Deep Storm by Lincoln Child Page B

grievance. But the truth is just the opposite. And we are so remote, our life so simple and humble, that new initiates come only rarely to our gates. Our number is less than half what it was fifty years ago.” He sighed again. “But my position has its consolations. For one, I preside over all bibliographic and library matters, and, as you know, the library remains our only, and our most prized, possession—God forgive my covetousness.”
    Logan smiled faintly.
    â€œSo naturally I am made aware of our comings and goings—especially of persons as well recommended as you. Your letters of introduction made impressive reading.”
    Dr. Logan inclined his head.
    â€œI couldn’t help but notice that, along with your application to visit our library, an itinerary was included.”
    â€œYes, that was an oversight on my part. I’ve been doing research at Oxford, and my departure was a hasty one. I fear my papers got a bit scrambled. I wasn’t trying to boast.”
    â€œOf course not. That wasn’t my meaning. But I couldn’t help but be surprised at the places you’ve already visited on holiday. St. Urwick’s Tower, as I recall. Newfoundland, correct?”
    â€œJust south of Battle Harbour, on the coast.”
    â€œAnd then your second stop. The Abbey of Wrath.”
    Dr. Logan nodded again.
    â€œI’ve heard of it, as well. Kap Farvel, Greenland. Almost as remote a location as ours.”
    â€œThey are possessed of an ancient and exceedingly broad library, particularly in local history.”
    â€œI’m sure they are.” The abbot leaned closer over the table. “I hope you’ll forgive my familiarity, Dr. Logan: as I said, we get so
few
visitors these days, and my capacity for social nuance is sadly atrophied. But you see, what surprises me most about these visits of yours is the timing. Those spots boast libraries that would reward weeks of study. And each is difficult, time-consuming, and expensive to get to. Yet according to the itinerary, this is only the third day of your trip. What are you looking for that requires you to move with such speed, and that requires such trouble and expense on your part?”
    Dr. Logan glanced at the abbot for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. “As I said, Father Bronwyn, my including the itinerary among the papers I sent here was an oversight.”
    Father Bronwyn sat back. “Yes, of course. I am an old and curious man, and I didn’t mean to pry.” He removed his glasses, raised a corner of his cassock sleeve, cleaned them with it, replaced them on his nose. Then he placed his hand on the ancient calfskin volumes he had brought with him. “Here are the books you requested. The
Lay Anecdotes
of Maighstir Beaton, circa 1448; Colquhoun’s
Chronicles Diuerse and Sonderie,
of a hundred years later; and of course Trithemius’s
Poligraphia
.” At this last title, the abbot shuddered slightly.
    â€œThank you, Father,” Dr. Logan said, nodding as the man rose and took his leave.
    An hour later, the monk who had originally helped him returned, removed the manuscripts and incunabula, and took Logan’s written request for additional volumes. Within a few minutes he returned with still more moldering titles, which he laid on the crisp linen.
    Dr. Logan placed the volumes before him and, one after the other, paged through them with white-gloved hands. The first volume was in Middle English; the second in the vulgate; and the third a poor translation of the Attic Greek dialect known as Koine. None of the tongues gave Logan much difficulty, and he read with ease. Yet as he continued, an air of depression settled over him. At last, he pushed the final book away, blinked his eyes, and rubbed the small of his back. Three days of grueling travel to godforsaken spots, three nights of sleeping in cold rooms of drafty stone, were catching up with him. He glanced up at the massively built