He led us through several rooms that had clearly been designed for different purposes from the ones they were now used for. A dining room had a battered drum kit set up in the center with DEREK AND THE DERANGERS painted on the bass-drum head, and another room looked like an electronics graveyard except for the chintz sofas and beribboned wallpaper.
“It’s in there. Somewhere,” Timothy said, gesturing at the next room. “Holy Mother of God,” Gallowglass said, astonished.
“There” was the old library. “Somewhere” covered a multitude of possible hiding places, including unopened shipping crates and mail, cardboard cartons full of sheet music going back to the 1920s, and stacks and stacks of old newspapers. There was a large collection of clock faces of all sizes, descriptions, and vintages, too.
And there were manuscripts. Thousands of manuscripts.
“I think it’s in a blue folder,” Timothy said, scratching his chin. He had obviously started shaving at some point earlier in the day but only partially completed the task, leaving two grizzled patches.
“How long have you been buying old books?” I asked, picking up the first one that came to hand. It was an eighteenth-century student science notebook, German, and of no particular value except to a scholar of Enlightenment education.
“Since I was thirteen. That’s when my gran died and left me this place. My mom left when I was five, and my dad, Derek, died of an accidental overdose when I turned nine, so it was just me and Gran after that.” Timothy looked around the room fondly. “I’ve been restoring it ever since. Do you want to see my paint chips for the gallery upstairs?”
“Maybe later,” I said.
“Okay.” His face fell.
“Why do manuscripts interest you?” When trying to get answers from daemons and undergraduates, it was best to ask genuinely open-ended questions.
“They’re like the house—they remind me of something I shouldn’t forget,” Timothy said, as though that explained everything.
“With any luck one of them will remind him where he put the page from your book,” Gallowglass said under his breath. “If not, it’s going to take us weeks to go through all this rubbish.”
We didn’t have weeks. I wanted Ashmole 782 out of the Bodleian and stitched back together so that Matthew could come home. Without the Book of Life, we were vulnerable to the Congregation, Benjamin, and whatever private ambitions Knox harbored. Once it was safely in our possession, they would all have to deal with us on our terms—scion or no scion. I pushed up my sleeves.
“Would it be all right with you, Timothy, if I used magic in your library?” It seemed polite to ask.
“Will it be loud?” Timothy asked. “The dogs don’t like noise.”
“No,” I said, considering my options. “I think it will be completely silent.”
“Oh, well, that’s okay, then,” he said, relieved. He put his goggles back on for additional security.
“More magic, Auntie?” Gallowglass’s eyebrows lowered. “You’ve been using an awful lot of it lately.”
“Wait until tomorrow,” I murmured. If I got all three missing pages, I was going to the Bodleian.
Then it was gloves-off time.
A flurry of papers rose from the floor.
“You’ve started already?” Gallowglass said, alarmed.
“No,” I said.
“Then what’s causing the ruckus?” Gallowglass moved toward the agitated pile.
A tail wagged from between a leather-bound folio and a box of pens.
“Puddles!” Timothy said.