Secreting the coin purse into her skirt’s deep pocket, Clara faced Mr. Arthur. The man was still being tended by Mum, a scrupulous nurse equipped with aforementioned handkerchief and the tried-and-true medicinal salve commonly known as saliva, which she applied with the pad of her thumb and a dose of maternal cooing.
To his credit, Mr. Arthur endured these questionable ministrations with remarkable patience, all the while minimizing the import of his actions. He caught Clara’s observing gaze and offered a lopsided grin.
This time, Clara didn’t throw it away. Perhaps she’d judged the hobgoblin too harshly. Perhaps he was neither a thief nor a spy. Perhaps it was time to give him half a chance.
CHAPTER
15
The Klementinum library stole Clara’s breath with a rush of unrestrained wonderment. Less than a minute prior, she’d wanted nothing more than to find Grand’s clue and escape to the solitude of the next inn posthaste. Yet now, enveloped in the musty incense of nigh on twenty thousand books, she didn’t want to hasten. She wanted to linger.
For just a little while, she wanted to be Cinderella at the ball with the Klementinum as her castle. Instead of waltzing in glass slippers, she wanted to revel in the collection of geographical and astronomical globes, ceiling frescos, and illuminated volumes. Instead of having until the stroke of midnight, she’d allow herself until the chimes of Grand’s pocket watch beckoned an automaton from hiding.
Clara sought the time from her chatelaine’s watch. It was now a quarter past the hour, which meant Cinderella had exactly five and forty minutes to put aside all thought of cinders and striving.
Someone gave her a good shake as though to waken her from sleep. “Are you listening, ducky?”
“Yes ... no.” Reverie faded to reality as Mum eyed her with a quizzical expression. “I apologize. For what am I listening?” And at what point had she released Mum’s hand?
“Not for what, ducky. Towhooom. In this instance, I am the whom and you are the impolite ignorer of the whom.”
Mr. Arthur snorted behind Clara’s back, his amusement rankling her nerves. Reflexively, she turned to pin the man with a scowl, but at the sight of his split lip and bruising skin, she couldn’t bring herself to do so. Instead, she redirected her gaze to Mum. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Whom. You now have my full attention.” Minus her peripheral vision, which kept flitting to the books shelved just out of reach, yet enticingly close.
“I said, this room is so vast we might have better luck finding Father’s clue if we divide and conquer. I thought the boys and I might take the west wing and you the east.”
“I don’t know....” After their encounter with Goliath the pickpocket, she wasn’t keen on separating. She surveyed either end of the library. The lengthy hall was quiet and, aside from them, completely unoccupied. There was no need to squander her five and forty minutes to worry. Mum ought to be safe from giants here. “Very well. I suppose that plan will suffice.”
Especially as it would permit her a chance to examine those tantalizing books.
Parting from Mum and the boys, Clara wandered down the baroque hall, lined on either side with expansive wooden bookcases. Each case was bookended with elaborate columns, some of which had been carved into dramatic whirls, all of which were topped with Corinthian caps of gold. Leather-bound books in varying shades of white and brown were arranged in neat rows along every shelf like so many jewels on aslide bracelet. Great treasures of mind and eye, indeed. What a blessing for the people of Prague that the Klementinum’s library—once part of a private university for the Jesuits—had been converted to a public library.
What a shame that for all the volumes housed in its walls, she couldn’t find one to read.
Alas, every book Clara strolled past, every volume she admired, was written in a language she couldn’t understand. A scattered selection in Latin and Greek, the vast majority in Czech. While the library’s enormous collection might contain works in her native English or learned French, the odds of locating one amid the myriad tomes in her limited time here were painfully slim. She traced a gloved finger down a book’s embossed spine. To be encompassed by so many books was the best kind of bliss, but to not be able to read one was the worst sort of torture. It was as if Cinderella had arrived at the ball only to find she couldn’t hear the music.
Clara sighed. Ah well, nothing could be done about it now. If she couldn’t enjoy the treasures of the mind, she’d content herself with the treasures of the eye.A Practical Guide to Prague for Pennywise Personshad devoted several pages to the library’s ceiling frescoes by Jan Hiebl. Perhaps she might study their allegorical representations of education and wisdom, attempt to identify the portraits of Jesuit saints and university patrons.
With a steadying hand to the crown of her bonnet, Clara tilted her head backward, but her gaze snagged on something odd before it could reach the fresco. Something out of place amid the hall’s pristine order. A single book on a lofty shelf tilted forward, threatening to topple from its perch and dash against the floor. Such desecration she simply could not allow.
Locating a nearby ladder fitted with wheels, Clara rolled it toward the shelf in question and proceeded to climb to therescue. She righted the book so it stood flush with the row of tomes, and the glint of gold leaf lettering along its spine held her gaze. Stilled her breath. For the words were gloriously legible!
She snatched the book from the shelf.Tour of Athens: A Complete Handbook for the Use of Lady Travelers with Experiential Advice fromOne Such Lady, Miss E. Cochrane.
A travel guide written in English and by a woman, no less—what were the odds?
Clara smiled. Only one “odd” could explain such a remarkable coincidence, and his name was Grand. That dear, sweet man. How many inquiries had he made, how long had he searched before finding this gem? A gem specifically chosen, cut, and set to her liking. When next she saw him, she must remember to thank Grand for his thoughtful selection.
Book in tow, Clara descended the ladder with care and returned it to its proper place. Then she walked farther down the hall, searching for the perfect spot to read. Windowed niches with built-in wooden seats were interspersed amongst the great bookcases, each one swathed in golden curtains that softened daylight’s dazzling presence.
She selected one of these reading nooks, sat upon the hard bench therein, and leaned against the cold marble relief that formed the alcove. Yet the grandiose space did not suit. It chafed. It confined. It imposed reality upon imagination. How could one read thus, sitting staunch and upright? It didn’t feel natural.
Why, when she was a girl, she’d taken books under Papa’s desk and made of it a cave wherein she lounged as if a bear in hibernation. She’d transformed the library sofa into a tree from which she’d hung upside down and read as a monkey, and her bedroom floor had many times become the sea and she, with legs outstretched beneath an iridescent skirt ofchangeantesilk, a mermaid.
My, but she had been a ridiculous child. Silly and naïve and ... whimsical.
Her throat clogged. Eyes misted. Before grief had made life hard and betrayal had complicated its days, there was once a young girl named Clara Marie who was exuberant and carefree and longed for the delight of adventure. She’d almost forgotten that smiling child existed, but now that she recalled, she desperately wished to pay her a visit. Just once more.
Directly across the hall, a second alcove beckoned. It had no bench, only a great window with curtains that cascaded to the floor like a golden waterfall. A ridiculous notion revived her smile. The library was still theirs alone. Mum was safe, chatting away with Mr. Arthur or Fred or both, as they searched the western wing. Perhaps her ridiculous notion might be indulged?
