It took me a long time to gain my composure, but finally I began to lift Warvold’s hand up so I could pry the key out of his clenched fist. About halfway up I lost my grip and dropped his arm into the dirt with a thud. I carefully turned his arm over and set it in his lap, then peeled his fingers open, revealing the golden key. I drew the key up and unlatched the locket, then put the key back in Warvold’s hand and closed his dead fingers around it. Inside the locket I found two more keys.
I held the locket with one hand and removed the keys. One was large and gold, the other small and silver. After thinking it over I returned the large one, the one that had opened the gate, thinking it best that something reside inside the locket to avoid suspicion when my father or Ganesh eventually checked it.
I rose to my feet, surprisingly sore from sitting in the cold for so long. After a final glance back at Warvold, I began walking in the direction of Renny Lodge. In a single walk I had lost so much … but I had found something as well.
CHAPTER 5
THE LIBRARY
Upon my return to Renny Lodge with the news of Warvold’s death, I met Ganesh in the smoking room enjoying a pipe by the fire. He held me tight, warming both my body and my downcast spirit, and we sat quietly for several minutes with hardly a word spoken between us. When Father arrived he was immediately more practical about the matter.
“Where is the body? Are you all right, Alexa? We should think about what ought to be done next.” But even Father, with his pragmatic approach to things, eventually flopped down next to me on the couch, his head in his hands.
It fell now on Ganesh and my father to get things right, to become the elder statesmen and take care of us all. As they sat in the flickering glow of the fireplace that night, the sense of responsibility they both faced weighed on them, forever sealing off a simpler past.
People began streaming back into Bridewell the next day. Within a few hours, hundreds of people had arrived, and once word spread to all the towns, a steady flow of citizens rushed in from all directions. By the morning of the funeral, three days after Warvold’s death, Bridewell was bursting at the seams. The town was only a few square miles in size, and the guards had let in as many people as it would hold. The rest were lined up in caravans on the roads from Lathbury, Turlock, and Lunenburg. My father had been in one of the guard towers overlooking the Lunenburg gate, and he told me the line of carts and horses went back for miles.
It was decided that a processional would be the only way to accommodate the large crowds. Throughout the day of the funeral, the guards opened one of the gates and let a dozen carts in on one side and out on the other, then closed the gate and opened the next one a few minutes later. The circular procession lasted until darkness fell on Bridewell.
At the funeral, my father and Ganesh both spoke about Warvold and his many achievements. Listening, I was taken aback again by all that he had been: adventurer, architectural genius, devoted leader.
Pervis was as pesky as ever, poking his nose in at every turn, accusing anyone he could of wrongdoing, asking pointed questions. The crowds were also a problem, and poor little Bridewell took quite a beating during the days after Warvold’s death.
Then, mercifully, things quieted down. Emotions settled and people thinned out. The town would soon be empty again. My father and Ganesh got down to the business of planning and welcomed Nicolas, Warvold’s son, into their circle. Nicolas had the characteristic Warvold drive and ambition, but a generation removed; he was mellow and willing to listen and learn. It was clear that the three of them would work well together, and I thought I might see little of my father for the next few weeks as they met and discussed important issues.
It was time to refocus on the business at hand, which for me meant finding a way outside of the wall. Now more than ever, I burned to feel the freedom of the forest and the mountains, and I had a new key that I hoped would help me get there.
At three o’clock on the day after the funeral, with Bridewell reduced to a low hum of remaining visitors and residents, I crept up to the library to visit Grayson and get away from what was left of the crowds. In all the commotion since my arrival I had not once enjoyed the zigzag aisles of books or heard the intimate creaking along the wooden floors as I browsed lazily for new reading material. Opening the door to the library, I smelled the delightful familiar odor of old books, and I felt the peaceful quiet the place always emitted.
The library was a maze of high shelves piled ominously toward the ceiling with old volumes. Warvold had been a scholarly traveler, and the library was assembled from books he collected on his many trips. Later, as Warvold’s trips became infrequent, he insisted that dignitaries from all of the towns in The Land of Elyon requesting a meeting bring a beloved book. The more fascinating or well-crafted a volume, the better a reception for the caller. As such, the library became widely known as the most expansive and envied in all of Elyon.
Thousands of books on all sorts of subjects lined the passageways. The labyrinth of shelves led off in several directions, some ending at stone walls, others at wood benches, still more winding around in circles or meeting up with other rows. But one trail of bookshelves led to what I considered to be the most perfect reading spot in all the world. Around one corner and then another, at the end of a long row, was a nook. In this nook was a small window that overlooked the ivy-covered Dark Hills wall. Set back in the corner was a cushy old beat-up rag of a chair and a wood box for a footstool. Tranquil, private, cozy … it was heaven on earth.
I often sat in the chair idly reading entire days away, alternately napping and flipping through volume after volume. Many were actually quite boring, legal works and treaties. But others were histories of the cities and towns and regions of our land. The best of the books contained made-up stories and legends, and some spoke of exotic animals found in fanciful jungles and marshland. I constantly searched for information about what might be outside the walls in the forest, the mountains, and The Dark Hills. But in all my searching I found almost nothing. The few scant references to the mysterious nature of the magic that prowled around in faraway places sounded like the tales I’d overheard people tell about our own wild area. But there was never much to go on, and never anything about matters close to home, or about what sorts of creatures might slink around outside our walls.
My napping was encouraged by Sam and Pepper, the two library cats who liked to take turns sitting on my lap in the afternoon sun, purring and begging for scratches under their necks. They wore peculiar but beautiful collars, jeweled leather all the way around, each dangling a small handcrafted medallion. The cats had belonged to the late Renny Warvold, and they had lived in the library for as long as I could remember. They were quite old — I think maybe fifteen or sixteen — and they slept most of the time.
Grayson came in five days a week and organized the shelves. He was also a master at repairing old books, and he spent most of his time in a small office in the library, where he worked on misbehaving spines and torn pages. I loved Grayson even more than I loved the old books. He was kind, gentle, and maybe the best listener I’d ever met.
I walked along the rows of books and poked my head around the corner into Grayson’s office. He was hunkered down over a large manuscript that had been removed from its housing, and he was busy devising a new cover to replace the tattered remains of the old leather facing. When he saw me poke my head inside, he grinned from ear to ear and stood up to greet me with open arms. His big belly arched my back as we hugged, and I sobbed a little, still tender from all of the recent events. Eventually I managed to gain my composure and look into his deep brown eyes.
“You’ve gotten more reclusive since my last visit,” I said, using my sleeve to dry my face. “How could you miss the largest funeral this place has ever seen?”
Grayson shuffled his feet back and forth nervously. “I know, I know, I should have attended. I hate crowds, though, hate ’em. I sat up here and pulled out Warvold’s favorite books, shined ’em up,
unfolded the dog ears, fixed a few ruffled edges.” He moved back around to the other side of his desk, running his fingers through his thick, gray mustache. When he was seated he picked up a small, tattered book. “See this one? This was Warvold’s all-time favorite, the one he really loved.” He held it out to me, and I took it in my hands.
It was medium sized, black, leather bound, and in poor condition. The cover read Myths and Legends in the Land of Elyon. Grayson continued. “Warvold loved this stuff. Crazy made-up stories and fables from every corner of the land. He would wander in here after a long day of meeting with your father and Ganesh and sit a spell with that book. He’d sit right there, across from me. I would work on books, and he would read. It was nice, calm. Then he’d put the book back on the shelf and meander out the door, off to bed or to smoke a pipe by the fireplace.”
I flipped through the worn pages: small text, some writing in the margins here and there. “It’s sort of beat up,” I said. “Are you neglecting your duties?”
He smiled. “No, ma’am. The old man never would let me work on that one. He seemed to like it well worn. I guess leaving that shabby old thing alone is my way of honoring him. Believe me, I’d love to make it perfect again — new cover, fix up the pages, clean it all up. But I get the feeling wherever he is, he would rather I left it tattered and torn.”
“Can I borrow it for a little afternoon reading?” I said, running my fingers along its cover.
“Sure you can, but take these ones, too.” He turned to his desk and picked up a stack of books. “These are on topics you were searching for last year: bears, forests, history of surrounding regions, that sort of thing. Not much, really, but I’ve been holding them up here for a while now, so either put them back or get to reading them.”
It was so nice to be in the company of a weathered friend, someone who knew I just needed to sit in my favorite chair and fall asleep reading. Knowing Grayson was in the library with me lent a special peace to the feelings I had about this place. We talked little, but we understood the language of our movements and the need for quiet companionship. I took my books with a wink and made my way down a twisting row of towering books.
Rounding the corner to my chair, I saw a peculiar sight: Sam and Pepper sitting on the sill of the small window, and a hawk perched right there with them. When I came into view, the hawk beat its wings furiously, banging them against the stone wall before escaping into the open air. I jumped back, threw my books in all directions, and let out a loud shriek. Warvold’s favorite book came apart at the stitching, and its pages scattered on the floor around me. I stacked the other books on the floorboards next to my chair while I scolded the cats. Both were already on the chair, rolled over on their sides, waiting for me to pet them.
I spent the next ten minutes picking up pages and sorting them out, trying to put the book back into one piece. It was in reasonably good shape when I was done, but it would need some repair work if it was to stay together. Warvold’s one and only favorite book had been in my possession for only a few minutes, and already I’d managed to destroy it.
Exasperated, I pushed the cats aside and flopped down in the chair. They crawled up on my lap, and shortly thereafter I fell into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER 6
MORE TROUBLE WITH MY SPYGLASS
I awoke slowly in the late afternoon heat, sweaty and sticky after what must have been an hour’s nap. I felt around for the cats but they were gone, which was odd, because when I slept in the library they always stayed with me. After I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and opened them, I saw why they had moved on.
“I was wondering when you might wake up.” It was Pervis Kotcher. He was close enough that I could smell his breath, rank from a recent cup of strong coffee. He moved to the window, drew my mother’s beautiful spyglass to his eye, and mockingly looked about the wall.
“What do you want?” I asked. Even in my sleepy state I was surprisingly irritated.
“I was just doing my rounds and I thought I might spy something with my new spyglass,” he said. “The thing is, it isn’t a very good one. I’ve half a mind to throw it out.” He collapsed the spyglass and placed it in the pocket of his uniform, then turned toward me, an evil squint on his nauseating face.
“I saw you and Warvold when you went out by the wall. I lost sight of you from my tower, but you were out there a long time. Then I saw you slink past the gate, no big rush, just tottering back to Renny Lodge.”
He had a hand on each arm of my chair, locking me into my seat, leaning his face close to mine. I was uncomfortable and scared, and I wished badly that he would go away.
“Now, Alexa,” he said, a foul wave of his breath washing over my face, “what am I to think? Gone for over an hour with Warvold in a place you shouldn’t be, carelessly skipping back to the lodge, and right after that we find him dead.”
Then Pervis added something strange: “Has anyone contacted you from outside the wall?”
“Who’s outside?”
“Don’t lie to me, Alexa!” he yelled, visibly upset.
“What’s all the fuss back there?” It was Grayson coming up the aisle, the floorboards creaking as he approached.
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” said Pervis. “Go back to your books.”
Grayson stayed right where he was, but I knew bravery was not one of his strongest characteristics.
“I said go back to your books,” said Pervis, one hand on his guard stick. Grayson shuffled backward, turned, and walked away. Pervis looked back at me with a prideful sneer. He let the uncomfortable still moment hang in the air as the sound of Grayson’s footsteps retreated farther and farther away. He paced back to the window and leaned forward into the sill with his hands clasped behind his back, looking for a long moment at the green and gray of the wall.
“You know, Alexa, now that Warvold is gone, I can do whatever I want. Your father and Ganesh can’t control me. No one can,” he said.
“How can you talk like that?” I gasped.
“I open my mouth and words come out — what could be easier?”
His thoughtless reply upset me. “My father and Ganesh are in charge now, not you —”
“I answer to no one, least of all your worthless father!” Pervis shot back, loud and unthinking. Right then, Grayson rounded the corner with Ganesh in tow.
Pervis went a deep red, stammered, and backed up against the window.
Ganesh had one of the cats in hand, scratching its head playfully. “I love these cats — don’t you, Kotcher? So calm and gentle.” Confrontation was not in Grayson’s vocabulary, and he was well on his way back to his office by the time Ganesh set the cat down. “Off you go now. Catch some mice.”
Ganesh looked squarely down at Pervis, towering over his short, wiry frame. Pervis tried to speak, but Ganesh put his hand up and motioned him to stop. “I want to make sure I have all the facts straight. I’d hate to misrepresent you, now that I understand the magnitude of your power.”
Pervis turned redder, his lips thinned, and a scowl flashed across his face.
“I think what I heard was ‘I answer to Ganesh and Nicolas, but most of all, I answer to Mr. Daley.’ Is that correct, or did I leave something out?” said Ganesh. I couldn’t help grinning, and Pervis shot me a wicked glance.
“It was either that,” Ganesh continued, “or maybe it was that other thing I thought you might have said, which will drop your rank to private in charge of cleaning horse stalls and peeling potatoes. Which do you remember?”
Pervis was ready to give in, ready to concede defeat. He was a hothead, but he was also smart. He looked at me, then at Ganesh, then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the spyglass. He smiled.
“I apologize,” he said. “Alexa has given me some trouble in the past and she’s up to something now, that much I know. I got a little carried away. Of course you three are in charge, absolutely. I won’t let it happen again, sir.”
He gestured to the spyglass and went on, “Anyway, th
is toy belongs to Alexa. I found it lying around the smoking room.” Then, pointing at me, speaking like a parent to a small child, he continued. “You really should take better care of your things, Alexa. Next time I find it I’ll throw it away.” And with that, he held the spyglass out to me. I was so excited to have it back I reached out to grab it. Pervis pulled it back, turned its face to the side, and slammed it into the wall with all his might, smashing all of the glass in the cylinder.
“No!” I cried.
“Now, Ganesh, you know a spyglass is strictly forbidden in Bridewell, unless of course you’re a member of the guard, like me. Poor Alexa here will have to do without it, I’m afraid. Sorry, but rules are rules, and they must be followed.” Pervis turned back to me. “Here you go, dear. You can have it now.”
I took the broken spyglass in my hand. Ganesh looked like he was ready to throw Pervis through the window, but what could he do? I shouldn’t have brought the thing to Bridewell in the first place.
Ganesh told Pervis to get out, and he was happy to do just that, but not before he made sure I got his I-told-you-not-to-mess-with-me look. I found out later that he stopped to talk with Grayson on the way out. He told him how snitches have their beds loaded with vermin at night—just the kind of veiled threat Pervis enjoyed using.
I pocketed the broken spyglass and steadied my breath. It was turning out to be a bad week indeed. Ganesh held out his hand and I took it. Warm, big, safe. He lifted me out of the chair and up into a hug, then he spoke with his wonderful, deep voice. “I’ll get Kotcher off your back so you can explore Bridewell a little more freely. I know how you love to go sneaking around, and I’m all for it as long as nobody gets hurt.” I writhed loose and tumbled down into the chair, feeling much better. We both smiled.