must rely: good information sources and the ability
to critically read them. Books require brains
(not in the zombie way).
I, on the Past, Cornelius Ottersock
The mood overSunday’s breakfast could have been described most incisively by King John, were he present to witness it. Amelia, sitting so upright she might as well have had several books stacked upon her head, applied marmite instead of jam to her toast as an expression of her ennui. Across the table, Caleb, leaning on his hand, stared bleakly into a cup of lukewarm coffee. He appeared to be drooping lower and lower toward the tabletop with every passing minute. Throckmorton and Dummersby issued nasty comments in a dreary, automatic manner, Sir Nigel sighed dolefully over his kippers, and even Vanity looked pale and uncomfortable.
“For God’s sake,” Caleb moaned. “Someone open a window.”
The various servants in the room glanced at each other, no doubt trying to decide how much they could charge for performing this task. Before they reached a conclusion, however, Sergeant Sheffield rose from the end of the table, where he had been progressing through his breakfast with the thoroughgoingequanimity of a soldier who has elevated boredom to the professional level. Striding to the windows, he tugged on one.
It did not move.
Moving to the next, he tried again, with the same result. The servants then joined in the effort, to no avail.
“Trapped!”Caleb laid his arm upon the table and his head atop it. “We’re going to be here forever.”
“Perhaps you should take a walk, get some fresh air,” Dummersby suggested pompously.
“How contemporaneous of you,” Caleb snarled.
“That’s not what contemporaneous m—”
Slap.
“I might take a walk,” Amelia said, rising from her chair. Such was the general gloom, no one even looked her way, let alone stood for her. Relieved, she departed for Sir Nigel’s study, some fifty feet along the corridor, which was quite enough perambulation for one day. In the shadowy, book-crammed room, a trestle table had been erected to assist with sorting antiques, since Lady Ruperta was as wearied by the academics’ presence in her home as they were, and had decided to contain them in Sir Nigel’s zone. Amelia ignored it. Work could wait just a while. With the happy sigh of an introvert who has got herself alone in a room that smells of old paper and book dust, she collapsed into a leather armchair beside the fire.
Then immediately leaped up, yelping, removed the bust of Wellington from said chair, and collapsed again with another sigh, slightly tinged with aggravation but still happy. At last, silen—
“Damn!”
At the sudden voice, Amelia sat upright. Looking aroundthe room, she saw no one, however. Not even a ghost lurked; not even a broom with malicious magical intent. It must have been a draft, she decided, and was about to slouch in the chair once more when she spied a door slightly ajar in the wall behind her, where previously nothing had existed but dark wood paneling.
Curious, she rose, smoothing her plaid skirt by habit, and crossed the study. As she drew close to the door, it became apparent that it was— “A secret door!” she exclaimed aloud. Her pulse skipped. She hadn’t spent years studying history not to appreciate the potential of such a door. Indeed, England wouldn’t be the same country today had Edward III not sent men along the secret passageways of Nottingham Castle to take command of his throne…
“Oh shut up,” she told her brain irritably. It seemed she’d finally done the inconceivable: reached the limit of her interest in historical facts, at least for now. Drawing the door farther ajar, she immediately noticed a scent of floral perfume. Was this how Lady Ruperta had vanished so precipitously from the corridor earlier?
She was about to step inside to investigate further when the actual door of the study began to open, voices sounding behind it. Closing the wood panel hastily, Amelia stepped away from it, setting a tranquil expression on her face just in the nick of time. Throckmorton entered the room, followed by—well, everyone. Amelia’s heart, which had risen at the excitement of the hidden passageway, sank again.
“You inspired us to get to work ourselves, Professor!” Vanity announced with a cheerfulness that ought to be illegal so early in the day. “After all, why waste time eating breakfast whenthere’s work to do!” She aimed her wide smile at Dummersby, as if he might promote her on the spot.
“True, that,” was all the curator said in reply.
“Mmphum,” Throckmorton added through a mouthful, having brought his plate of food with him. Museum staff might be willing to forgo asparagus quiche, but academics knew better which side their bread was buttered on (mainly because that was often all they could afford to eat).
The day did not improve from there. Despite it being a Sunday, everyone was inclined to agree with Throckmorton when he declared, “Soonest done, soonest home.” Indeed, the medieval studies professor even began to help with the work, rather than just milling around trying to provoke Caleb and Amelia into gossip-worthy antics. By late afternoon, they had so many antiques organized, and with such singular efficiency, that they could have taken the show on the road to entertain the masses. Caleb and Amelia, standing on opposite sides of the trestle table, went down rows of golden dinnerware and silver cutlery, making assessments at an expert pace. Flipping plates, holding cutlery up to the lamplight, they moved fast…faster…so fast, it soon became clear they were racing each other.
“You missed a knife,” Amelia said, flicking a finger back along Caleb’s line as he moved ahead of her.
“Liar,” he answered with the flash of a smile. “You just want me to go back and check so that you win.”
“I win if the collection is properly searched,” Amelia responded snootily.
“No, you win if I do.”
She gave a short, baffled laugh. Across the room, Dummersby and Throckmorton stopped what they were doing to glance over, then exchanged a speaking look between them.
