The Accidental Keyhand by Jen Swann Downey Page B

a brave attempt at a smile. “He’ll see that. It’ll be all right.”
    Mathilde eased herself out from under the table, her gaze sweeping across the room. “You show them the way to his office and I’ll try to find Mistress Wu.”
    â€œI’ve got a baaaaad feeling about this, Chewie,” muttered Marcus.

CHAPTER 9
    ACCIDENTAL KEYHANDS

    Ebba left them in front of a heavy, wooden door set in a curved stone wall with a torch flickering on either side. “His office is through the door and up the stairs.”
    Dorrie, her teeth on the point of chattering, nodded dumbly, as a man dressed in lederhosen roller-skated past them. Earlier in the day, she would have enjoyed guessing his home place and time, but now the word “maroon” blinked on and off in her head in red-drenched neon letters. If the director of security thought they posed a danger to Petrarch’s Library, would he just decide to toss Dorrie and Marcus out into Attila the Hun’s lap or into a medieval city full of Black Plague, never to return?
    â€œI’ll help look for Mistress Wu,” said Ebba, her eyes wide and distressed.
    When Ebba had skittered out of sight around a corner, Dorrie grabbed hold of Marcus’ T-shirt. “Should we run away? Try to hide until we can get back through that hole?” With no small horror, Dorrie realized she had no idea in which direction the room with the swimming pool and the hole lay.
    Marcus pulled at his hair as if the tension on it would help him think better. “We haven’t done anything wrong. We’ll just explain.”
    Dorrie shivered. “Yeah, but what if he doesn’t believe us?”
    â€œI’ve got to see Egeria again!” bellowed Marcus.
    Dorrie stared at him, boggled. “Marcus, we might never see Mom and Dad and Miranda again if we do the wrong thing!”
    He pressed his fingertips to his temples. “Can I just have a minute to think here?”
    The door swung open with an arthritic groan. Dorrie found herself face-to-face with a large man with stooped shoulders dressed in what looked like an old-fashioned police officer’s uniform. A black egg-shaped helmet sat rakishly on his head. For a moment, sucking on a toothpick, he simply looked at them, while Dorrie’s heart thumped with more and more force.
    Finally, he doffed his helmet, one corner of his mouth crooking upward in a grin. “Mr. Gormly I am, and you don’t look all that threatening to me, whatever the boss says.” Dorrie thought she saw the man wink and felt a little rush of gratitude. Mr. Gormly led them up a narrow wooden stairway that wound round and round. She couldn’t help but think that in fairy tales, no good ever seemed to come to people at the top of towers. She felt for Marcus’s hand behind her. Remarkably, he let her squeeze it hard and even dig her nails into it a little.
    Mr. Gormly led them into a gloomy circular room with one thin slit of a window. Heavy wooden file cabinets lined the walls. A man Dorrie supposed was the director of security sat writing at a small, scarred table. A dark moustache drooped thinly over the ends of his upper lip in waxed curves, and the graying hair on his head was pulled back into a tight ponytail. A black patch very much like the one that Rosa had worn in Passaic for fun covered one of his eyes. On the table lay a sword that looked a whole lot like the one Dorrie had borrowed from Tiffany and dropped somewhere in Petrarch’s Library. Beside the table leaned her bag.
    After a long moment, he stood, his craggy face grim, a long sword hanging at his side. His one visible brown eye bored into Dorrie’s. “Who sent you?”
    The dispassionate, measured manner in which he spoke made Dorrie’s insides go icy. She had the distinct feeling that he wouldn’t hesitate to throw her out the very skinny window if he felt she was a threat to Petrarch’s