Page 9 of Love Immortal
Eight
I guess the altercation with Callahan caused a bigger stir than I thought because since it happened, I’ve begun to notice people looking at me oddly. Even at the start of my shift in the library today, I saw two students whispering to each other while pointing at me. But I’d rather concentrate on books than all that drama. Jessi, who’s wearing a Megadeth shirt (don’t ask me how one goes from Duran Duran to death metal), is giving me the how-to on handling antiques. Turns out she’s doing a master’s in library science, and working here is part of her graduation requirement.
“You see those heavy chubsters?” she asks, pointing at the pair of two-foot-tall, six-inch-wide illuminated manuscripts sitting on a shelf inside the glass box. I nod. “If someone asks for one of them, you have to give them this pillow display to keep the manuscript from touching the table. The binding is ancient, so you want to protect it as much as possible.”
“Got it,” I say.
“And I’m sure you already know this, but absolutely no gloves,” Jessi continues. “They can actually get stuck to the pages and damage the old ink. Bare hands only.”
“I know we’re not supposed to let anyone bring pens inside, only pencils, but do people actually try to mark up the books?” I ask skeptically.
Jessi gives me a side-eye. “Don’t ever underestimate human stupidity, Jonathan. People have climbed the pyramids in Giza to graffiti their initials. They definitely try to write in books, even knowing some are hundreds of years old. Like, I get it, some books are more valuable because of the notations left by someone famous. For example, we have a rehearsal script of Sweeney Todd with original cast autographs, but that’s from its debut Broadway run in 1979. It’s not valuable because some idiot thought to doodle on it for fun.”
“Wow. Do we really have an original Sweeney Todd script here?” I ask.
Jessi chuckles, amused. “You should save your wows for stuff like Shakespeare’s first folio. There are only two hundred and thirty-five of them in the entire world.”
Actually, I saw the Shakespeare folio during the exhibit the library hosted last year, but it still blows my mind that we have it. “How did we even get it?” I ask in awe.
Jessi’s forehead wrinkles. “I think the way we get most items—it was donated by the estate of some rich collector after they died.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Which one, rich people hoarding relics, or dying and not being able to take their hoard with them to the netherworld?”
I laugh. “I guess both.”
“Then the answer is: All. The. Time,” Jessi says with a smirk. “At least most of our collection was purchased with grant money or donated and didn’t involve anyone invading other countries and stealing their artifacts, unlike most museums. Although some items here do have questionable provenance.” She smacks her lips in disapproval. “I’ll show you how to use our cataloging system in a bit. You’ll see that the origin of every item is listed as far back as the library can trace it, but sometimes, there’s just no record of how a collector procured a particular book. It might have been stolen or plundered in war, and we’ll never know.” She sighs. “Anyway, we’re getting off-topic. Back to book handling: always make sure to inspect the materials after someone works with them. If you notice any new damage, even if it wasn’t directly caused by the patrons, report it immediately. Bookworm might sound like a cute name, but it ain’t so cute when you see the holes they make.”
“Yikes,” I say, grimacing. There is just so much to know about this stuff. I feel all giddy just being in the vicinity of these fragile, ancient things.
After Jessi is done quizzing me on proper procedure, she takes me back to the front desk and shows me how to use the electronic catalog on the computer, which is so much more efficient than navigating the card catalog. But it still takes me a second to learn all the different directories. Jessi leaves me to practice on my own for the rest of the evening.
Out of curiosity, I look up the stolen book. After a few seconds of processing, the entry pops up in bright green letters. As expected, it doesn’t say much that I haven’t already heard from Ms. Tarnow, but after my conversation with Jessi, I want to check the book’s provenance. The catalog says it came from the estate of Mr. George Druckenmiller—a wealthy collector who bought it from a European antiques dealer in the early 1920s—but before that, its origin is unknown. I wonder if this book could be a part of some shady transaction or if it was obtained illegally by the dealer. Or maybe Mr. Druckenmiller was simply terrible at maintaining records of his purchases. Sadly, there’s no one to ask anymore.
All in all, my first library shift is a success, and hanging out with Jessi improves my mood greatly. I don’t even care when I get completely drenched on my way back to the dorm. That’s New England weather for you—when I started my shift, it was pleasant and sunny, and now the sky is dumping buckets just to spite the weather forecast. My high-tops are sloshing with water by the time I enter my room. I take them off, empty them in the shared bathroom, and place them on the radiator to dry.
Leaning against the window frame, I peer out into the dark forest looming past the edge of campus. The pathways and benches are deserted because of the dreadful weather. Shrouded by dense black clouds, the moonlight is faint, but the endless curtain of rain creates a strange, silvery halo around the treetops. It looks like fog, and for a moment, I’m reminded of the dream I had the other night, the one in which someone was calling out to me. The memory is so vivid that I’m suddenly gripped by an intense feeling that I’m still in that dream. I feel the hypnotic longing, the ephemeral whisper of the voice on the back of my neck. Disoriented, I whip around, expecting to find the owner of that voice standing behind me, but I am alone in my room.
Of course there isn’t anybody here , I tell myself in the most rational, calm manner I can muster. I latch the window securely, trying to shake off the thought that someone in the woods is watching me, concealed by the darkness and the rain.
That night, I don’t dream of the mysterious voice. Instead, my dreams are a confused, fractured mess, alternating between being haunted by Clay’s absent gaze and cold fingers and the snarling, vicious faces of the legacies, who are causing havoc at another party and trying to pin the blame on me.
When I finally wake up, groggy and barely rested, I hear the howling of police sirens outside.