Cat's Quill (7 page)

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Four

Staring after Donovan as he disappeared through the door, Tomas absently put the rose petal into his pocket. The rest of the village could wait. He wanted to see the library. It held answers; he was sure of it, but not of why he felt that way. His imagination was beginning to work overtime again. The events of the last few days had definitely addled his mind.

Wiping the rain from his face, he shivered. His clothes were damp rather than soaked; the rainfall had eased from a heavy downfall to a light shower, although it was still showing no signs of letting up completely. The sun peeked at him from behind a cloud and then disappeared again. So much for autumn; it seemed as though winter had suddenly started early in this part of the country, or it had, at least, this year.

The library door opened, and a woman slightly older than Tomas walked out. She smiled at him, eyed him up and down, and held the door open. "It's warmer in than out," she said, shifting her books so that they were balanced under one arm. Her jacket was zipped up to her neck, the bright red of a woolen jumper barely visible hanging below each sleeve. The idea of somewhere warm was looking much more inviting with every passing minute. Tomas missed his own jumper and T-shirt; while he was thankful for the clothes Donovan had loaned him, they were not as comfortable and familiar as his own. He supposed he should be thankful that the overstretched jumper hid the too-short black T-shirt, which kept riding up. Even so, it was not his preferred style or color.

He nodded and walked inside, mumbling a thank-you under his breath but not introducing himself or giving her the chance to do so either. The door closed behind him as he crossed the threshold into another world.

Or at least that was the way it seemed, in stark contrast to the cold wetness outside. The entranceway in which Tomas found himself was bright, homey, the heat radiated by the old-fashioned oil-filled radiators on the walls warm and inviting, the wooden floors polished and covered in large mats the color of autumn leaves. A spiral staircase led upward to his left, but the sign hanging above it proclaimed that it was for staff only. To the side of the double doors which he presumed he needed to cross through to enter the main collection, there was an old-fashioned writing desk with an old book sitting on it. Immediately his eye was drawn to a tapestry above it. He took a step closer, running his hand over the glass protecting it.

The stitching was very fine, the color that of sepia, giving it the look of something handwritten rather than the product of a needle and thread. Around the frame was an unusual design etched into the wood. Tomas frowned, something tugging in the corner of his mind, whispering to him that he should know and recognize it, even though he did not.

It appeared to be made up of three swirls but wasn't defined enough to be described as a specific shape. Looking closer, they seemed to touch, but barely, existing as separate entities with a dash of color where the background meshed and merged, the depth of the carving shallow in some places, deeper in others. A faint ray of sun strained through the stained glass windows in the far wall, illuminating the carving briefly. For an instant Tomas could have sworn they looked like roses, but when he blinked the illusion was gone.

The words on the tapestry itself were framed by a double heart, the inner one the color of lavender, the outer dark pink. Tomas blinked, his hand going to his pocket, his fingers absently caressing the soft surface of the rose petal. Slowly, he read the verse aloud, deciphering the letters into words, pausing at the beginning of each line. Poetry was meant to be read aloud. His voice dropped to a whisper. "
Love me now, love me never, but if you love me, love me forever.
"

He peered closer, trying to read the name of the poet, but all that was written under the poem was the word "unknown." Two letters were embroidered down the bottom right of the fabric, merging into one another. Could they be initials?

"Hey, Tomas, Phoebe wants to meet you." Donovan interrupted Tomas's thoughts.

Jerking his head up and instinctively taking a step back, Tomas glared at Donovan, who was standing with his arms crossed as he leaned back against the wall. Tomas wasn't sure how long Donovan had been watching him, but it was certainly long enough to be amused, if the look on his face was anything to go by. "Phoebe?" Tomas asked, attempting to regain his composure.

"Yeah, she's the librarian. It's not every day she gets to meet a real live writer." Donovan grinned when Tomas groaned. "Be nice," he warned. "She's good people, and you don't want to get that wicked sense of humor aimed at you. Trust me on that." Donovan opened the doors in front of them. "I only did it once," he muttered.

"What happened?" Tomas gave the tapestry one more glance. He would look at it again before they left and attempt to decipher those initials.

Donovan shrugged. "That would be telling." He grinned. "Buy me a beer and I might think about it. Maybe."

"Maybe," Tomas replied. The translucent glass inserts in the heavy wooden doors made it difficult to get more than a glimpse of the room they were entering; it was like seeing an image that wasn't quite real or was slightly out of focus. "I'll think about it." Pushing past Donovan, Tomas opened them, curious as to what lay beyond.

"Mr. Kemp, it's very nice to meet you." A woman walked out from behind the counter and held out her hand. She was tall, although still an inch or so shorter than Tomas, very slim, with long brown hair pulled back off her face into a bun and glasses perched on the end of her nose. Tomas shook her hand politely. Her grip was firm, her smile friendly.

"It's nice to meet you too, ma'am." His eyes darted around the room. Bookcases lined the walls, with more shelves in rows filling up the interior. The walls were painted rather than wallpapered, although it looked as though they might have been papered once; hints of a pattern showed through the paintwork in between some of the shelves where the book sizes differed. The counter behind Phoebe was a heavy, dark wood; the computer looked out of place, an anachronism, almost, with the sense of the old being what was meant to be.

To the left of the counter was a sandwich board, but instead of a modern whiteboard, it was made of wood, a blackboard that would have not been out of place in a classroom at the turn of the century. The words "quote for today" were written in block letters along the top with what were presumably the pearls of wisdom for this particular day in neat handwriting underneath. To his amusement Tomas noticed that all that
t
's were crossed and the
i
's dotted. "'The past is but the beginning of a beginning, and all that is and has been is but the twilight of the dawn,'" he read aloud before he'd realized what he'd done.

"An interesting idea from an interesting man," Phoebe commented, watching him carefully. "And there's no need to call me ma'am. Phoebe or Miss Gordon will do nicely. The other makes me sound so much older than I am." She lowered her voice. "If you were to ask, I'd admit I am over the age of twenty-one, but a lady has to have some secrets."

Donovan snorted. "Yeah, more like twenty-nine a few dozen times over and then some." She peered at him over her glasses. He shrugged. "Phoebe's one of the town's mysteries; we've tried to guess her age for years. The local pub takes wagers each birthday, but she won't even tell us if we're close."

"H. G. Wells is very interesting," Tomas agreed with Phoebe's earlier comment, "but the past is gone, and the future hasn't happened yet. I prefer to think about the here and now."

"It, at least, is something you can do something about," Phoebe said, nodding slowly. As Donovan had said, it was difficult to gauge her age. Definitely over twenty-one as she had said, although Tomas's guess would be more in line with mid-forties, but then he wasn't very good at working out ages. Besides, it wasn't age that mattered; it was what kind of person someone was. He much preferred what was on the inside, although he did have an appreciative eye for certain things. Blond hair, blue eyes, and.... No, it was what lay beneath that counted. Looks changed with time; people aged and grew old, but truly connecting with someone and loving them... compared to that, the other paled into insignificance. "Although the past and future are also something worth exploring," she added, indicating the bookshelves with one hand.

"The past is still gone," Tomas said firmly, not prepared to back down. "Books are just a record or a way to dream; they aren't reality." He had spent his life being very careful not to confuse the two, even though as a writer that was often easier said than done. His characters were not two-dimensional, and while working on his novels, he had woken several times caught between sleep and wakefulness, sure that he had almost crossed that line, reaching for something or someone who did not exist apart from within his imagination.

"Nothing is truly gone if it is not forgotten. Words keep dreams alive, the same way that if we don't forget someone, they never truly die." Phoebe shook her head. "I would have thought that you, as a writer, would know better." She smiled. He tried to look away but couldn't. "A close friend told me that a very long time ago. We make our own reality, Mr. Kemp. It's something this generation needs to remember."

"I am making my own reality," Tomas said, her words echoing, the voice not hers but the sentiment still familiar.

Daisies and circles. Cathal had said the same thing in regard to Christian and Alice.

Tomas smiled in spite of himself. Perhaps this library
did
hold some answers. "Would it be possible for me to borrow some books? I can join the library if that is a problem."

"You can use my card," Donovan said. "Right, Phoebe?"

"It's against regulations," she frowned, "but rules are meant to be bent. Broken, however, is another matter." Pushing her glasses up her nose, Phoebe was suddenly all business. "I will issue you a temporary card. After all, you will be with us a while, and I will not stand in the way of a quest. There are dragons to be slain and worlds to be discovered." The ginger cat Tomas had seen earlier leapt onto the counter, sat on one of the books, and washed one paw. Phoebe gave it a pointed look and was ignored in favor of its other paw. "Find what you will and bring it to the counter. If you need any help, let me know. I'm afraid our computer system is down yet again, but we do have a card catalogue I can access for you. Technology is only as good as it is allowed to be." She glanced at the cat again and sighed. "Now if you will excuse me, I have work to do."

"Actually there is," Tomas said. "Something you can help me with, that is."

"Yes?" The less-than-impressed look Phoebe had been giving the cat was now directed at him.

"The staircase in the foyer," Tomas began.

"That collection is not available to you yet. Anything else is fine to borrow, but those do not leave the library." She glanced at his bag. "Nor are they read by those I do not know. Trust has to be earned, Mr. Kemp."

"Fine." Tomas shrugged. He had only been going to ask what was up there, nothing more. Phoebe seemed to have an odd interpretation of how libraries worked. Books held by them were to be shared and were owned by the community, not the librarian. He pondered the wisdom of pointing this fact out to her, caught a glimpse of Donovan miming his throat being slit, and decided against it. "I suppose by the same token asking about the tapestry would be a waste of time too."

"Knowledge is something that also needs to be earned." Phoebe smiled. It was unnerving. Somewhere in the past few minutes Tomas had crossed some kind of line and ventured into the weird. "It was a gift from our patron.

She--" The phone rang, the high, shrill sound interrupting whatever she had been about to say as she lifted it from its cradle and held it to her ear, nodding in response to the person on the other end.

"We'll come back later," Donovan said hurriedly, pulling Tomas away. "She's way possessive of her books," he explained when they were out of earshot, "and especially the collection upstairs. Apparently only a few people have ever been up there."

"She seems a bit...." Tomas hunted for a word that seemed appropriate. "Weird."

"Yeah, nice lady, but almost a split personality at times. Friendly, then speaks in riddles. She knows her stuff, though, and has kept this place running smoothly for years." Donovan mimed the throat cutting again. It was a somewhat overdramatic gesture. "I'm going to browse for a bit and grab my reading fix. If there's anything you want, yell. I know my way around, and that way you don't have to risk the wrath of Phoebe."

Tomas shrugged. Apart from his favorite authors, whom he read as soon as they published their new books, he had a tendency to know what he wanted to read when he saw it. While he appreciated recommendations, he preferred to explore libraries and bookshops himself. Finding each new treasure was an adventure he did not want to taint with preconceptions and opinions that were not his own. Once the story was an old friend, it did not matter, in fact quite the opposite. His friend Ethan understood Tomas's logic, even if he was amused by it, but he also respected it, and they only discussed books they had both read or Tomas wished to recommend without spoiling any of the details.

"Suit yourself." Donovan studied the books in front of him, pulling one off the shelf, flicking through the pages, and beginning to read. "I was only being helpful, but obviously I'm wasting my time."

"I'm not good with social skills," Tomas admitted, leaning back against the wall behind him and crossing his arms. It had been a long time since he had talked to anyone like this, and now he'd done it a number of times in a few days. The change of scenery must be getting to him. "My sister says I act like I've been dragged up instead of brought up."