Without really thinking about it, Clay had assumed he would find the red-haired girl in the window again, and he felt a sharp pang of disappointment when he didn’t see her. He tried to brush away the feeling. What had he expected—that she would be waiting for him with balloons and a welcome sign? He would just have to work harder to find her this time, that was all.
Ginning up his courage, he knocked on the front doors of the library. He was greeted by silence.
He knocked on the side door in the stairwell. Silence again.
He knocked on one of the boarded-up windows. More silence.
Then he walked around the library tower looking for vines to climb, windows to pry open, secret doors to enter.
The library was a fortress.
Still determined to get inside, Clay returned to the side door in the stairwell. He rotated the alphabetical combination lock built into the door, putting his ear to the dial and listening for clicks and ticks like a safecracker in a movie. On the first rotation, he heard nothing, but after he slowed down for the second rotation he was rewarded by a clicking sound at the letter P.
P for Price!? Could it be that easy?
He turned the dial the other way. Sure enough, there was a click when he got to R.
Excited, he turned the dial again, listening for the click when he got to I, but he heard nothing. He tried several more times, unwilling to give up, but eventually he had to concede that PRICE was not the combination. He tried a few other letters—PRA for PRAY? PRE for PRESENT?—with no luck.
In reality, he had no idea what he was doing. Word games were his brother’s specialty, not his.*
Feeling like a fool, he walked back up the stairs. When he turned around for a last look, he noticed for the first time the words carved into the stone above the stairwell:
I’ll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And, deeper than did ever plummet sound,
I’ll drown my book.
The Tempest! Yet again!
Those were Prospero’s words. The words that had made Clay clench his fists on stage weeks before. The words that were the basis for Mr. Bailey’s confounding essay question. The words that led Clay to Price Island, and ultimately to this very place.
Then it struck him: The combination wasn’t PRICE; it was PROSPERO.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
INSIDE
Beware the U-BRARY.
The pilot’s words reverberated in the back of Clay’s mind, making his palms sweat as he pushed on the stubborn library door. Clay had the feeling that the door hadn’t been opened for years, and for a moment he wondered why he should be opening it now. Nobody was making him enter the library. He would only get in trouble for it—or go mad, like the others. This was needless bravery.
Before he could change his mind—crrrreak!—the rusty hinges finally gave way, and Clay fell forward into the cool, quiet interior.
As soon as he was inside, he saw why the door was so heavy: It was hidden behind a bookshelf laden with thick leather-bound tomes. Clay tried to leave the door ajar, but it swung shut as soon as he let go. So much for his escape route!
Clay brushed cobwebs off his shirt as his eyes adjusted to the dim and dusty light. He was standing on a sort of endless balcony that spiraled around the interior of the tower like a corkscrew. As it went upward, the balcony became narrower and narrower, hugging the walls more and more closely, ultimately coming to a point just before reaching the ceiling. There it met a large round skylight covered with decades of dirt and bird droppings. At the same time, the balcony grew wider and wider as it traveled downward, creating the illusion that it was spinning beneath his feet. From where Clay stood, the library appeared to sink deep underground—like the rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland. Exactly how far, Clay couldn’t tell, because a massive indoor banyan tree was blocking his view. He estimated that the base of the tree was several stories below ground level, making the library at least twice as large as it had looked from the outside.
If only he’d had his skateboard. The library balcony would have made an awesome skating ramp. It was a crime that it remained unused.*
There was a thumping sound. Clay stiffened. It was footsteps. Or maybe something falling. From down below. Or maybe it came from above. He couldn’t tell. The circular walls created an odd, oscillating echo effect.
“Hello?” His voice came out in a whisper.
“Hello, is anybody here?” he tried again.
There was no response. Only the strange echo.
Clay waited a moment, his legs jiggling. As far as he could tell, he was alone. There were no more sounds. No signs of life other than the occasional spider sitting in wait or dropping from the ceiling to spin another web.
Walk, he told himself. Move. Go.
There was almost too much to look at.
The dark mahogany bookshelves that lined the walls of the library were full to overflowing, not just with books but with all manner of curiosities and art objects. Not to mention, books that were curiosities or art objects in and of themselves.
As Clay walked slowly and cautiously upward, he passed treasures large and small: elaborately painted vases from China and Greece. Antique microscopes, telescopes, and gyroscopes, and other relics of the scientific revolution. Fossils, corals, and shells from the seven seas. There were crystals and meteorites and a collection of volcanic rocks culled, according to their labels, not just from Price Island but from volcanoes the world over.
On one wall, stone tablets etched with obscure cuneiform symbols were propped up on steel shelves. Another wall was covered with framed papyrus pages decorated with Egyptian hieroglyphs. Still another wall was devoted entirely to a collection of miniature books housed in miniature libraries that were decorated with miniature artwork, miniature desks, and miniature globes.
Everything was meticulously organized and labeled with identifying characteristics and call numbers. Even the nonliterary artifacts seemed to have been adapted to the Dewey decimal system.* Clay had the feeling that if he moved anything an inch, somebody would notice. But of course the library’s owner was long dead. For all Clay knew, he was the first living person to enter the library in decades. It was like walking through an enormous tomb full of books—enough books to last an eternity, if you happened to be a ghost-in-residence.
Clay stopped at the library’s locked front doors. Directly across from them was a long desk that looked not unlike the checkout desk at Clay’s local library. Nearby was a bank of wooden cabinets, composed of small, alphabetically labeled drawers—several hundred of them, Clay guessed. This bank of cabinets, by the way, is called a card catalog. (A card catalog contains cards identifying all the books in a library; once upon a time, every library had one.) The Price Public Library was set up to be a fully functioning lending library, although it seemed unlikely that Price would ever have lent any of his books; most of them looked much too rare and valuable.
Clay noticed that one of the drawers in the card catalog had been left open. A card was sticking out conspicuously from the others:
Price, Randolph A. 1901–1985
Memoirs (incomplete)
Clay thought about the library card in his wallet. Had the card catalog intentionally been left open for him by the same mysterious benefactor?
Clay couldn’t have said what made him aware of her presence—a faint stirring of the air?—but he turned around and there she was, standing before him. The red-haired, pale-cheeked mystery girl from the library window.
Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing a navy polka-dot dress, white socks, and shiny black shoes of the type (although Clay didn’t know it) known as Mary Janes. She may not have looked like a ghost, or not like what you expect a ghost to look like, but she certainly didn’t look like she was part of the modern world. If anything, she looked like a girl from the 1950s on her way to a sock hop.
He sensed that she was very afraid. It co
uld have been the dimness of the light, but it seemed to Clay that fear was draining the color from her face.
He wanted to tell her that she had no reason to fear him—that he meant no harm. But before he could say anything, she put her finger to her lips. At once, he realized it wasn’t him she was afraid of. Silently, she moved behind the checkout desk and motioned for him to follow.
As he crouched down next to her, he thought he could feel her cool breath on his shoulder. He wanted to touch her, to confirm she was real, but he didn’t dare. She sat very still but trembling slightly, alert to danger like a deer in the presence of a hunter. Lumbering footsteps echoed around them.
Clay caught only a few brief glimpses of the man passing by, but they were enough to paint a picture: Dark rubbery coat. Stained overalls. Big leather work gloves. Protective goggles. Lumpy, blotchy, scabby bald scalp. There was no way to tell how old the man was. Nor could Clay tell how tall he was; he was too stooped over. Judging from his limping gait, he had been injured in some way. And yet he projected strength. His muscles bulged defiantly, unwilling to hide under his coat.
He held an old brass torch in his hand. As Clay watched, the man stopped, tapped the canister, and pressed on the nozzle, testing the flame. Clay couldn’t help imagining him using the torch as a weapon to ward off unwanted intruders.
Seemingly satisfied, the man limped away, heading into the depths of the library.
For a few moments, the red-haired girl remained hidden behind the desk with her finger to her lips. Finally, she stood, her dress grazing his shoulder. At least her clothes are real, he thought.
“You must leave right now,” she whispered urgently.
“Why? Who are you? Who was that man?” Clay whispered back.
“That man is my uncle, and he is the only person allowed in the library. Nobody else. Not even me… officially. There’s no saying what he’ll do if he sees you.”
“Don’t I have a second at least? It looked like he was going to fix something.”
“He has a workshop in the boiler room. Sometimes he’s in there for hours, but sometimes only minutes—” She looked stricken.
“Isn’t there somewhere we can hide? I have to talk to you. Please.” Clay felt as though he were being let in on the first real secret of his life. He couldn’t leave without knowing more.
The girl hesitated. It seemed to Clay that part of her wanted him to stay.
“All right. In there.” She pointed to a door.
She led him into a large underground room that looked something like a laboratory with a long counter, a sink as big as a bathtub, and jars and jars of solvents and glue. Shelves were piled with papers and cardboards of varying weights, as well as leather and thread. It was a room for restoring and repairing books, but it looked like it had not been used in years.
The girl hovered nervously while Clay inspected the shelves. There was an awkward silence.
Clay didn’t know where to start. “I’m Clay, I go to the camp.”
“Camp?”
“You know, Earth Ranch. Right down the hill.”
“Oh, yes, the camp,” she said vaguely. Clay had the impression that she’d never heard of it, which was close to impossible, given that Earth Ranch was the only other habitation on the island.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Mira. Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure.”
Clay laughed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure,” he repeated.
“Are you mocking me?”
“No, of course not,” he said hastily. He didn’t want to offend her. He was sure she would run away at the slightest provocation. “So, what are you doing here? I mean, do you live on the island or what?”
“I summer on the island… well, in the library,” said Mira, no longer whispering, but still with hesitation in her voice.
“Summer?” Clay had never heard the word used as a verb before.
“Yes, I spend summers here.”
“What about the rest of the year?”
“Oh. I… I go to boarding school,” she said, as though she’d almost forgotten.
Mira explained that she was an orphan; her uncle Ben was her only surviving relative.
“The problem is, nobody can know I’m here because nobody’s supposed to enter the library except him; he’s the caretaker. It’s in Mr. Price’s will.”
“So you have to stay inside?”
“That’s right.”
“You know, people think you’re a ghost,” said Clay, studying her. “The ghost of Price’s niece.”
“Golly! Imagine that!” She seemed amused by the idea. It was the first time he’d seen her smile.
“She lived here with her uncle, too. That’s kind of a big coincidence, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.… Hey, do you think I’m her ghost and I just don’t know it?” Mira giggled. “Boo!”
Clay forced a laugh, though for some reason he didn’t think her idea was so funny.
“Well, if you’re not a ghost, what do you do here all day? Seems kind of… boring.”
“Oh, there’s tons to do! Read, for one. I just adore books! Positively adore them,” exclaimed Mira, forgetting her nervousness in her enthusiasm. “And if I’m ever tired of reading, I can always watch a picture show. There’s a projector here and everything. I absolutely adore the cinema, almost as much as books. Don’t you? I’m practically a cinema fanatic! What’s your favorite motion picture?”
“Of all time? I don’t know. I used to be really into Star Trek. Not so much the movies, though. Mostly the TV show… you know, the old-school one,” he added to make sure he didn’t sound too uncool.
“Star Trek? Is that about Hollywood stars?” she asked hopefully. “Where are they going on a trek to?”
“No.” Clay laughed, incredulous. Who didn’t know Star Trek? “It’s science fiction. You know, spaceships and stuff?”
“Oh,” said Mira, disappointed. “Well, I’m going to be a big Hollywood star someday. Katharine Hepburn is my idol.”
“Who’s that?”
Now Mira looked incredulous. “Do you live under a rock? She’s only the greatest actress in the world! Bringing Up Baby? The Philadelphia Story?”
Clay shook his head. “Sorry, never heard of her.”
“Well, I just think she’s the bee’s knees. She’s a very modern woman. Can you believe she only ever wears pants?”
“So?”
“Maybe it doesn’t mean anything to you—you’re a boy. But imagine if you had to wear skirts every day. It makes it so hard to ride a bike or a horse. It’s so unfair!”
“So wear pants, then,” said Clay.
“Easy for you to say! Uncle Ben doesn’t approve.” Mira pouted. “But when I get older, I’m going to be just like Red—that’s what Cary Grant calls Katharine Hepburn. She has red hair, just like mine. You wouldn’t know it from her films, of course. They’re in black and white.”
“They must be really old.”
“True art never gets old.” Mira sniffed.
“How old are you, anyway?”
“What a question to ask a lady!”
Clay was now certain Mira was the oddest girl he’d ever met. She seemed to be locked in some kind of time capsule—as if she had stepped out of one of the old movies she loved so much. At the same time, there was something dream-like about her; when he was with her, the rest of the world seemed to fall away.
“Have you ever seen Citizen Kane?” asked Mira. “Uncle Ben made me watch it. He thinks it’s the best film of all time, but it gave me the creeps.”
“I know what you mean,” said Clay. “My brother likes it, too, but I think it’s boring.”*
“We agree on something, then. Maybe we can be pals after all. Deal?”
“Deal,” said Clay.
They smiled at each other.
Clay was just thinking how glad he was that he had forced his way into the library, when the door opened. They were caug
ht.
Correction: Clay was caught.
Mira slunk out of sight.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
THE CUSTODIAN
You—boy! What are you doing here?”
Uncle Ben was still wearing his goggles and gloves, but he was no longer carrying a torch; he was pointing a finger in Clay’s direction.
Clay took a step forward, a small step, to show he wasn’t afraid. Which was ridiculous, because of course he was afraid. Very afraid.
“Hi, I’m from the camp. I’m a guest of your niece,” he anxiously explained. “I mean, not that she invited me. She didn’t—I just kind of, um, let myself in.” He didn’t want to get her in trouble.
“Niece? I don’t have a niece,” Uncle Ben growled, in a voice that sounded like the revving of an outboard motor.
“Well, whatever you call her, the girl in the library, then,” said Clay.
Uncle Ben glared. “The only girl in this library died almost seventy years ago. Is this your idea of a joke?”
Clay glanced at Mira, who was suddenly visible again, tiptoeing out of the room. She nodded vehemently, signaling that Clay should play along. Then she slipped out the door.
“Uh, you’re right, I’m sorry,” said Clay, remembering that officially Mira wasn’t supposed to be there, either. “The other campers say there’s a ghost girl haunting the library, and… I guess the joke wasn’t very funny.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
Clay kept expecting Uncle Ben to wink, but he didn’t. He was so stone-faced it was as though Mira didn’t exist and never had.
“Now, I’m asking you one more time: How did you get in here?” barked Uncle Ben. “Answer me, boy, before I throw you out on your ear!”
“Um, I got in through the side door. I recognized the quote.”