The Accidental Keyhand by Jen Swann Downey Page A

resolved into something she could read.
    â€œLibrary card,” said Saul. “Mistress Lovelace is very particular about issuing them promptly to guests and new residents.” He glanced over at the director of circulation. “She’s quite particular about just about everything, really.”
    Millie began to angrily cram her newspaper into her satchel, as if the issuing of library cards was some sort of final outrage.
    Dorrie looked more closely at the card. On the blank line in the middle of the card reserved for a borrower’s name, someone had written “Unknown Entrant No. 1” in a firm, cursive hand in violet ink. Three jam-packed typed paragraphs of a particularly tiny type filled up the rest of the card. Dorrie read the slightly larger typed words that ran around the four edges of the embossed card like a border: “Marking, staining, tearing, breaking, or otherwise causing damage to lent items is punishable by Library statute with fine or indentured servitude, and the circulation director will prosecute for all offenses.”
    Dorrie understood a little better now why Mathilde was under the table. She looked up at the apprentices. “I don’t think I’d have the nerve to take anything out.”
    â€œYou already have,” said Marcus, plucking the card Dorrie held out of her hand and tossing her the other one. On the back of the new card were alternating columns marked “Lent” and “Returned.” In the first box under “Lent,” the same firm hand had written: “Blue dressing gown with fur cuffs and collar” and a date.
    â€œShe’s not mean,” said Ebba. “She, just, well…she doesn’t make exceptions.”
    â€œCould you at least tell me when she leaves?” Mathilde said coldly from beneath the table.
    â€œCould be a while,” said Saul. “She’s just settling down for what could be a good, long chitchat.”
    â€œA one-sided chitchat,” purred Izel.
    â€œWhy one-sided?” asked Dorrie, looking over at the small, deeply tanned man who sat across from Mistress Lovelace.
    Saul looked serious. He stuck out his tongue and made a scissoring motion with his fingers just below it. “Someone cut out the riding master’s tongue.”
    Dorrie felt instantly sick. “That’s awful.”
    A young woman with an armload of books had elbowed her way over to the apprentice table. She handed a folded-up piece of paper to Ebba. “Message for you,” she panted before moving on.
    Ebba unfolded it, and her brow furrowed. “Francesco’s back.” She looked up at Dorrie and Marcus. “The director of security. He wants to see you.”
    Another uncomfortable silence took hold.
    â€œBad luck that,” Mathilde finally said from beneath the table.
    Dorrie felt her mouth going dry. “I thought we were supposed to meet with Hypatia.”
    â€œI guess she’s still not back,” said Ebba, staring at Francesco’s message.
    Kenzo cocked his head to one side. “Millie said that Francesco will probably want to maroon you out on the other side of an archway. Maybe in Outer Mongolia.”
    â€œ What! ” Dorrie and Marcus said together. Dorrie’s stomach lurched. From her close reading of the Passaic Public Library’s entire collection of novels featuring pirates, she knew just what “marooned” meant. Being left behind somewhere with no way to return home.
    â€œDon’t listen to him,” said Ebba, scanning the contents of the note. “Maroonings have only happened very rarely. Only when someone’s found out about Petrarch’s Library who shouldn’t and might do it harm and…” Her words came to an awkward, stumbling stop.
    A chill crept its way down Dorrie’s spine.
    Kenzo shrugged. “Outer Mongolia’s not the worst—”
    â€œI know you’re not enemies,” said Ebba, giving Dorrie