“Actually they’re nicknames,” he laughed, “and they have a lot to do with my inability to remember birthdays. Septimus was born in September, his brother Deka in October, Teseris in April, and Eksi, the youngest, in June. I’m a lover of classical languages, and this system has helped get me out of a fix more than once.”
As he spoke he gestured at the disorder in the room. A seemingly infinite quantity of books was piled on tables and shelves two, three, and even sometimes four rows deep among towering stacks of papers, old maps, fossils, mineral specimens, and seashells.
“I’m afraid the state of my library tells you all you need to know about my organizational abilities.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not intimidated by mess.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. But I bet it bothers you.”
Miss Prim didn’t know what to say and, once again, chose to change the subject.
“Young Teseris says she paints icons from memory.”
“But you don’t believe her.”
“Are you implying that I should?”
The man said nothing, simply going to the bookshelves and replacing the heavy leather-bound volume. Then he went over to the fireplace, picked up a notebook from the mantelpiece, and handed it to her.
“This is a list of all the books in the library. It’s arranged by author and was drawn up by the previous librarian. If you’re not feeling too tired, I’d like you to take a look at it this evening, so that you’re ready tomorrow for me to explain what I want you to do with this dusty old chaos. How does that sound?”
Miss Prim would have liked to carry on chatting, but she realized that for her new employer the conversation had reached its conclusion.
“That sounds perfect.”
“Wonderful. Supper is at nine and breakfast at eight.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d rather have my main meals in my room. I can cook myself something simple and take it upstairs.”
“I’ll have your meals taken up to you from the kitchen, Miss Prim. As far as feeding people is concerned, we run a tight ship in this house. I hope you sleep well on your first night here,” he said, holding out his hand.
She was tempted to object. She disliked the idea of a man who was a virtual stranger assuming the right to decide how, what, and when she should eat. She disliked that domineering way of having the last word.
“Good night, sir,” she said meekly before going upstairs.
3
Miss Prim wasn’t sure whether the crowing of the cockerel had woken her or if she’d been startled awake by a troubled dream. She’d been at the house almost three weeks, but still she felt disoriented every time she woke. Drowsy, she stretched lazily beneath the sheets and looked over at the clock. She had two hours before she had to get up and start work. She sighed with relief—up here she was safe. Safe from peculiar, incomprehensible orders, sudden smiles that in fact heralded yet more orders, disconcerting looks, questions whose ultimate meaning she couldn’t fathom. Was he making fun of her? Actually he seemed to be studying her, which was almost more annoying.
Still half asleep, she glanced at the clock again. She didn’t want to bump into him and the children on their way to or back from the abbey. Miss Prim had always considered herself an open-minded woman, but she didn’t approve of forcing four youngsters to trudge to a monastery every morning before breakfast. True, on their return they did seem particularly cheerful, despite the long walk in the chill morning air on an empty stomach. But of course she knew that there were many ways of influencing children.
When she left the house half an hour later, the sun was already growing warm. She made her way quickly through the garden and opened the wrought-iron gate, which creaked long and loud. Why did the man refuse to repair anything? Miss Prim loved neatness, she loved beauty, and because she loved it, it bothered her to see the rusty gate, it saddened her that the paintings were shabby and in need of restoration, it offended her to find butter-stained incunabula in the greenhouse.
“The man’s hopeless,” she muttered grumpily.
Instead of taking the road, she decided to turn right and follow the narrow path to the village, cutting across fields and through a wood. That morning she urgently needed to buy notebooks and labels. The day before, she had had a small disagreement with her employer, the fifth since her arrival at the house. He’d come into the library and declared that he didn’t want her to use a computer to catalogue the books.
“Very well, if that’s what you want, I won’t,” replied Miss Prim with forced humility.
He’d added that he was against typewriters too, however old or dusty.
“Well, I won’t be asking for one,” she muttered between pursed lips.
And that’s when she couldn’t help saying: “Maybe you’d like me to use a quill pen to catalogue the books?”
He had greeted her sarcasm with a pleasant smile of exquisite gentlemanliness and admirable refinement. But after three weeks at the house, Miss Prim was now perfectly well aware that his hypnotic masculine courtesy only served to get her to do things.
“If you insist on such archaic methods, I can do it all by hand, but I’m warning you I’ll need labels. I won’t compromise on this point. It’s a question of method, and a librarian without method is not a librarian.”
