I searched the ground around my feet, looking for Philippe’s jewel. When I straightened, I could feel its point pressing into my ribs. I stared at the goddess in astonishment.
“My arrow never misses its target,” the goddess said. “Do not hesitate. And aim true.”
“They’ve been moved where?” This could not be happening. Not when we were so close to finding answers.
“The Radcliffe Science Library.” Sean was apologetic, but his patience was wearing thin. “It’s not the end of the world, Diana.”
“But . . . that is . . .” I trailed off, the completed call slip for Ashmole 782 dangling from my fingers.
“Don’t you read your e-mails? We’ve been sending out notices about the move for months,” Sean said. “I’m happy to take the request and put it in the system, since you’ve been away and apparently out of reach of the Internet. But none of the Ashmole manuscripts are here, and you can’t call them up to this reading room unless you have a bona fide intellectual reason that’s related to the manuscripts and maps that are still here.”
Of all the exigencies we had planned for this morning—and they were many and varied—the Bodleian Library’s decision to move rare books and manuscripts from Duke Humfrey’s to the Radcliffe Science Library had not been among them. We’d left Sarah and Amira at home with Leonard in case we needed magical backup. Gallowglass and Fernando were both outside, loafing around the statue of Mary Herbert’s son William and being photographed by female visitors. Ysabeau had gained entrance to the library after enticing the head of development with a gift to rival the annual budget of Liechtenstein. She was now on a private tour of the facility. Phoebe, who had attended Christ Church and was therefore the only member of my book posse in possession of a library card, had accompanied me into Duke Humfrey’s and was now waiting patiently in a seat overlooking Exeter College’s gardens.
“How aggravating.” No matter how many rare books and precious manuscripts they’d relocated, I was absolutely sure Ashmole 782 was still here. My father had not bound the Book of Life to its call number after all, but to the library. In 1850 the Radcliffe Science Library didn’t exist.
I looked at my watch. It was only ten-thirty. A swarm of children on a school trip were released into the quadrangle, their high-pitched voices echoing against the stone walls. How long would it take me to manufacture an excuse that would satisfy Sean? Phoebe and I needed to regroup. I tried to reach the spot on my lower back where the tip of the goddess’s arrow was lodged. The shaft kept my posture ramrod straight, and if I slouched the slightest bit, I felt a warning prickle.
“And don’t think it’s going to be easy to come up with a good rationale for looking at your manuscript here,” Sean warned, reading my mind. Humans never failed to activate their usually dormant sixth senses at the most inopportune moments. “Your friend has been sending requests of all sorts for weeks, and no matter how many times he asks to see manuscripts here, the requests keep getting redirected to Parks Road.”
“Tweed jacket? Corduroy pants?” If Peter Knox was in Duke Humfrey’s, I was going to throttle him.
“No. The guy who sits by the card catalogs.” Sean jerked his thumb in the direction of the Selden End.
I backed carefully out of Sean’s office across from the old call desk and felt the numbing sensation of a vampire’s stare. Gerbert?
“Mistress Roydon.”
Not Gerbert.
Benjamin’s arm was draped over Phoebe’s shoulders, and there were spots of red on the collar of her white blouse. For the first time since I’d met her, Phoebe looked terrified.
“Herr Fuchs.” I spoke slightly louder than usual. Hopefully, Ysabeau or Gallowglass would hear his name over the din that the children were causing. I forced my feet to move toward him at an even pace.