picked up a manuscript from one of the shelves and pointed to the doodlings around the primary text. “I’m guessing the ‘Apology’ is written in the
margin
of one of the manuscripts, in Latin.”
“That has to be it!” Amy threw her arms around him. Jake pulled her tightly to him . . . until they both realized what he was doing. The two snapped apart as if they had been shocked, but their eyes met again. Amy’s face was flaming and even Jake looked a little flushed. They tilted closer and closer together, as if some magnetic force was pulling at them. Jake leaned and Amy leaned, the space between them growing smaller and smaller. And then their lips touched.
Amy jumped back like a scalded cat, leaping away from an equally flustered Jake Rosenbloom.
“I’m — um —” Amy hadn’t been tongue-tied like this in weeks. She took a deep breath, but it caught in her throat and her voice came out as a squeak. “I’ll go out and Mouse the Dan.” Her cheeks burned. “Tell the Mouse to find Dan! I’ll go out.” She turned around and marched resolutely to the door.
“Yeah . . . uh . . .” Jake’s mouth wasn’t cooperating, either. “Good idea. I’ll . . . uh . . . I’ll start skimming the margins.”
But he was speaking to an empty room. Amy Cahill was gone.
As Bart predicted, Dan and Atticus were not welcomed with open arms at Mamma Haidara’s. The librarian, a Mr. Srour, nearly tossed them out as soon as they walked in. He was an older man with white hair, wearing stained khaki pants, a white shirt, and a tattered sports coat. Atticus pulled out his Harvard student card, but Srour scowled at it through thick glasses as if it were fake. Atticus’s next tactic was to drop a name. “Perhaps you’ve heard of my father,” Atticus said. “His name is Dr. Mark Rosenbloom.”
“The archaeologist?”
Atticus nodded.
“I met him,” Srour admitted grudgingly. “Several years ago.”
“That’s right!” Atticus said. “I’d forgotten. He was here to examine an old dig outside the city near the Niger River.”
Dan interrupted. “Dr. Rosenbloom sent us here to find something called the ‘Apology for a Great Transgression.’ ”
“Ahhh,” Srour said.
“You know it?” Dan asked, excitedly.
“No,” Srour said, shaking his head. “There are hundreds of thousands of manuscripts scattered throughout the city in libraries like ours, in museums, and in private homes,” Srour said. “I’ve done the calculations. It would take one hundred scholars twenty years to read them all, and that’s if they each read one full manuscript every day.”
“We don’t have that much time!” Dan said.
“All I can do is look up the phrase on my computer and see if it is in our database. If you’ll wait here.” He walked through a doorway in back of the reception area.
“There aren’t a hundred of
us
,” Dan said, “and we don’t have twenty years to skim a million moldering manuscripts. We have less than twenty hours, or someone is going to die.”
The boys immediately split up and started sorting through the manuscripts on display.
After a few minutes, Srour came back through the door, shaking his head. “I did the search several ways. The word
apology
doesn’t appear at all, and our collection is completely digitized. I’d recommend examining the other collections. There’s a map of them on the wall in my office.”
They followed him into his office. The map took up most of the wall behind his desk. It was dotted by red and blue pins. “The blue pins are the public collections,” Srour explained. “The red pins are the private collections. The private collections are in people’s homes. We are trying to convince them to bring the manuscripts in, but people are reluctant to give up their family heirlooms.”
There were a lot more red pins than blue. And there were a lot more places holding manuscripts than Atticus would have guessed. Dan was staring at the map as if he were
margin
of one of the manuscripts, in Latin.”
“That has to be it!” Amy threw her arms around him. Jake pulled her tightly to him . . . until they both realized what he was doing. The two snapped apart as if they had been shocked, but their eyes met again. Amy’s face was flaming and even Jake looked a little flushed. They tilted closer and closer together, as if some magnetic force was pulling at them. Jake leaned and Amy leaned, the space between them growing smaller and smaller. And then their lips touched.
Amy jumped back like a scalded cat, leaping away from an equally flustered Jake Rosenbloom.
“I’m — um —” Amy hadn’t been tongue-tied like this in weeks. She took a deep breath, but it caught in her throat and her voice came out as a squeak. “I’ll go out and Mouse the Dan.” Her cheeks burned. “Tell the Mouse to find Dan! I’ll go out.” She turned around and marched resolutely to the door.
“Yeah . . . uh . . .” Jake’s mouth wasn’t cooperating, either. “Good idea. I’ll . . . uh . . . I’ll start skimming the margins.”
But he was speaking to an empty room. Amy Cahill was gone.
As Bart predicted, Dan and Atticus were not welcomed with open arms at Mamma Haidara’s. The librarian, a Mr. Srour, nearly tossed them out as soon as they walked in. He was an older man with white hair, wearing stained khaki pants, a white shirt, and a tattered sports coat. Atticus pulled out his Harvard student card, but Srour scowled at it through thick glasses as if it were fake. Atticus’s next tactic was to drop a name. “Perhaps you’ve heard of my father,” Atticus said. “His name is Dr. Mark Rosenbloom.”
“The archaeologist?”
Atticus nodded.
“I met him,” Srour admitted grudgingly. “Several years ago.”
“That’s right!” Atticus said. “I’d forgotten. He was here to examine an old dig outside the city near the Niger River.”
Dan interrupted. “Dr. Rosenbloom sent us here to find something called the ‘Apology for a Great Transgression.’ ”
“Ahhh,” Srour said.
“You know it?” Dan asked, excitedly.
“No,” Srour said, shaking his head. “There are hundreds of thousands of manuscripts scattered throughout the city in libraries like ours, in museums, and in private homes,” Srour said. “I’ve done the calculations. It would take one hundred scholars twenty years to read them all, and that’s if they each read one full manuscript every day.”
“We don’t have that much time!” Dan said.
“All I can do is look up the phrase on my computer and see if it is in our database. If you’ll wait here.” He walked through a doorway in back of the reception area.
“There aren’t a hundred of
us
,” Dan said, “and we don’t have twenty years to skim a million moldering manuscripts. We have less than twenty hours, or someone is going to die.”
The boys immediately split up and started sorting through the manuscripts on display.
After a few minutes, Srour came back through the door, shaking his head. “I did the search several ways. The word
apology
doesn’t appear at all, and our collection is completely digitized. I’d recommend examining the other collections. There’s a map of them on the wall in my office.”
They followed him into his office. The map took up most of the wall behind his desk. It was dotted by red and blue pins. “The blue pins are the public collections,” Srour explained. “The red pins are the private collections. The private collections are in people’s homes. We are trying to convince them to bring the manuscripts in, but people are reluctant to give up their family heirlooms.”
There were a lot more red pins than blue. And there were a lot more places holding manuscripts than Atticus would have guessed. Dan was staring at the map as if he were
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