hadn't even said anything yet!

Before he could protest, the professor took an old-fashioned key from his trouser pocket and inserted it in the lock of the iron-slatted door. "Shall we?" he commenced.

Blake watched as the heavy wooden door creaked open. His face fell. In front of him was a short narrow passage, ending in a dusty, disused cupboard. A mop and bucket stood like sentries before it.

"Im afraid the Old Library doesn't get much use nowadays, except as a sort of glorified broom closet," said the professor sadly, sensing the boy's disappointment, "but I'm pleased to say that my office is still one of the best-kept secrets in the college." He tapped the side of his nose and winked. "This way."

Hidden in the shadows was a faded tapestry that parted in the middle to reveal a concealed staircase that curled up the wall to the top of the square tower. Already, the professor's legs were disappearing round the first bend, receding into the darkness.

"It's quite a climb," he called down from above, "but well worth it, I think you'll find. It used to be the chapter house, where the monks held their official meetings." His voice died to a whisper.

Blake didn't need a second invitation. He bounded up the stone stairs, taking them two at a time, feeling like a rock climber scrambling into the interior of a shell. Duck followed more cautiously, running her fingers along the uneven walls. She didn't like confined spaces and there was no rope or handrail to hold on to. She negotiated the slippery, timeworn steps with care.

Blake took a moment at the top to catch his breath and then let it out in an amazed gasp. It had to be the most magical room in Oxford! "Wow!" he exclaimed, gazing around him in wonder.

A single fluted column opened like an umbrella in the center of the room to support a low vaulted ceiling, which hung above them like an ornate spiderweb spun from golden stone. Small rounded windows provided aerial views of the college: a gargoyle-inhabited landscape of spires, battlements and slate roofs, capped by gathering storm clouds.

Like the man, the room was wonderfully shambolic. Books were everywhere: piled on desks, propped against table legs, placed under lamps and perched on stools. There were even books on the armchairs, like sleeping cats, and Blake wondered whether he was supposed to sit on them or push them politely aside. But where he was supposed to put them? There wasn't an inch of available space anywhere. Books lay strewn across the floor, as though they'd been hurled there in a whirlwind of reading.

Blake looked around for a place to hang his coat, but couldn't find one. Instead, he folded it neatly over his arm and clutched his knapsack close to his side. The paper dragon inside was still.

Jolyon volunteered to take Duck's raincoat, but she refused.

"She never takes it off," explained Blake, joining his sister on the sofa least obscured by books. He removed one or two volumes that were in his way and added them to a precarious pile on the floor. Jolyon sat opposite, on a wooden chair with clawed feet, rather like a throne, which made him look like a storyteller or a benevolent king. A stray spear of light from the window behind him silvered the edges of his body and made some of the books on the shelves gleam like gold.

"So what can you tell me about Endymion Spring?" asked Blake immediately, eager to learn the secret of the blank book he had found.

Here, in the study, the professor didn't seem nearly so agitated to hear the name. Yet if Blake was expecting a straight-forward answer, he didn't get one. The old man held up an ink-stained finger.

"Patience, my boy," he stalled him. "What I would like to know, first, is how you came to know of him. Did you overhear someone talking about him — your mother, perhaps?"

Blake shook his head. "No, she's never mentioned him before."

Jolyon seemed surprised. "Are you sure?"

Blake considered the question thoughtfully. "No…at least, I don't think so," he said, less certainly."

"How about at the dinner last night?" resumed the professor. "Someone there?" He asked this more carefully, as though the college might be full of interlopers, all plotting to get their hands on the book.

"No," said Blake, frowning and shifting slightly on his seat. He wondered why the man was asking so many strange questions. Perhaps he doubted a boy his age could find a book like Endymion Spring ? He decided to cut to the chase. "No, I found a book with his name on it in the library yesterday, but it wasn't an ordinary book, 'cause it didn't have any words in it. So I thought I'd ask you about it last night."

"Oh," said the professor. His voice was soft, barely audible. An evasive look crossed his face.

Confused by the man's reaction, Blake asked tentatively, "Is the book important," Professor Jolyon?"

The man observed him steadily for a long, silent moment and then nodded. "Yes, Blake, it is very important indeed."

Blake felt his skin shrink with foreboding.

Duck, impressed by the portentousness of the professor's tone, finally spoke up. "It had a magic spell inside."

"No, it didn't," Blake corrected her quickly. Then, under his breath, he added, "It wasn't a spell."

"More like a riddle, was it?" suggested Jolyon, raising a squirrelly eyebrow.

"How did you know?" Blake gazed at him in wonder, but the man was watching him earnestly, unwilling to divulge his secret.

"First, tell me how you found the book," he said, leaning forwards to make sure he missed none of the details.

Slowly, Blake began to tell him about the previous afternoon. He decided not to mention that he had been running his fingers along the shelves at the time, just in case the professor, like his mother, disapproved. He might even accuse him of damaging the books in the library last night — and he didn't want to get into more trouble.

"And could you read what was inside?" asked the professor as soon as Blake had finished his story. He studied the boy carefully. Blake's light blue eyes were as pale as ice.

"Well, sure," said Blake, thinking the answer was obvious. "I mean, I thought the book was blank at first, you know, but then I found some words in the middle of it, almost where you wouldn't expect to find any."

The professor leaned even closer. "And what did the message say?" he asked, with bated breath.

Blake bit his lip. He could feel the man's eyes boring into him. Seated on his throne, the professor reminded him of the scholars he had seen in the portraits all over college. Everything hinged on his next response. Yet, despite his best efforts, Blake couldn’t remember the exact phrasing of Endymion Spring 's poem. The words eluded him.

"I don't know," he said at long last. He pulled at his collar, which seemed to be growing tighter. "I can't remember it very well. It had something to do with the seasons. The book was going to fall apart if something didn't happen." He scrunched up his face with the effort of concentration. "Only, I don't know what was supposed to take place. I can't remember the words precisely. They didn't make sense."

"And I didn't see them," said Duck, feeling this was important to mention.

"What, haven't you read the riddle again?" asked Jolyon anxiously. "Have the words already disappeared?"

Blake glanced down at his empty fingers. "I don't have the book any more," he confessed. "It's gone."

"Oh dear."

The man's voice dropped so low, it seemed to sink through the floor. Blake could feel the air of expectancy rush out of the room as though a book they had been enjoying together had been snapped shut, the story cut off in mid-sentence. Rain began to patter against the roof, increasing his sense of discomfort. The professor's office was clouded with gloom.

"I'm sorry," he started to say as thunder rumbled in the distance, but the man merely brushed his apology aside. Blake couldn't tell whether he was angry or just concerned. "I didn't know what to do," he resumed miserably, "so I put the book back on the shelf. I didn't think I was supposed to take it from the library."

"No, no, you were quite right," admitted the professor, staring at the book-strewn rug as though something of immense value had slipped through his fingers and he was searching for where it lay. He twisted his long legs broodingly.

Another thought suddenly occurred to Blake. "But I did go back to look for it after I spoke to you last night," he said. "Your reaction made it seem important."

The professor instantly raised his head, alert.

"And?"

Blake gazed at the shadowy figure opposite him. He dropped his eyes. "Only, I couldn't find it again," he muttered gloomily. "I went back to the shelf where I had found it earlier, but the book wasn't there. It had gone. Someone must have taken it."

A troubled silence, deeper and darker than before, settled over them. In the half-light, Duck glanced uneasily at her brother. She sat on the edge of her seat, squirming uncomfortably.

But Blake was more concerned by the professor's next question: "Blake, are you quite certain that the book was missing when you returned to the library last night?" he asked seriously, his chair creaking slightly as he leaned forward to emphasize his point.

Blake opened his mouth to speak, but the professor held up a finger to forestall him. "Think carefully now. This is important."

His voice sounded worried.

Blake closed his eyes and tried to reimagine the scene. He could see the beam from his torch wavering in the darkness, illuminating the rows of silent, watchful books. He visualized the two volumes tilting towards each other on the shelf at the end of the corridor and the crack of shadow in between.

"Yeah, quite sure," he said. "It was gone."

"And did anyone follow you?"

The question caused a shiver of fear to creep up and down his spine. "Well, that's the thing," said Blake nervously. "Someone else was there."

The professor's eyes were on him in an instant.

"Who?"

Duck was breathing rapidly beside him, open-mouthed.

"I don't know," answered Blake, despairingly. "It was dark. I couldn't see. The cat sneaked in after me, so I had to fetch him from upstairs. That's when it happened."

"The books downstairs?" the man prompted him gently.

Blake nodded. A lump had formed in his throat and he swallowed it painfully. "The books were already on the floor when I came down," he said. "Ripped pages were everywhere…exactly where I had found Endymion Spring earlier. It was like someone had been hunting for the blank book. But I didn't hang around, you know? I just wanted to get out of there. I ran back to the dinner."

"No, no, that was advisable," admitted the professor with a sigh. "Did you report what you'd seen to the librarian?"

"No. I didn't wasn’t to get into trouble. Besides, my mum was already pretty mad."

"I see." Jolyon was silent for a while. Blake could tell that he was privately wishing he had been only a bit braver, or waited a moment longer, to catch the culprit red-handed. The man steepled his finger against his lips pensively.

Blake didn't want to interrupt, but found himself apologizing anyway. "I'm really sorry, Professor Jolyon. I didn't mean for this to happen. Honest. I just wanted to find out about the blank book, that's all." His voice wobbled.

The man's expression, however, softened into a smile. "No one's blaming you, my child," he said kindly, his wrinkles losing their stern edges. "You're not the sort of boy to damage books. I know that. You've simply stumbled into something, something…" — he searched for a word — "something much larger than you can possibly imagine. Endymion Spring must have chosen you for a reason."

Blake gaped at him in disbelief. "A reason?" he mouthed to himself, but Duck was quicker off the mark.

"It chose him?" she burst out, incredulously.

"Yes, I believe it did," said Jolyon seriously.

"But how can that be?" she cried. "It's just a book."

"No, Duck, Endymion Spring is not just a book," said Jolyon severely.

"What do you mean?"

"It just so happens to be one of the most legendary, sought-after books in the world and could be incredibly dangerous if it falls into the wrong hands."

Blake looked up from his lap, feeling as though a huge weight had suddenly fallen on his shoulders.

"Dangerous?" he asked, crushed by a new sense of responsibility.

"Oh yes. Books are powerful things," said Jolyon. "And, as you know, this book is not without its special abilities."

"But Blake was making up that stuff," objected Duck. "I was standing right next to him when he found it. The book had no words in it, I'm sure."

"It did so," retaliated Blake. "I swear, Professor Jolyon. I saw something inside it."

"Yes, I believe you," remarked the man. "And if what you say is true, that the blank book threatened to fall apart if something didn't happen, then I fear the destruction of the volume — and all it stands for — could be imminent. Which is disastrous, considering it had only now decided to reappear."

"Reappear?" both children asked simultaneously.

"Oh, yes," replied Jolyon soberly. "You are not the first to be chosen. There have been others before you, Blake. And many more who have searched in vain…"

"Was it you?" said Duck quickly. "Did you find the book?"

The professor gave her a rueful smile. "No, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Duck. It wasn't me." For the first time his face revealed a real depth of sadness. "I did glimpse it a few times," he said softly, "but fortunately it didn't select me."

He let his words settle for a moment, before adding: "It nearly destroyed the person it did."

12

Blake didn't trust himself to speak. He felt sick with horror. What exactly had he found? And what, for that matter, had he lost?

He sat back and listened as Duck asked the question that had died on his lips. "What happened?"

"It's a long story," said Jolyon, and both children feared he was not going to tell them. They fidgeted on the sofa. It's a long story was a way of not explaining something to them, an excuse for not telling them about the past. That's how their parents often handled awkward or difficult questions.

Yet the professor was merely considering what he could — or could not — say. For a moment his face darkened with misgivings and then, as though the incident were still painful to recall, he began to tell his tale.

"It was a long time ago," he said in a deep, unhurried voice, rubbing the corners of his eyes. "I was a member of a society devoted to the study and appreciation of books. The Libris Society, it was called."

"Isn't that the society that's here now?" asked Duck. "The one in the dining hall today?"

A flicker of a smile passed his lips. "That's perceptive of you, young lady," he congratulated her. "The Ex Libris Society, as it is now known, is a highly regarded community of scholars, librarians and book collectors from all over the world who are devoted to the preservation of books. All, that is, except for Prosper Marchand, who is at the cutting edge of a new technology threatening to make printed material obsolete. Digitalization."

He said the word as though it were one of his personal bugbears. "But at first there were only a few of us, united by our passion for books," he recollected more fondly.

"What kind of books?" said Duck.

"Oh, the best kind. The earliest, handprinted books by true Masters of he press: Johann Gutenberg, Peter Schoeffer and Aldus Manutius."

Blake's eyes glazed over. He wanted the professor to fast-forward the discussion, to say what happened next, but Jolyon was speaking slowly, with great emphasis, as though each word was impressed with meaning.

"And then one day," he remarked, "the shyest member among us, a real daydreamer, found a book unlike any other."

"Endymion Spring," breathed Blake excitedly.

The professor nodded. "Exactly. Endymion Spring. A legendary book we had never believed in before. He was the only person who could see inside it. To the rest of us, it was a closed volume, a dummy, its secrets locked between two apparently keyless clasps that only his touch could open. The book, of course, was selective about its ownership; it needed to be. After all, it led to something much more powerful…"

Blake's mouth dropped. "But — but the clasps were broken when I found the book," he interrupted. "That means someone else must have looked at it since then."

The professor did not comment. His eyes had receded into shadow, like two small, dark caves. When he resumed his story, his voice sounded older, further away.

"For a while, we gathered to listen to the sayings of Endymion Spring," he recollected. "Yet the tone of our meetings soon changed. The book started to warn us of a shadow, a force that threatened to consume not only the book, but the whole world."

Duck rolled her eyes, but Blake was absorbed in the tale. This was like a ghost story now, getting scarier by the minute. He hung on every word.

"The boy who had found the book had a strange voice, like a candle flame," Jolyon remembered. "It trembled and flickered as though he knew the darkness his words were bringing to light. He began to warn us of the Person in Shadow."

"The Person in Shadow?" asked Blake, his voice quavering.

Jolyon nodded. "What we didn't realize then," he said ominously, "is that the shadow belonged to one of us. There was a traitor in our midst, a person whose heart was already black."

He stopped, as if haunted by the past.

Blake shivered, wondering if this was the person who had followed him to the library last night.

"For a while the book brought us together," resumed the professor sadly. "Then, one day, it ripped us apart. Endymion Spring, like its owner, disappeared and we heard no more."

His words, like the smoke rising from a snuffed candle, began to fade.

"But how does it end?" asked Blake anxiously, peering round the room, which was suddenly full of eavesdropping shadows. "What happens next?"

"I don't know," answered the professor bleakly. "The rest remains to be seen. The story, it appears, is still writing itself."

Blake shook his head, confused. "I don't get it. What does the blank book want from me? I'm just a kid. What am I supposed to do with it — supposing I find it again? Can't you help me, Professor Jolyon? Can't you tell me what to do?"

The man considered him for a moment, then said: "Endymion Spring believes in you, Blake. You will know what to do."

Once again Blake felt a rush of excitement streak through him — just like the elation he had experienced when he first handled the book in the library and the paper dragon that morning — but then a new worry consumed him. He wasn't special. Duck was the extraordinary one; everyone thought so.

"What I don't get is why this book is so dangerous," she objected, right on cue. "It makes no sense."

The professor peered at her with wise, owl-like eyes.

"Endymion Spring is a remarkable volume, he said carefully. "It is full of insights and prophecies that threaten to undo everything we know — or think we know — about the world. It not only foretells the future, but retells the past. It even claims to lead to a legendary book of knowledge: the Last Book."

"The Last Book?" asked Blake doubtfully.

The professor nodded.

"Don't listen to him," said Duck. "He's just making up stuff to tease us. I've never even heard of a Last Book."

Jolyon regarded her stoically for a moment and then said, "The Last Book is known by many names, Duck: the Book of Sand, the Mirror of Infinities, the Eternity Codex, Perhaps you've heard of one of these?

Duck shook her head, still not convinced.

"It's a book that has eluded capture and defied definition for centuries: a book that predates all others and yet outlives them all; a book that contains whole libraries within its pages; a book that even has the power to bring words to life." The professor was clearly fond of the subject, for his hazel eyes burned with a barely disguised passion. "Literature is full of references to it and veiled allusions to its whereabouts."

Blake's heart pumped wildly inside him. "The Last Book," he said excitedly. "Is this the book I found in the library yesterday?"

The professor smiled sadly. "No, Blake, Endymion Spring merely leads to it. It is like a key or a map; a piece of the puzzle. The guide. Its message, however, is visible only to a select few."

"Like me," said Blake weakly, hardly able to believe his own ears.

"Yes, Blake, like you," said Jolyon, much to Duck's annoyance.

"The book should have chosen me," she murmured under her breath. "I'd have known what to do with it."

"But why me?" asked Blake again. "Why would the book want to contact me? I didn't even want it!"

Jolyon studied him judiciously for a moment. "Perhaps that is a reason in itself," he said cryptically.

Duck interjected, "But who is Endymion Spring? He could be a fraud or a trickster for all we know."

"Ah," intoned the professor. "Now that is a good question."

Blake, who had been cradling his head in his hands, looked up at him through a web of fingers. "Don't you know?" he asked despondently.

Once again the professor threw up a screen of words. "Endymion Spring is more of a shadow than an actual person," he said, "a whisper rather than a voice. Some scholars doubt he even existed at all." Then, seeing Blake's look of desperation, he added, "Personally, I believe he was a printer's devil."

Blake gulped, hoping he had misheard. "A devil?" he asked, barely able to get his tongue around the word.

Jolyon grinned. "Not the kind you're imagining, Blake; trust me. Printer's devils were often young apprentices — boys, even — who worked in the earliest print rooms in Europe in the fifteenth century. They were trainees, learning the art of printing books when it was still considered a Black Art."

"What about girls?" Duck challenged him quickly.

"I'm afraid I don't know of any," said Jolyon good-naturedly.

"You mean Endymion Spring was a boy like me?" piped in Blake with renewed enthusiasm, feeling an instant kinship to that mysterious figure all those hundreds of years ago. He and Endymion Spring were bonded by age, even if they lived centuries apart.

"Yes, I believe Endymion Spring was a boy just like you, working in the first and most famous print room: Johann Gutenberg's."

"Gutenberg?"

"Here, let me show you," said the professor. Getting up from his chair, he bounded across the room in three quick strides. Within seconds, he had returned with a large brown volume, which he propped open for the children to see.

"Johann Gutenberg was the first man to print books with movable type," he explained, pointing to an engraving of a man with a walrus-like mustache and long beard. "He divided the alphabet into a series of metal letters, much like pieces of a broken typewriter, which he arranged in a wooden printing press, like this, to print books."

While the professor explained how Gutenberg's press worked, Blake studied the portrait in front of him. Dressed in a heavy robe with square buckles up the side, Gutenberg looked just like the homeless man he had seen outside the bookshop.

The professor now turned to a different page with another man's face on it.

"Who's that? asked Blake, disliking the dark knitted eyebrows and forked beard that looked out at him.

"That," said Jolyon, following the direction of his eyes, "is Johann Fust, Gutenberg's investor. He was a ruthless man, by all accounts."

A shiver crept up and down Blake's spine. Fust's stern, defiant expression seemed to glare at him from across the centuries. For some reason the paper dragon started to move inside his knapsack. He tried to muffle it with his foot, squeezing the bag between his legs, but luckily the professor seemed to suspect nothing.

"It was a wretched business," Jolyon explained forlornly. "Just when Gutenberg had perfected his press and produced one of the most exquisite books the world has ever known, the forty-two-line Bible, Fust dissolved his partnership with the inventor. He sued Gutenberg for all he was worth and effectively left him penniless and destitute."

"But why?" asked Blake.

"Nobody knows for certain," remarked the professor, reticently, "although for several centuries there was a rumor…"

He closed the book and the dragon in Blake's bag went still. Blake could tell that there was a darker side to the story than the old man was admitting, for he remained silent and thoughtful for a while.

Finally, in a soft, serious voice, Jolyon said, "Have you heard of Faust?"

Blake shuddered, remembering the chilling book he had found in the bookshop — and then lost to Sir Giles. "My mum's studying him," he said. "He's a sorcerer or something who sold his soul to the Devil."

Jolyon nodded, then fixed the boy with his eyes. "Some people believe that Fust was the original Faust," he resumed warily, "that he made a contract with the Devil at the time Gutenberg was experimenting with his printing press. And if you consider the power and knowledge Endymion Spring is thought to have witnessed in the Last Book, it might not be a coincidence."

Blake gawped at the professor, a cold fear curdling in his stomach. "So it really is important that we find the blank book," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Absolutely," said Jolyon. "Not everyone believes in Endymion Spring, but those who do — and the Ex Libris Society is certainly full of them — will stop at nothing to obtain it. If they knew you had held the book, Blake, or even believed you had seen it, Duck, your lives could be in danger."

At that moment there was a loud banging on the door downstairs and all three of them jumped.

Jolyon was the first to recover. He pressed a fingertip to his mouth to signal that the conversation was now at an end and called out that the door was open.

Together, they listened as heavy footsteps climbed the spiral staircase towards them. Before long, a shadow entered.

"I wasn't sure what had happened to the kids," said Juliet Winters brightly, "so I thought I'd look for them here. I hope they haven't been a nuisance."

Then, seeing their startled faces, she asked, "What's got into you? You look like you've seen a ghost."

13

Blake sat back in the professor's book-filled office, lost in thought.

While he pondered all of the things he'd learned, his mother perched on the arm of the sofa, talking vibrantly about her work. She seemed in a surprisingly good mood, as though everything was back to normal, but he couldn't help wondering privately whether anything would ever be the same again.

"I see your office hasn't changed one bit," she told Jolyon idly as she played with the trim on Duck's hood. She then explained to both her children how she used to have tutorials in this very room many years ago.

Blake watched her with a curious expression, pleased to hear her sounding so relaxed and happy, and yet uncertain what had caused the change.

She caught him staring at her and suddenly snapped her fingers.

"That reminds me," she said, reaching into the front pocket of her briefcase. "I picked this up for you on my way here."

She handed him a small plastic bag with the words live life buy the book printed on it in large white letters. Inside was a thick paperback novel.

"I hope you like it," she said. "It's about a boy who has an amazing adventure in Oxford. The shop assistant recommended it. I thought that this way you might be less inclined to get into trouble on your own."

Blake ran his fingers over the cover and fanned through the pages, enjoying the dusty, papery, new-book smell. He allowed his eyes to stop at random on different paragraphs. Almost immediately sentences tugged at his imagination, pulling him in.

He didn't know what to say. She surprised him by apologizing first.

"I'm sorry I upset you last night," she said. "I panicked when I couldn't see you at the dinner. Just because I spend a lot of my time working doesn't mean I don't keep my eye on you. Understand?"

A playful, grateful smirk crossed his face and he nodded.

She smiled. "Just promise me not to disappear again, OK?" she said, planting a coffee-scneted kiss on his forehead.

"OK, I promise," he said automatically. "Thanks for the book."

"You're welcome."

Duck was straining to see the cover, but stuck out her tongue when he showed her the title. "I've already read it," she said. "I could ruin the ending for you, if I wanted."

His mother was now telling Jolyon about her time in the library. "I thought Oxford would have progressed into the twenty-first century," she said lightly, "but I see it still takes days for the books you most want to reach you from the stacks. At least they have CD-ROMS and e-mail terminals in the reading rooms."

The way she described it, the Bodleian sounded like an enormous labyrinth of books. Built hundreds of years ago, the library housed millions upon millions of volumes, many of which were stored on miles of shelving below the ground. He could imagine tunnels worming beneath the city streets like tree roots, each full of rare, dust-covered books.

"Can we go down there one day and take a look?" he asked excitedly. "I'd love to see where the books are stored."

"Absolutely not," she answered with mock severity. "They'd be furious if someone entered the stacks without permission. Especially a young boy without a reader's ticket. It's strictly off-limits."

She glanced at him and he smiled back. It really was as if things were back to normal: not just the way they were before last night, but before the Big Argument. She hadn't seemed so relaxed, so young, in a long time.

For a moment even the thought of the Last Book slipped his mind and he yawned. His jaws stretched open like a rubber band…and then snapped shut again.

Without warning, he remembered her rendezvous with Prosper Marchand. Suddenly he felt anxious and suspicious. Was this the reason for her good mood?

Duck was swinging her legs like restless pendulums, eager to be off. Her mother noticed and glanced at her watch.

"Well, I suppose it's time we headed back," she excused herself. "Thanks again for looking after them, Jolyon. I know they can be quite a handful."

"No, no," said the professor. "We've had a most interesting time. Most enlightening."

Duck got up quickly and hurried down the stairs, but Jolyon reached out a hand and patted Blake once on the shoulder in farewell: a silent communication, which Blake understood well. It was an invitation to return to the Old Library, if or when he needed help. He wasn't alone in this mystery.

He nodded tacitly in response.

Before they left the college, his mother stopped at her office to print an article she was writing: "The Faust Conspiracy." While the printer churned out endless reams of paper, Blake took the opportunity to send an e-mail to his father. He wasn't sure what to say. There weren't enough words to describe everything that had happened. Too many thoughts crowded his mind. At last he wrote:

Things OK. Mum bought me a book

I geuss I'm in her good books

Again. ;-) I miss you. Write soon.

LOve, Blake

His fingers stiffened as he felt his mother reading over his shoulder. He was considering whether to mention anything about Endymion Spring, just in case his father had heard of him, but decided for now to keep the secret to himself.

"It's g-u-e-s-s," she pointed out, correcting his spelling.

"I know," he lied, and backspaced over his typo to change it. Annoyed, he thought about adding a note about Prosper Marchand, but decided against it. No one liked a tattletale.

As soon as his mother's back was turned, he entered a hasty postscript: "I wish you were here."

It was no better than a postcard, but at least his father would know he was thinking of him. He clicked the send icon and imagined the message arriving almost simultaneously on a computer screen thousands of miles away. Somehow, it only made the distance seem greater.

Blake discovered the reason for his mother's good mood once they returned to Millstone Lane. The university had accepted her proposal to prolong her research trip. She would be remaining in Oxford for an extra term after Christmas.

"Now I can finish researching my book," she said excitedly. "This will really boost my career."

Blake didn't respond. He ran upstairs and barricaded himself in his room, slamming the door behind him and sitting on his bed with his back firmly against the wall. He stared at the bars of his prison. Where did this leave him? Was he supposed to go back to his father or stay in England with his mother?

Home…the word didn't seem to mean much anymore.

He wondered how Duck felt, but she'd retreated to her own room almost as soon as they'd got in too. She was probably sulking about the present he'd been given. Well, let her sulk, he thought. The book now seemed like a bribe, a trick, an attempt to make him forget about missing his dad. He didn't want to read it anymore. Ruthlessly, he flung it across the room and watched as it crash-landed near the bin. Its cover bent back-wards like a broken wing an some of the pages crumpled. He stared at it through a wall of tears.

How could he have been so stupid? He should have known better than to trust his mother. She only cared about one thing: her work.

Everything was back to normal.

For a second night in a row, Blake could not sleep. Arms folded across his chest, he sat on his bed, brooding.

Outside, rain lashed against the window and he watched while the trees rocked and buffeted in the wind, bullied by the storm. Each gust sent a fresh marathon of fallen leaves scudding across the street. Large, angry shadows swept across the walls of the room, across the ceiling, occasionally slapping him on the face. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks.

It was past midnight. An hour ago, he had heard his mother creeping along the landing to Duck's door, which she'd opened briefly, and then across to his own. Blake had mapped her movements in his head. He could sense her standing on the opposite side of the door, only a few feet away, but a whole world apart.

"Go away!" he'd wanted to shout, willing her not to enter, but at the same time he yearned for her to check on him, to comfort him and tuck him in like a little boy. In the end she had withdrawn to her own room, making him feel even more isolated and miserable than before.

There had been only one other occasion like this. The Day of the Big Argument. It had been a Friday, the start of a long weekend, and he had planned to spend it gloriously, doing nothing; but both his parents had arrived home hours before him and were standing in the kitchen, glaring at each other. He could sense an unspoken hostility in the air between them — like a storm about to break.

And then, all of a sudden, it had started.

With a thunderous roar, his mother had snarled at his father, spitting an obscenity he had never heard her use before, her mouth ripped open with rage. Accusations flew across the room like bullets, ricocheting off the walls, landing in the furniture. He and Duck had dived for cover. The air had seemed fragile, like glass. Breakable.

Some of his friends had single parents and for a while he had wondered whether this was it: his parents' own D-Day. He'd plugged his fingers in his ears, trying to block out the possibility. He couldn't bring himself to think the word: Divorce sounded almost as final, as fatal, as Death.

And then there had been the eerie silence afterwards, when his parents had run out of things to say. They'd walked around the house, their eyes swollen, as though they had been boxing, not shouting; but it was Blake who had felt bruised and battered all over.

Finally, the telephone rang, exploding into the silence. That's when Duck had got up to fetch her raincoat, the one she hadn't taken off since.

He glanced at the door of his dark Oxford bedroom. He ought to check on her. He couldn't remember the last time he'd asked her how she felt. Perhaps she was asleep, unaware that the world was falling apart?

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the paper dragon on his bedside table, where he'd placed it for safekeeping. He'd almost forgotten about it. But there it was: reminding him of his mission. He had to find Endymion Spring.

But really, he didn't now where to begin.

Once again, he felt the inclination to unfold the dragon, to see if it contained any secret information; but it was too lovely to destroy. Besides, he was too tired. He could barely keep his eyes open. His head was full of drowsy thoughts, none of which seemed to make sense.

He reached out a hand and switched off his bedside light, then slowly settled back in bed. The sound of the storm lashing outside the window began to lull him to sleep.

Through half-closed eyes, he peered at the window. He could hear rain tapping against the glass like restive fingers and saw a tree swaying rhythmically in the wind at the foot of the garden. He watched it for a while, mesmerized by its movements. Gilded by street lamps, the leaves shook and shimmered — like a golden dragon preening itself in the wind.

He smiled to himself. Yes, there could be a dragon in that tree, he thought sleepily, his eyes closing still further. He could see its outline beginning to take shape: pointy leaflike ears; horny snout; strong black wings, furled back like branches. Each leaf could be a scale and that black space, there, an eye. There was even a thin, plated tail descending from the lowest branches like a sprig of ivy.

Yes, there could be a dragon in that tree, preparing to spread its wings and fly away. It stretched and tossed and groomed itself in the wind. At any moment, it might breathe a jet of autumnal fire and soar into the sky.

But before he knew for certain, he was asleep.