Sticky fell abruptly silent. He shot Constance an angry look.
The librarian, however, smiled at him again. “My, but you are studious! This must explain why you are here in the library on such a beautiful afternoon. My name is Sophie, children. Now let me see,” she said, returning to the note. “You are requesting some papers, yes? Special holdings?”
“I explained more on the other side,” Sticky said.
Sophie flipped the paper over. Her eyebrows drew together into a frown. She looked up at the children, then at the door behind them, then back at the note. Her frown deepened. “I find this very troubling, children. I would like to know what is happening.”
Sticky looked nervously at Reynie, who said, “What do you mean? What would you like to know?”
Sophie regarded him with anxious eyes. “Why is there all this interest in these papers?”
“All this interest?”
Sophie studied him. “Could it be a coincidence?” She shook her head. “And yet you seem like nice children.”
“We are nice,” Kate insisted. “We don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s the big deal about the papers?”
“People are being hurt,” Sophie said gravely, “because of these papers you wish to see.”
The Duskwort Papers
Often the best way to avoid answering questions is to ask them yourself, and Reynie was quick to do just that. “We were hoping you could tell us more,” he said to Sophie. “What exactly has been happening?”
“But I thought you said you knew nothing,” said Sophie, looking confused.
“We heard there was trouble. We wanted to know what kind of trouble.”
“I am not sure that I wish to discuss it,” said Sophie, more guarded now. “It is very unpleasant for me.”
“Please,” said Kate. “Please help us.”
Sophie gave her a searching look. “Help you? I do not see how . . .” She sighed and ran her fingers distractedly through her hair. “Very well. It is nothing you cannot read in the news-paper. Many people wanted to see these materials last week. Some of them . . . men in suits, with little hard bags . . . What do you call them in English? Shortcases?”
“Briefcases,” Sticky suggested grimly.
“Yes. Briefcases. These men did something to the security guard. He is in the hospital now. Some of the museum staff tried to help him. They also are in the hospital now. Everyone is in the hospital except for three of us, who were hurt not as much. We are all afraid now, though. There is a new security guard, but he is afraid, too.”
“Did the men steal the papers?” Reynie asked, fearing her response.
“No, because they are fools,” Sophie said bitterly. “They demanded to see the papers, and when I did not answer fast enough — they were very frightening, you see — they hurt me so that I was not awake. What is the word? Unconscious? They made me unconscious, and when I opened my eyes they were still trying to find the papers. They did not understand how we organize the library, you see. They were angry and creating a bad mess. But there were sirens in the street. The police were coming, and the men decided they must leave. I shouted at them as they left: ‘It is a free and public library! All you had to do was ask!’”
Sophie shuddered. “The men, they . . . they shocked me” — she made motions with her hands, as if to show something flying out of her wrists — “with little wires.” She quickly covered her eyes. It was evident she was trying not to cry.
Constance stepped close to the desk and said quietly, “I know how that feels, Sophie.” The others looked at her in surprise. They had agreed not to divulge any information about themselves. Reynie in particular had insisted they trust no one and give nothing away. Now Constance had admitted outright that they’d encountered Ten Men before, and therefore must be involved in this unpleasant business. It would be a miracle if they weren’t in police custody within the hour.
Sophie had lowered her hand to look wonderingly at Constance, who said, “The watches and the wires. I know how it feels. They shocked me, too.”
Sophie gazed at Constance without speaking. Then she reached across the desk — she had to stretch a good deal — and placed a hand gently against the tiny girl’s cheek. Constance, who usually bristled at so much as a pat on the hand, did not withdraw or even flinch. She returned Sophie’s sympathetic gaze with an expression of gratitude and mutual understanding.
“I am sorry,” Sophie said. “Please, children, go and sit at a table. I do not understand your true reasons, but I will bring you these papers.”
They chose a table at the opposite end of the room, away from the librarian’s desk, so that they might speak in low voices and not be overheard. Sophie emerged from a back room carrying a journal and a thin stack of papers in a protective envelope. She placed the journal on the table and carefully removed the papers from the envelope. The top page was covered in handwriting, and not surprisingly it was written in Dutch.
“We can speak again afterward, if you wish,” Sophie said. “As for these . . .” She laid a finger on the papers. “I must ask you to be careful and to keep everything in sight on the table, where I can see it from my desk. It is the policy now, for the protection of the materials. I hope you understand. It is not that I do not trust you.”
The children assured Sophie they understood. She returned to her desk, where they could see her taking slow breaths to calm herself, even as she kept a dutiful, watchful eye on them across the room.
The journal, an old, warped, cheaply constructed book, was held together by a binding that, given its deteriorated state, was rather more of an idea of a binding than an actual one. The other papers were equally decrepit, all quite yellow with age, and some of them as fragile as onion skin. Not without trepidation, Sticky slid the pile closer to him. The others watched with keen attention. Sticky gave his spectacles a once-over with his polishing cloth, and then — carefully, anxiously — he opened the journal.
It was a strange business watching Sticky read. His eyes hardly seemed to move, for they absorbed great blocks of writing all at once. He would stare at a page for the space of a breath or two, then turn it. Stare, breathe, turn again. At this rate he would finish the journal in minutes, the other papers in just a few minutes more. But Sticky recorded information at a considerably faster pace than he understood it, and once he did understand he sometimes had difficulty summarizing it. He would likely need some time to order his thoughts.
They needed to be patient, Reynie reminded himself, despite the feeling that a Ten Man might burst through the door any moment. They mustn’t put too much pressure on Sticky. When he was flustered, Sticky was capable of becoming very agitated and confused. He was less susceptible to such states these days, but the possibility still existed. It had long been a source of embarrassment for him.
Even as he was contemplating this, though, Reynie noticed a subtle shift in Sticky’s demeanor. At first it was difficult to place. Sticky, marking a spot in the journal with his finger, had begun to examine the other papers. “Letters,” he said, glancing up at the others. He studied the topmost letter with great seriousness, then set it aside and returned to the journal, first adjusting his spectacles with a casual, scholarly, almost absent gesture. Almost absent, but not entirely. And now Reynie understood: Sticky was feeling his importance.
It was clear to Reynie that Sticky had been struggling with his ego ever since they met up again at Kate’s farm, and Reynie was inclined to forgive his fits of vanity. The boys had been through a great deal together, and Reynie thought he knew Sticky’s heart as well as anyone’s — knew, in fact, that it was nobler and braver than most. Sticky was a skittish and fearful child, yet he always ended up doing the right thing, no matter how frightening it was. In Reynie’s opinion, this made Sticky one of the bravest people he’d ever met. If he occasionally acted like a peacock, it was not such a grave offense, and at any rate Sticky could generally count on Kate and Constance to pluck his feathers.