Key of Knowledge
Page 6
She sat back, closed her eyes, and pondered the clue Rowena had given her. It had to do with the past, the present, and the future.
Big help.
Knowledge, naturally. Lies and truths. Heart and mind.
Where one goddess walks.
There’d been a goddess, a singing goddess, in Malory’s clue. And Malory—the art lover who’d dreamed of being an artist—had found her key in a painting.
If the other two followed the same theme, logic dictated that she, the book lover, might find hers in or around books.
“Catching up on your sleep, Dana?”
Dana’s eyes snapped open, stared directly into Joan’s disapproving ones. “No. Concentrating.”
“If you’ve nothing better to do, you can help Marilyn in the stacks.”
Dana pasted a sunny smile on her face. “I’d be happy to. Should I ask Sandi to take over the resource desk?”
“You don’t seem overrun with questions and requests.”
And you don’t seem overrun with paperwork and administrative duties, Dana thought, since you’ve got so much time to crawl up my butt. “I’ve just completed one involving private enterprise and capitalism. But if you’d rather I—”
“Excuse me.” A woman stopped at the desk, with her hand on the arm of a boy of about twelve. The grip made Dana think of the way Flynn held Moe’s leash. With the hope that she could keep him under control and the certain knowledge that he would bolt at the first opportunity.
“I wonder if you could help us. My son has a paper due . . . tomorrow,” she added with heated emphasis that had the boy hunching his shoulders. “On the Continental Congress. Can you tell us which books might be the most helpful at this stage of the game?”
“Of course.” Like a chameleon, Joan’s cold fish of a face warmed into smiles. “I’d be happy to show you several sources in our U.S. history section.”
“Excuse me.” Unable to help herself, Dana tapped the sulky boy on the shoulder. “Seventh grade? Mrs. Janesburg, U.S. history?”
His already pouty bottom lip drooped even further. “Yeah.”
“I know just what she looks for. You put in a couple of solid hours on this, you can ace it.”
“Really?” The mother laid a hand on Dana’s, gripped it like a lifeline. “That would be a miracle.”
“I had Mrs. Janesburg for U.S. and world history.” Dana winked at the boy. “I’ve got her number.”
“I’ll leave you in Ms. Steele’s capable hands.” Though her smile remained in place, Joan spoke through gritted teeth.
Dana leaned forward, spoke to the boy in a conspiratorial whisper. “She still get teary-eyed when she teaches Patrick Henry’s ‘Give me liberty’ spiel?”
He brightened up considerably. “Yeah. She had to stop and blow her nose.”
“Some things never change. Okay, here’s what you need.”
Fifteen minutes later, while her son checked out his books with his brand-new library card, the mother stopped back by Dana’s desk. “I just wanted to thank you again. I’m Joanne Reardon, and you’ve just saved my firstborn’s life.”
“Oh, Mrs. Janesburg’s tough, but she wouldn’t have killed him.”
“No. I would have. You got Matt excited about doing this paper, if for no other reason than making him think he’d be pulling one over on his teacher.”
“Whatever works.”
“My sentiments exactly. Anyway, I appreciate it. You’re wonderful at your job.”
“Thanks. Good luck.”
She was wonderful at her job, Dana concurred. Goddamn it, she was. The evil Joan and her toothy niece were going to be sorry when they didn’t have Dana Steele to kick around anymore.
AT the end of her shift she tidied her area, gathered up a few books she’d checked out, then hefted her briefcase. Another thing she would miss, Dana thought, was this end-of-the-day routine. The putting everything in order, taking a last look around the stacks, the tables, the sweet little cathedral to books before the walk home.
She would also miss being just a short, pleasant walk from work to her apartment. It was only one of the reasons she had refused to move in with Flynn when he’d bought his house.
She could still walk to Indulgence, she reminded herself. If she felt like a two-mile hike. Since that was unlikely to happen, she decided she should appreciate what she had now, while she still had it.
She liked the predictability of her habitual route home, the things she saw season by season, year by year. Now, with fall in full swing, the streets were full of golden lights that streamed through the blaze of trees. And the surrounding mountains rose up like some fabulous tapestry woven by the gods.
She could hear kids, freed from school and not yet locked into the homework hour, shouting as they raced around the little park between the library and her apartment building. The air was just brisk enough to carry along that spicy scent from the bed of mums planted outside the town hall.
The big round clock on the square announced it was 4:05.
She struggled against a wave of resentment when she remembered that, pre-Joan, it would have read 6:35 on her way home.
Screw it. Just appreciate the extra time, the lovely walk on a sunny afternoon.
Pumpkins on the porches, goblins hanging from branches though it was weeks before Halloween. Small towns, she mused, prized their holidays. The days were getting shorter, cooler, but were still warm enough, still long enough to bask in.
The Valley was at its best in autumn, she decided. As close to picture-perfect as Anywhere, America, could get.
“Hey, Stretch. Carry those for you?”
Her pretty bubble of contentment burst. Before she could snarl, Jordan snatched the load of books away, tucked them under his own arm.
“Give me those.”
“I’ve got them. Terrific afternoon, huh? Nothing like the Valley in October.”
She hated that his words mirrored the ones that had played through her mind. “I thought the name of the tune was ‘Autumn in New York.’ ”
“And it’s a good one.” He tipped up the books to read the spines. She had one on Celtic lore, one on yoga, and the latest Stephen King novel.
“Yoga?”
It was like him, just exactly like him, to home in on the one thing that she found moderately embarrassing. “So?”
Big help.
Knowledge, naturally. Lies and truths. Heart and mind.
Where one goddess walks.
There’d been a goddess, a singing goddess, in Malory’s clue. And Malory—the art lover who’d dreamed of being an artist—had found her key in a painting.
If the other two followed the same theme, logic dictated that she, the book lover, might find hers in or around books.
“Catching up on your sleep, Dana?”
Dana’s eyes snapped open, stared directly into Joan’s disapproving ones. “No. Concentrating.”
“If you’ve nothing better to do, you can help Marilyn in the stacks.”
Dana pasted a sunny smile on her face. “I’d be happy to. Should I ask Sandi to take over the resource desk?”
“You don’t seem overrun with questions and requests.”
And you don’t seem overrun with paperwork and administrative duties, Dana thought, since you’ve got so much time to crawl up my butt. “I’ve just completed one involving private enterprise and capitalism. But if you’d rather I—”
“Excuse me.” A woman stopped at the desk, with her hand on the arm of a boy of about twelve. The grip made Dana think of the way Flynn held Moe’s leash. With the hope that she could keep him under control and the certain knowledge that he would bolt at the first opportunity.
“I wonder if you could help us. My son has a paper due . . . tomorrow,” she added with heated emphasis that had the boy hunching his shoulders. “On the Continental Congress. Can you tell us which books might be the most helpful at this stage of the game?”
“Of course.” Like a chameleon, Joan’s cold fish of a face warmed into smiles. “I’d be happy to show you several sources in our U.S. history section.”
“Excuse me.” Unable to help herself, Dana tapped the sulky boy on the shoulder. “Seventh grade? Mrs. Janesburg, U.S. history?”
His already pouty bottom lip drooped even further. “Yeah.”
“I know just what she looks for. You put in a couple of solid hours on this, you can ace it.”
“Really?” The mother laid a hand on Dana’s, gripped it like a lifeline. “That would be a miracle.”
“I had Mrs. Janesburg for U.S. and world history.” Dana winked at the boy. “I’ve got her number.”
“I’ll leave you in Ms. Steele’s capable hands.” Though her smile remained in place, Joan spoke through gritted teeth.
Dana leaned forward, spoke to the boy in a conspiratorial whisper. “She still get teary-eyed when she teaches Patrick Henry’s ‘Give me liberty’ spiel?”
He brightened up considerably. “Yeah. She had to stop and blow her nose.”
“Some things never change. Okay, here’s what you need.”
Fifteen minutes later, while her son checked out his books with his brand-new library card, the mother stopped back by Dana’s desk. “I just wanted to thank you again. I’m Joanne Reardon, and you’ve just saved my firstborn’s life.”
“Oh, Mrs. Janesburg’s tough, but she wouldn’t have killed him.”
“No. I would have. You got Matt excited about doing this paper, if for no other reason than making him think he’d be pulling one over on his teacher.”
“Whatever works.”
“My sentiments exactly. Anyway, I appreciate it. You’re wonderful at your job.”
“Thanks. Good luck.”
She was wonderful at her job, Dana concurred. Goddamn it, she was. The evil Joan and her toothy niece were going to be sorry when they didn’t have Dana Steele to kick around anymore.
AT the end of her shift she tidied her area, gathered up a few books she’d checked out, then hefted her briefcase. Another thing she would miss, Dana thought, was this end-of-the-day routine. The putting everything in order, taking a last look around the stacks, the tables, the sweet little cathedral to books before the walk home.
She would also miss being just a short, pleasant walk from work to her apartment. It was only one of the reasons she had refused to move in with Flynn when he’d bought his house.
She could still walk to Indulgence, she reminded herself. If she felt like a two-mile hike. Since that was unlikely to happen, she decided she should appreciate what she had now, while she still had it.
She liked the predictability of her habitual route home, the things she saw season by season, year by year. Now, with fall in full swing, the streets were full of golden lights that streamed through the blaze of trees. And the surrounding mountains rose up like some fabulous tapestry woven by the gods.
She could hear kids, freed from school and not yet locked into the homework hour, shouting as they raced around the little park between the library and her apartment building. The air was just brisk enough to carry along that spicy scent from the bed of mums planted outside the town hall.
The big round clock on the square announced it was 4:05.
She struggled against a wave of resentment when she remembered that, pre-Joan, it would have read 6:35 on her way home.
Screw it. Just appreciate the extra time, the lovely walk on a sunny afternoon.
Pumpkins on the porches, goblins hanging from branches though it was weeks before Halloween. Small towns, she mused, prized their holidays. The days were getting shorter, cooler, but were still warm enough, still long enough to bask in.
The Valley was at its best in autumn, she decided. As close to picture-perfect as Anywhere, America, could get.
“Hey, Stretch. Carry those for you?”
Her pretty bubble of contentment burst. Before she could snarl, Jordan snatched the load of books away, tucked them under his own arm.
“Give me those.”
“I’ve got them. Terrific afternoon, huh? Nothing like the Valley in October.”
She hated that his words mirrored the ones that had played through her mind. “I thought the name of the tune was ‘Autumn in New York.’ ”
“And it’s a good one.” He tipped up the books to read the spines. She had one on Celtic lore, one on yoga, and the latest Stephen King novel.
“Yoga?”
It was like him, just exactly like him, to home in on the one thing that she found moderately embarrassing. “So?”
