gaze down the stalls, I realized all of the folios had been chained to their shelves, no doubt to prevent students from stealing the library’s many rare or valuable books.
“Here it is,” Hyde said, setting the chained book on a nearby table. Sunlight pouring through the window cast a pool of dusty yellow on the leather-bound volume. Hyde flipped to the title page, and I read the irregular print: Poems of Mr. John Milton, Both English and Latin , and then the place of publication and the date, London, 1645 . My heart painfully skipped a beat. This was it. I would find out what my father had been trying to tell me.
The librarian cast an anxious look at Crofts. “I hope you will pardon my predecessor’s actions, Your Grace.”
There was that troubling salutation again. What did the librarian mean by addressing Crofts so formally? I was missing something, but what?
When Crofts raised his eyebrows, Hyde said hastily, “Six years ago, when the warrant for Mr. Milton’s arrest was written, all of his books were supposed to have been removed from the library.”
Images of the bonfires I had seen throughout London during the summer of 1660—the summer of the king’s return from exile—flickered through my mind. The flames had been stoked by the words of men who had once been leaders or visionaries, but who were viewed as traitors after the dead king’s son returned. Father’s pamphlets had disintegrated into smoke as my sisters and I watched from the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral, the acrid scent weaving into our hair and skin so we could smell it everywhere we went. I hadn’t realized Father’s books had been banned from the Bodleian as well. Yet here this volume sat on a table.
“They were taken out of the collection,” Hyde said. “But Mr. Rouse, my predecessor, was a great admirer of Mr. Milton’s poetry and couldn’t bear to destroy any of his books. When I took over last year, I thought perhaps enough time had passed to put his works on our shelves again.”
“Set your mind at ease, Mr. Hyde.” Crofts clapped the man on the back. “You won’t be punished for Mr. Rouse’s actions. We require no more of your help.”
The dismissal was obvious. The librarian bowed again, then backed away, keeping his front turned to us. Another block of ice dropped into my stomach. Although we didn’t speak of the court in my home, I was familiar with the custom of never turningyour back on a member of the royal family. Yet Crofts was too young to be the king, who was six and thirty years of age. And the king and his Portuguese queen had no children.
Which meant Crofts could be only one of two people. And they were equally dangerous.
I grabbed Antonio’s wrist. “We must go at once,” I whispered.
But Antonio had found the sonnet and was skimming it, his forehead furrowed in concentration. “‘ Qual in colle aspro, al imbrunir di sera . . . ,’” he read aloud quietly.
Crofts leaned across the table toward us, a shaft of sunlight laying itself on his face—a slash of yellow stretching from his left temple to the right side of his jaw. “What’s wrong? You look scared of me.”
“No, of course not.” We had to get out of here right now. I knew who Crofts had to be—there was always so much gossip swirling about him, and the members of his family, in London, that I was sure I couldn’t be mistaken. Even my father, who rarely mentioned the royal household, had talked about the twin brothers, so handsome and young, accomplished fighters who had grown up with almost nothing and who now had more riches than they could ever have dreamed of. But which twin stood before me?
“There’s only one reason you would suddenly be scared of me,” Crofts whispered, keeping his eyes locked on mine, “and that’s if you’ve figured out who I am.”
To my astonishment, he smiled—such a clear, relieved smile it transformed his face, changing him from forbidding to handsome.
“Masquerades are a burden,”
“Here it is,” Hyde said, setting the chained book on a nearby table. Sunlight pouring through the window cast a pool of dusty yellow on the leather-bound volume. Hyde flipped to the title page, and I read the irregular print: Poems of Mr. John Milton, Both English and Latin , and then the place of publication and the date, London, 1645 . My heart painfully skipped a beat. This was it. I would find out what my father had been trying to tell me.
The librarian cast an anxious look at Crofts. “I hope you will pardon my predecessor’s actions, Your Grace.”
There was that troubling salutation again. What did the librarian mean by addressing Crofts so formally? I was missing something, but what?
When Crofts raised his eyebrows, Hyde said hastily, “Six years ago, when the warrant for Mr. Milton’s arrest was written, all of his books were supposed to have been removed from the library.”
Images of the bonfires I had seen throughout London during the summer of 1660—the summer of the king’s return from exile—flickered through my mind. The flames had been stoked by the words of men who had once been leaders or visionaries, but who were viewed as traitors after the dead king’s son returned. Father’s pamphlets had disintegrated into smoke as my sisters and I watched from the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral, the acrid scent weaving into our hair and skin so we could smell it everywhere we went. I hadn’t realized Father’s books had been banned from the Bodleian as well. Yet here this volume sat on a table.
“They were taken out of the collection,” Hyde said. “But Mr. Rouse, my predecessor, was a great admirer of Mr. Milton’s poetry and couldn’t bear to destroy any of his books. When I took over last year, I thought perhaps enough time had passed to put his works on our shelves again.”
“Set your mind at ease, Mr. Hyde.” Crofts clapped the man on the back. “You won’t be punished for Mr. Rouse’s actions. We require no more of your help.”
The dismissal was obvious. The librarian bowed again, then backed away, keeping his front turned to us. Another block of ice dropped into my stomach. Although we didn’t speak of the court in my home, I was familiar with the custom of never turningyour back on a member of the royal family. Yet Crofts was too young to be the king, who was six and thirty years of age. And the king and his Portuguese queen had no children.
Which meant Crofts could be only one of two people. And they were equally dangerous.
I grabbed Antonio’s wrist. “We must go at once,” I whispered.
But Antonio had found the sonnet and was skimming it, his forehead furrowed in concentration. “‘ Qual in colle aspro, al imbrunir di sera . . . ,’” he read aloud quietly.
Crofts leaned across the table toward us, a shaft of sunlight laying itself on his face—a slash of yellow stretching from his left temple to the right side of his jaw. “What’s wrong? You look scared of me.”
“No, of course not.” We had to get out of here right now. I knew who Crofts had to be—there was always so much gossip swirling about him, and the members of his family, in London, that I was sure I couldn’t be mistaken. Even my father, who rarely mentioned the royal household, had talked about the twin brothers, so handsome and young, accomplished fighters who had grown up with almost nothing and who now had more riches than they could ever have dreamed of. But which twin stood before me?
“There’s only one reason you would suddenly be scared of me,” Crofts whispered, keeping his eyes locked on mine, “and that’s if you’ve figured out who I am.”
To my astonishment, he smiled—such a clear, relieved smile it transformed his face, changing him from forbidding to handsome.
“Masquerades are a burden,”
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