“Thank you.”
The clerk made a brief note in the margin, then looked up again, his mouth turning into a scowl he scarcely troubled himself to conceal. “I should add, sir, that Mr Harrowe’s methods are not regarded as exemplary. Nor even reputable. He has been known to request materials beyond what his inquiries strictly require, and to leave matters”—the pen paused, then resumed— “in less than ideal order.”
Darcy nodded and schooled his features. “I hope nothing has been damaged or lost as a result.”
The clerk closed the ledger, then did not quite withdraw it. “Fortunately not, though not without some trouble of verification. Sir, if you intend to pursue thoserecords independently, you may submit a formal application. Certain restricted materials require additional authorization. The review will take time. Sometimes weeks.”
“Then I will submit it.”
The clerk appeared faintly surprised, as though he had not expected persistence to survive the redirection. He reached for a separate folio and slid it across the desk. “Complete this,” he said. “You will be notified.”
Darcy took the papers without comment, already unfolding the first sheet. He had no intention of choosing between answers when he could pursue them both.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The direction the clerkhad given him stood in a street that resisted easy classification. Not poor, not respectable—brick worn smooth by use rather than broken by neglect, windows crowded close together as though privacy were an afterthought. Darcy paused once to confirm the number, then knocked.
There was a moment of silence, and Darcy knocked again. This time, the knock was followed by the thump of footsteps, then the door opened a narrow span.
A man filled the gap—broad-shouldered, thick through the chest, his shirtsleeves rolled up despite the cold. His hands were marked by old scars and ingrained dirt, the sort that did not come away entirely. He looked Darcy over without hurry, eyes unblinking, expression incurious.
“Aye?” he said.
“I am here to see Mr Harrowe,” Darcy replied.
The man’s mouth twitched, though not into anything like a smile. “He ain’t seein’ no one.”
“I believe you misunderstand. I have come from the Royal Library archives.”
“Have you,” the man said. “That’s fine.”
“Yes. And I have been given this address on the understanding that Mr Harrowe would be found here.”
The man shifted his weight, the door creaking faintly against the jamb. “Well, you’ve foundme. An’ I’m tellin’ you he ain’t seein’ no one.”
Darcy’s gaze flicked briefly past him, taking in what little of the interior he could see—books stacked without order along the walls, loose papers everywhere, a chair shoved aside to make room for a table scarred by use rather than age.
“I am not in the habit,” Darcy said evenly, “of being dismissed at the threshold.”
“Then you’re knockin’ at the wrong door,” the man replied, unperturbed. He stepped back as if to close the door.
Darcy’s hand shot out to brace against the wood. “My business is not trivial. I am seeking information pertaining to pre-Conquest custodianship of ecclesiastical lands—specifically those preserved through monastic record and popular tradition.”
The man blinked. Once. Slowly.
“Popular tradition,” he repeated. “That what they’re callin’ it now.”
Darcy glanced around at the faces in the street. More than one onlooker had slowed at the sight of a well-dressed gentleman knocking at this door. With his luck, the gossip rags would be full of his name tomorrow. He lowered his voice, but was no longer courteous. “I am acquainted with the Harrowe ballads. Or rather, with the scholarly disdain afforded them. I was directed here precisely because I understand Mr Harrowe has examined materials others have chosen to ignore. The ones I currently seek.”
The man leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, blocking it entirely now. “You a scholar, then?”
“I am a man who does not have the leisure to wait upon institutional approval,” Darcy replied. “And I will not be turned away by a servant who lacks the authority to do so.”
The man’s brows lifted at that. Just a fraction.
“A servant?”
“I amcertain,” Darcy growled, “that your master will find what I have to say interesting, at least.”
