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“Are you an idiot or something?” he demanded angrily, his sickly-sweet breath hot on my face. “Why are you taking such foolhardy risks in the face of such overwhelming odds?”
I didn’t know either, until everything started to change colors and I heard birds singing.
“Oops,” I said, “my PA gave me an illegal patch from some guy loitering near the bins.”
“You are a sad, pathetic little creature,” said Jack, “and I pity you. Now: We’re going to the vaults. If you don’t come, I’ll make sure that it’s not just you who suffers but your family, too—even the imaginary ones.”
“Hang on,” I said, trying to reach my smiley patch to pull it off but failing, since they’re buggers to get off when you’ve just stuck one on. “Would you mind?”
He ripped it off, but it didn’t hurt. Nothing did, in fact.
“My hands have gone numb,” I said with a giggle, and my tongue feels too big.”
“Come on,” he said as he handed me my stick and pushed me to the door. “And make it convincing if anyone talks to us.”
We met Duffy in the corridor outside, although I had to assume it was Duffy, as his head looked more like a jack-o’-lantern.
“I’ve got a list of things we could possibly sell,” he said, “and your husband is on the line to remind you not to miss Tuesday’s keynote address at MadCon2004 at two.”
“I’ll call him back,” I said. “Mr. Schitt is being shown the antiquarian section.”
I was going to add some semiambiguous statement that would alert Duffy to what was going on so he would in turn alert Colonel Wexler, but it was difficult to concentrate with a Haysi Fantayzee track going around in my head at full volume, and in a moment Duffy was gone.
“Which way?” said Jack.
“That way,” I said, pointing down the corridor. “First left after the lizards.”
31.
Thursday: Finisterre
The Brotherhood of Perpetual Defenestration was a small order of pious monks who threw themselves out of the abbey window twice a day, following prayers. The reason for this curious custom is not recorded, but the order supplied stuntmen to the theater and film industries for over seven decades. A popular tourist attraction for over three centuries, the brotherhood might be with us still but for a poorly conceive
d move to the eighth story of a town building, and the order was extinguished in under an hour.
Fairfax Rearwind, Vanished Religious Orders of the British Archipelago
We took the elevator to the subbasement and stepped out into the same small security cubicle I had visited two days ago with Finisterre. A different guard was staring at us from behind the glass, and he smiled when he saw me.
“Good morning, Chief Librarian.”
“Shiny, shiny,” I muttered, “bad times behind me.”
“I’m sorry?”
Jack tightened his grip on my arm, which, while not actually painful, made me at least realize he was serious, and it sobered me up. The patch was gone, but its effects would be with me for a while.
“Nothing.”
I licked my finger and placed it in the DNA tester. The green light flashed, and the door swung open.
“So easy, isn’t it?” said Jack as we walked down the corridor. “I always say it’s not what you know but whom you know . . . you can bully.”
We continued along the corridor, past the glazed display cases I had seen earlier and into the main conservation room. Finisterre was there, but no one else. I could sense Jack’s suspicions.
“Where is everyone?”
“It’s lunch,” I said, then giggled out loud.
