The Accidental Keyhand by Jen Swann Downey

“Who teaches you?”
    Sven mashed his peas into his mashed potatoes with artistic flair. “Mostly, the resident lybrarians.”
    â€œTheir main job is to turn the regular old librarians who come here every year into true lybrarians,” said Saul.
    â€œIf they can,” said Mathilde.
    â€œBut we can train alongside them,” said Ebba.
    â€œAnd learn what exactly?” asked Marcus.
    â€œHow to pick locks,” said Kenzo.
    â€œHow to snatch a magazine out of the middle of a stack of periodicals with the speed of a cobra,” added Sven with just as much pride.
    â€œIt’s very thorough training,” said Saul.
    Sven put down his fork and began to count off on his fingers. “There’s cataloguing, deception and impersonation, publishing law, stealth and illicit entry, library organization, unarmed combat, research skills, armed combat, book repair, fire and explosives—”
    Mathilde took a bite out of a large apple. “I think they get the idea.”
    Dorrie did. Sven’s list had filled her with a giddy excitement that threatened to lift her right off the bench.
    Kenzo seemed not to have heard Mathilde. “Patron relations, horsemanship,” he said, now counting on his toes. “Water training, espionage, escape and concealment, meteorology, geography, field survival—”
    â€œStealth and illicit entry?” crowed Marcus. “Prime cut! This place is now my official personal paradise!”
    â€œWe shouldn’t be telling them all of this stuff about us,” Millie cut in harshly. “They really could be enemies.”
    Dorrie felt her face go hot as a sudden silence descended on the table.
    Mathilde looked hard at Millie over her apple. “And you should do a little reading in Martine’s Handbook of Etiquette and Guide to True Politeness . Didn’t Mistress Wu ask us to treat them as guests?”
    Millie’s angry gaze swept around the table, avoiding Marcus and Dorrie. “I’m just looking out for the Lybrariad’s safety. If Francesco was here—”
    A sudden gust of wind blowing through the door of the Sharpened Quill made them all look up. Mathilde yelped and slid down in her seat, as though someone had suddenly yanked her feet down through a hole in the ground.
    Dorrie watched a woman her own size stump sensibly toward the food table. She wore a white blouse with a high collar, a shapeless gray bell of a skirt that matched the color of her hair, and a string of pearly pink beads. An enormous pair of cloudy, gold-rimmed eyeglasses covered half her dewlapped face. Even from across the room, the eyes behind the glasses seemed to crack and spark with pale blue all-seeing fire.
    â€œHave something overdue, Mathilde?” asked Saul, reaching across Kenzo’s plate for the water pitcher.
    â€œSomething lost, more likely,” said Izel, as though very sorry she had to be the one to share that fact.
    â€œWell, don’t all stare at her!” said Mathilde, disappearing entirely beneath the wide planks of the table. Dorrie and the others turned back to face each other.
    â€œWho is she?” asked Marcus.
    Saul poured himself some water. “That’s Mistress Lovelace. She runs the Library’s circulation desk. If a lybrarian wants a sari to wear in India? Weapons, hats, maps, footwear, coin of the realm? He has to get it from her.”
    â€œHe or she has to get it from her,” Mathilde hissed from below. “Mistress Lovelace can probably smell me.”
    â€œGuilty terror does have a certain scent,” Saul said, taking a bite out of a chicken leg.
    Ebba grabbed Dorrie’s shoulder. “Oh, I was supposed to give you something.” She dug in her satchel. “Here.” She pulled out two rectangles of stiff, creamy paper and handed one each to Dorrie and Marcus.
    â€œWhat is it?” asked Dorrie as the microscopic writing covering the little card