Nicholas heard her plainly enough, but he could not tear his eyes away to look at her. The innumerable books were all bound in leather, with their titles and author names on the spines in gold lettering, and already he had determined that they were divided into categories—history, botany, chemistry, astronomy, mathematics, physics, economics, fiction, poetry, and more—and organized by systems particular to each category. They varied widely in size, from volumes as slim as slate boards to enormous tomes the size of cinder blocks. And to Nicholas they were all beautiful, every one of them.
“Boy!” Mrs. Brindle said again, at last drawing near. She bent to study his face in the lamplight. “Are you unwell? Shall I fetch the nurse?” She looked anxiously at the door. “It will take me some time to rouse her….”
Nicholas pulled himself together. He didn’t want Mr. Collum hearing of a nurse’s visit on his first morning at the Manor. He leaped up and flashed Mrs. Brindle a winning smile. “Thanks so much, Mrs. Brindle, but please don’t trouble yourself on my account. You see, I’m perfectly well!”
“My word!” Mrs. Brindle said, startled by his abrupt recovery. “Gracious!”
“It was just a false alarm,” said Nicholas. “You’re aware of my condition, I take it? Every so often I have to sleep—it can’t be helped—and for a moment I thought a spell was coming on. That’s why I hurried in here and sat in a chair, just in case. Apparently I was mistaken. Tell me,” he hurried on, “are we allowed to read these books?” He gestured at the bookshelves.
Mrs. Brindle seemed not to have heard his question. “Step aside and let me sit down,” she said, shaking her head. “You just stole half my life away.” She lowered herself into the armchair, leaned back, and stared up at the ceiling.
“Shall I fetch the nurse, Mrs. Brindle?” Nicholas asked.
“That foolish girl couldn’t mend a sock,” Mrs. Brindle muttered. “Just give me a moment to collect myself. And carry that lamp away—its fumes are troubling my eye.”
Nicholas was only too happy to do so. In the far corner of the library, he had spied a beautiful mahogany desk and beside it—to his delight—a gigantic dictionary on a stand. He walked over to the dictionary, glancing eagerly about him as he did. The library’s other furniture included a chaise longue, a rocking chair, and several armchairs, each with its own reading table and lamp. Positioned against the far wall was a rolling ladder that could be pushed along narrow tracks in the floor, providing access to the higher bookshelves, which were very high indeed—the top shelf was at least ten feet from the floor. The south wall, the only one not covered with books, seemed mostly made up of windows, and beneath each one was a cushioned, sun-faded window seat. Nicholas grinned at everything his eyes fell upon. In his opinion the library could not have been more perfect.
Gently laying both hands on the dictionary, Nicholas closed his eyes, as if he might absorb the words through his fingers. He felt almost giddy. In the schoolhouse at Littleview, there had also been a dictionary on a stand—a much smaller dictionary on a much more rickety stand, but he had loved it. It was among the few books he’d ever been able to read. Sure, he had read countless newspapers, for newspapers were easy to come by—one could always find them discarded in the street or left upon tables—but actual books were seldom available, perhaps because the orphanage had lacked funds to obtain them, perhaps because no one thought of it or cared. As a result, the only books Nicholas had read were school textbooks, a handful of novels he had swiped from the Littleview staff, a volume of fairy tales, an outdated almanac—and that dictionary in the schoolhouse.
He hadn’t been able to read all of the dictionary, unfortunately; perhaps that was why it stood out so prominently in his mind. On the first occasion he had asked permission to use it, Nicholas had lingered at the stand for several minutes. He had found the definition he’d sought right away, but then had continued reading, page after page, the way a normal person might read a story. He had become much too interested to stop. Indeed, he was so absorbed that he didn’t notice the teacher frowning at him from behind her desk. He was turning the pages too quickly, standing there too long, and the teacher thought he was avoiding his schoolwork.
“Nicholas,” she had snapped. “You no longer have permission to use the dictionary. Return to your seat.”
Nicholas’s protests had been to no avail. On the contrary, they were much to his detriment, for as punishment he was forbidden to use the dictionary from that day on. What an agony that had been! But now here sat this one in the library, just waiting for him, and thousands of other books besides. The discovery was enough to push away, for the moment, any thought of Spiders or of nightmares in isolated, locked rooms. An entire library! It seemed too much to have hoped for—and indeed Nicholas never had.
“Oh, you monster!” he heard Mrs. Brindle cry. “You couldn’t wait, could you? Simply couldn’t wait!”
Reluctantly, Nicholas opened his eyes and turned. Mrs. Brindle had risen from the chair and was rubbing at her hip. He felt a ridiculous impulse to hide behind the mahogany desk, as if he might actually remain in the library forever, reading as much as he pleased and sneaking crumbs from the kitchen at night. Like an elf, he thought. The library elf. But that was the stuff of fairy tales.
“Well, hurry up,” Mrs. Brindle called to him impatiently, as if she had been waiting for ages. “I can’t very well see without my lamp, can I?”
Nicholas rejoined her, and together they made their way out. Nicholas paused in the doorway to look back. The books sat upon the shelves in heavy shadow now, like hidden objects in a mystery. As if every unread book were not mystery enough, even in the light. Nicholas turned away with a pang in his chest.
“I’ll be back,” he whispered.
In the entranceway again, Mrs. Brindle seemed at a loss for how to continue with the tour. By this time others had begun to stir in the Manor. Drifting down the passages came the sounds of shuffling footsteps, doors opening and closing, sleepy conversations—and the distinct rattling of pots and pans. Mrs. Brindle, touching her hair as if to ensure it was still there, peered intently down the passage leading toward the rear of the Manor. Toward the kitchen, as Nicholas knew.
“Is it that late already?” she muttered, apparently to herself. “And I still have to finish this infernal…”
Mrs. Brindle glanced toward the door of Mr. Collum’s office. Nicholas thought she was worried about being reprimanded. Then he realized that she’d actually glanced toward an antique mirror that stood beside the door. It was a large, oval-shaped mirror on a rotating base, the sort one normally might find in a dressing room, and Nicholas could not fathom why it was there. But it was easy enough to guess why the housekeeper had glanced at it.
“Mrs. Brindle,” he said, “would you mind telling me what that mirror is for? The entranceway seems an odd place for it.”
Mrs. Brindle seized upon Nicholas’s question with eagerness. Stepping over to the mirror, as if standing in front of the glass would make it easier to explain, she said, “Why, Mr. Collum had it carried down from upstairs so that he might use it during free times, when it’s his turn to watch the library.”
“I see!” Nicholas said (for he really did), and he started to ask Mrs. Brindle when free times were, and how long they lasted, and whether children were allowed to take books out of the library. But Mrs. Brindle doggedly continued her explanation.
“Naturally, someone has to watch the children,” she said, trying to pat her hair into place and inspect her teeth inconspicuously. “You can’t have them unsupervised, can you? Now, with both doors open, you see, and the mirror turned just so, Mr. Collum can work at his desk in here”—Mrs. Brindle turned her thumb toward the door beside them—and still keep an eye on you children in there.” She pointed across the entranceway.
“I see,” Nicholas said again, and he wondered how long he would have to stand there saying “I see, I see.”
Not long, as it turned out, for already Mrs. Brindle was smooth
ing her apron, her face wearing an expression of somewhat strained composure. She looked both dissatisfied and hopeful.
“Are we off to the kitchen now, Mrs. Brindle?” Nicholas asked.
Mrs. Brindle looked shocked. “Why, what makes you—”
“I’m eager to see it,” Nicholas said, cutting her off. “Shall we go? I can keep carrying the lamp, if you like.”
Mrs. Brindle, recovering, agreed that this would be nice.
If Mrs. Brindle had ever had any intention of continuing the tour beyond the kitchen, it vanished like the steam rising from the pots on the stove. For no sooner had she laid eyes on Mr. Griese’s shiny red face—whether red from heat or from Mrs. Brindle’s appearance was unclear to Nicholas—than she forgot the existence of any world beyond the swinging doors. Nor did she seem aware of Nicholas’s presence, but launched at once into a series of questions about Mr. Griese’s health; and how he had slept (she knew it had been his turn to chaperone the boys’ dormitory); and how he ever managed to make do with such a small supply of eggs, vegetables, and milk; and so on. She asked these questions in a lively, concerned tone—and without once interrupting herself, Nicholas noticed, to direct angry comments at unseen wicked beasts.
Mr. Griese, for his part, was too engaged in his work and in trying to answer Mrs. Brindle’s questions to pay Nicholas any attention at all. “Oh, as for that, Mrs. Brindle,” he said, trying simultaneously to peer into a cupboard and salt his pots while casting nervous sidelong glances at the housekeeper, “there’s actually a plentiful supply of good eggs and milk, you know, and along with my herb garden—”
“Oh, Mr. Griese, you’re entirely too modest! Why, in my experience—”
After some minutes of this, Nicholas backed slowly out of the kitchen. He knew he ought to stay, but the smells, sounds, and talk of cooking had greatly intensified his hunger pangs until he could no longer stand it—he’d had nothing to eat since a sandwich on the train. Perhaps he could just look around until breakfast, he thought as he slipped out. After all, no one had specifically forbidden it.
In the passage outside the kitchen, Nicholas paused to let his eyes adjust. He rubbed his bare arms. The kitchen had been well lit and warm, and he no longer had the lamp. Luckily, the weak light of dawn was filtering into the Manor through windows here and there, and it grew stronger by the minute. Nicholas headed back the way he and Mrs. Brindle had come, thinking to take a peek into the drawing room and the main parlor, which, according to the housekeeper, were often used for group activities.
Before he reached the entranceway, Nicholas turned onto the side passage that crossed behind the grand staircase. His footsteps were muffled now by a thick carpet that covered the center part of the floor, and the atmosphere grew quieter as he drew farther away from the kitchen. It also grew darker and creepier. All the candles in the wall sconces were unlit, and the overhead fixtures were predictably missing their bulbs. There was a window at the far end of the passage, but it was half-shrouded by curtains, and quite a distance away. Between Nicholas and the window, everything was cast in deep shadow. Perhaps he ought to explore elsewhere. What was the point of looking if he couldn’t see anything?
He was on the verge of turning back when he heard a faint, rhythmic tapping sound. It was very much like a knock on a door, only softer and more repetitive: three gentle taps, followed by silence, then three more. What can that be? he thought, his curiosity instantly aroused. The sound seemed to be coming from the drawing room—or what he believed to be the drawing room, anyway—and Nicholas, listening intently, crept closer on his tiptoes. (It never occurred to him not to investigate, but the taps were certainly strange enough to make him cautious.) He heard another three taps, then silence, then three more. And now he stood just outside the door. With a quick glance left and right, Nicholas bent and peered through the keyhole.
At once he could tell that there was a lamp in the room, for an unseen light source, not particularly bright but steadier than a candle, illuminated his view. That view, unfortunately, was limited to the end of a table, a strip of paneled wall beyond it, and the outer stone edge of what appeared to be a fireplace. By a subtle change in the shadows on the floor, however, Nicholas determined that whoever held the lamp was moving slowly and deliberately along that wall. Soon he should be able to see who it was. Meanwhile the tapping had continued—three taps, silence, three more.
Then the lamp appeared in his keyhole view, and by the light of its low flame Nicholas saw Mr. Collum. He was inching along the far wall, tapping on the wood panels with his knuckles, then pressing his ear to the wall and tapping again. If he had not been tapping and listening in places both high and low, Nicholas would have seen only the man’s long legs. Fortunately, though, Mr. Collum bent forward to tap and listen at a low spot, and Nicholas could plainly see the intensely inquisitive expression on his face before he straightened and moved on toward the fireplace.
Nicholas scarcely had time to wonder what Mr. Collum was up to before there came an enormous clamor of footsteps and talking from the direction of the East Wing. A distant door had been opened, and all the boys were moving through the Manor, loudly tramping and jostling one another as they headed to the dining hall for breakfast. Nicholas moved away from the keyhole. He had better hurry back to Mrs. Brindle and see what was expected of him. He began to tiptoe down the passage, but he had taken only a few steps when he heard the drawing-room door creak open behind him.
Nicholas felt his heart quicken. There was no time to disappear around the corner, still several paces away. He was going to have to talk his way out of this. He took a deep breath and turned around. Mr. Collum was emerging from the drawing room, a look of deep concentration on his face. He had yet to see Nicholas standing there in the shadows, and Nicholas was uncertain whether he ought to speak, which would startle and possibly anger Mr. Collum, or wait to be seen, which might seem odd enough behavior to be deemed suspicious.
As Nicholas stood trying to decide, Mr. Collum closed the door and then—as if on a sudden whim—tapped on the wall beside it. He listened, then leaned to press his ear against the wall and tap again. As he did so, however, his eyes fell upon Nicholas and grew extraordinarily round and white, like miniature full moons. His mouth dropped open.
Instantly Nicholas cried, “Oh, good morning, Mr. Collum! I thought that was you, but I wasn’t sure—it’s awfully gloomy in this passage, isn’t it? And your lamp is hardly turned up at all. You must have eyes like an owl! I’m afraid I took a wrong turn on the way to your office. Mrs. Brindle said… Mr. Collum? Are you all right?”
After his initial shock at seeing Nicholas, Mr. Collum had leaped away from the wall as if it had bitten his ear, and his large nostrils were flaring and contracting impressively. “I’m quite well, thank you!” Mr. Collum replied, though his agitated, angry tone did not suit his words at all. “Only I thought perhaps I heard a mouse in the wall!”
“A mouse?” said Nicholas, glancing at the wall with a feigned look of concern. “Shall I fetch a trap and some cheese?”
“What? Oh… no,” said Mr. Collum, recovering. He straightened his waistcoat, adjusted his tie. “Thank you, Nicholas, but I shall deal with it myself. Did you say you were looking for my office?”
“Yes, sir,” said Nicholas as Mr. Collum locked the drawing-room door. “Mrs. Brindle thought you might want to tell me the rules.”
“Indeed I do,” Mr. Collum said brusquely, tucking away his key. With a thrill of surprise, Nicholas saw that it was the same key he’d used the night before—the one with a ribbon tied to it. Did that single key work on every door in the Manor? Had Nicholas unwittingly made a mold of a skeleton key?
“We will speak in my office,” Mr. Collum was saying. “Follow me.”
Nicholas correctly guessed that he was to take this instruction literally, and so he did not walk beside Mr. Collum but trailed after him. It required a considerable effort to hold back, though. His relief at not getting into trouble had given
him such a terrific burst of energy that he could hardly contain it. He walked with light, bouncing steps, half skipping, and this seemed to help.
Back in the Manor’s entranceway, Nicholas looked on eagerly as Mr. Collum unlocked the door to his office. Sure enough, he used the same key as before. Mr. Collum, sensing Nicholas’s watchful gaze, glanced suspiciously over his shoulder. Nicholas quickly suppressed his smile and averted his eyes.
From where he stood next to the large mirror, he could see all the way down the north-running passage to the swinging kitchen doors at the rear of the Manor, and even as he looked, he saw a frowning Mrs. Brindle poke her head out of the kitchen. (It was rather a slow poke, like a turtle extending its head from its shell.) Evidently she had finally noticed his absence and was looking for him. Nicholas waved and smiled, and Mrs. Brindle stared at him in some confusion. But seeing he was with Mr. Collum, she only shook her head and withdrew it again.
The director’s office was tidy and well appointed, with a desk, filing cabinets, and bookshelves. Opening the curtains over his window, Mr. Collum revealed a pleasant view of the front lawn and the trees beyond it. The sky had cleared overnight, and the morning looked to be beautiful, with a brightening blue sky overhead and birds twittering loudly in the shrubs. Mr. Collum blinked in the sudden light, faint though it was, and took his seat in a straight-backed chair behind the desk. Nicholas started to sit in the chair across from him, then thought better of it, for Mr. Collum had not actually invited him to do so.
Mr. Collum opened a drawer, took out the by-now-familiar ledger, and laid it on the desk before him. He considered it a moment without opening it. Then he grunted bemusedly, as if laying it aside in his mind, and looked up at Nicholas. “Here is what you must know, Nicholas. Observe the rules and we shall have no problems; disregard them and we shall have very serious problems indeed. I believe that is clear enough for you. The rules are clear as well: You must be where you are expected to be when you are expected to be there, obey all Manor staff without argument or disrespectful reply, and waste nothing. Can you remember these?”