“I’d like you to meet Professor Langdon Sibley,” Garber said.
“Call me Sib,” the man said. “I hear ‘Langdon,’ and I start looking for my father.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Sib,” Liesl said. “Welcome to our library.”
Garber was grinning from ear to ear.
“Heard of each other?” he said. “Brilliant. Shared friends?”
“Not that I know of,” Liesl said. “Mr. Sibley’s reputation precedes him.”
“A famous librarian?” Garber said. “Brilliant.”
“Not at all,” Sibley said. “I’ve sat on some committees, authored some papers. Nothing more.”
“Of course,” Garber said. “You’ll have heard then, Liesl, that Sib was planning on moving on from his role in Boston.”
“I hadn’t,” Liesl said. “I’m sure they’ll be sorry to lose you.”
“They’ll never replace him,” Garber said. “Sib’s is the name I hear most when I ask about great libraries. He was considering the private sector for his next stage.” The dollar-bill sound of private sector hung in the air.
“Nothing’s decided,” Sibley said. “And President Garber was kind enough to invite me for a tour of your beautiful campus.”
“That was kind of him,” Liesl said. “Did you know Christopher?”
“Socially, of course. He once sent me a John Grisham paperback for my birthday. As a kind of joke.”
Garber’s smile was so wide. He didn’t get the joke at all.
“You have plans to write, Liesl? About gardens?”
“About gardening books,” Liesl said. “A study of knowledge sharing about plant cultivation.”
“Very interesting,” Sibley said. “My wife is a great horticulturalist; she’d find that fascinating.”
“Your wife,” Liesl said. “Is she an academic too?”
“She’s the brains in our family,” said Sibley. “But no, she chose to work in our home, taking care of our children.”
“Sib wanted to see some highlights from the collection,” Garber said.
“What did you have in mind?” Liesl asked.
“Well, I was hoping you might have suggestions.”
“I’d love to see the Peshawar,” Sibley said.
“It’s not here, I’m afraid. We’re having it carbon-dated,” Liesl said.
“The Peshawar manuscript is out of the library?” Garber said.
“Rhonda Washington suggested it as a research project,” Liesl said.
“She’s the chair for the communication of science,” Garber explained.
“You’re doing some innovative work here,” Sibley said.
“Apparently we are,” Garber said. “Who knew?”
“If your researchers aren’t one step ahead of you, you’re not doing it right,” Sibley said. Liesl got up to lead them out of the office and down into the stacks so they could stroke some prize horses.
“I’d be interested to hear the results of this carbon dating when it comes back, Liesl. I imagine Professor Washington is planning a public rollout?”
“That’s the idea,” Liesl said. “It’s sure to be quite a grand reveal.”
Before they’d even left her office, she’d forgotten about them. Liesl wasn’t worried about the charcoal suit brought in to replace her or about the other charcoal suit who had been making her miserable for months. Liesl turned her attention to the manila envelope, the yellow paper parcel addressed by Marie’s hand, which had landed on her desk with the morning mail only moments before Garber and Sibley had walked in to make their introductions.
There had been something physically overpowering about the sensation of tearing the envelope open, something so decisive and exciting that, in a way, it reduced Liesl to an observer of her own actions. As an observer, rather than a participant, in the envelope opening, she never got to experience that moment of perfect clarity. She would put it together later, would narrow her eyes with understanding as she began to come out of her stupor, but as she leafed through the contents of the envelope, which were immediately recognizable as the final chapters of Francis and Christopher’s book, she was struck with a certain blindness rather than a perfect lucidity. Liesl’s vision would clear; the desk, the phone, the computer, the open office door, and finally the pages would come back into focus, not as a snap but as a gradual turning of the lens until she understood who had done what and that it was up to her—not because she had the smarts or the title, but because there would be no one else willing to do the hard thing, and that if objective truth and consequences for actions mattered at all, it would be up to her to find confirmation for her suspicions.