Endymion Spring

19

Blake felt uneasy. A wind had picked up and leaves were blowing against the sides of the locked-up colleges, which towered above him like massive shadows. Gargoyles gripped the ledges of the buildings with chiseled claws and angels peered down at him from the roofs. He was making his way through the dark city streets towards AllSoulsCollege.

Duck trotted behind him. "Did you bring Endymion Spring? " she asked excitedly.

"Of course I did," he answered, "but you're not to mention it, OK? We can't let anyone know we've got it until we figure out who's the Person in Shadow."

"And then what?"

It was such a simple question, but it made him stop in his tracks. He wasn't sure.

"I don't know," he said uncertainly.

Beside them an enormous drum-shaped building with blackened windows and a silver dome — the Radcliffe Camera — grew out of an islanded garden in the middle of a cobbled square. Just behind them was the Bodleian Library, a vast stone crown with windows lit up like jewels. Somewhere in the Upper Reading Room, beneath the rows of glowing lamps, their mother was working into the evening.

Until now, Blake had expected someone — either Jolyon or Psalmanazar or even Duck — to tell him what to do, but he no longer felt he could trust anyone. It was up to him to solve the mystery on his own.

Even Endymion Spring, it seemed, had abandoned him. All day long the book had taunted him with its silence. The black page was still there, warning him of the Person in Shadow, but there was no sign of the original riddle he had seen, nor any clues about the future.

To his left he could see the imposing walls of AllSoulsCollege, its thistle-like minaret and distinctive towers steeped in shadow. Inside its gates was yet another library, a chapel-like building with row upon row of leather books, reached by curving wooden staircases. The entire city, it seemed, was built of books. Stacked on top of each other, slotted side by side, they fitted together like bricks to form a tremendous fortification of reading, a labyrinth of words. There were even miles of books beneath him now, in tunnels below the ground. The university was an immense walk-in library. The Last Book could be hidden anywhere.

Endymion Spring squirmed suddenly in Blake's knapsack, thumping him in the small of the back.

"Hold on," he said. "I need to take a look." He grabbed Duck's elbow and steered her towards a large, old-fashioned lantern hanging from a sconce on the wall, opposite the Church of St. Mary the Virgin.

The wind was gathering strength and the pages of the blank book whipped back and forth like a thing possessed, flickering past his eyes so quickly he couldn't tell whether they contained any new information. Once or twice, he thought he glimpsed streaks of words, but they could have been smudges, shadows, anything. The lamp threw restless shapes against the stone buildings like autumn leaves.

Suddenly, a gust of wind tunneled through a nearby alley and seized the book from his hands. It almost flew away from him, rising towards the church, but he managed to cage it against his chest like a frightened bird before it broke free. Heart racing, he stuffed the volume back inside his bag. It wasn't safe to take any chances — not here, not now, not with the members of the Ex Libris Society so close.

"What's happening?" cried Duck, her voice grabbed by a fist of wind and hurled down the street.

"I don't know! The book seems to be afraid for some reason."

"Blake, I don't like it," she whimpered. "I'm scared."

"I know. I am too."

"Maybe this is all a mistake," she said. "Maybe we shouldn't have brought the book with us."

"But we had to," he insisted. "It's not safe to leave it behind either. I'm not letting it out of my sight ever again."

He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but was rapidly losing his nerve. The quivering book alarmed him. The Person in Shadow might be waiting for them just around the corner. Endymion Spring might be telling them to turn the other way.

"Don't worry," he said again. "It'll be all right, you'll see. Everything will work out fine in the end." The wind forced the words back down his throat.

He noticed the long golden hands of the clock on the church tower overhead passing eight o'clock. The meeting would soon begin. They had to hurry.

Taking Duck's hand, he guided her towards the High Street, where the main entrance was located. Buses pounded past, sending tremors through the pavement. He glanced up at the sky once more for reassurance, but the night seemed to glower back — like the black page in his book. A few ragged clouds scudded across the moon.

The college was guarded by a slender door set into a fancy wooden gate. The arched door was slightly ajar, but an iron chain barred their way in. All SoulsCollege was clearly closed to visitors.

Blake looked around for a bell to ring, but all he could see were three dim statues glaring down at him from above. One wielded an orb and a scepter, another a crosier, while the third seemed to be perched above the others like God, sitting in judgment over everyone who passed by.

A voice suddenly growled at them from the other side of the door. "What do you want?" A face like a gargoyle peered at them through a crevice between the door and the frame.

"We're here to attend a meeting," said Blake nervously, swallowing a lump of fear in his throat. "The Ex Libris Society."

"You are, are you?"

"We're members," lied Duck.

"You're members," repeated the old man mirthlessly. "You expect me to believe that? You're a bit young."

Duck was about to give him a piece of her mind, but Blake nudged her to keep quiet. A bus rattled by. As soon as the vibrations subsided, he added more reasonably, "We've been invited."

The porter took off his bowler hat and poked a stubby finger in his ear, as if he had misheard. Wild hedgerows of curly gray hair sprouted around the sides of his bald head. "I'm not going to open the gate to any kids," he said at last. "Especially foreign kids who waste my time."

He moved as if to slam the door in their faces.

"But we have an invitation!" cried Duck in alarm. "Show him, Blake."

Reluctantly, Blake took the invitation from his jacket pocket and, carefully concealing the professor's name with his thumb, showed it to the man. The porter peered at it closely.

"The Ex Libris Society, huh? Come on, show me the real name on the invitation."

Unwillingly, Blake peeled his thumb from the top of the card.

"Professor Jolyon Fall, eh? Well, I'm honored to meet you, sir." The porter made a poor attempt at a bow. "You're a bit young, aren't you?"

"That's enough!" a sharp voice rang out behind them suddenly. The children spun around in surprise. Diana Bentley, dressed entirely in white, stood out like a marble statue in the dark, the wind whipping a few strands of silver hair around her face like electricity.

She glared at the porter with contempt. "They're with me and here's my invitation." She handed him her card. "Now open the door."

The porter nodded and obediently unchained the door. The children followed Diana inside.

Diana regarded them with interest as they passed under a stone archway towards the front quadrangle.

"Well, this is a surprise," she said mildly. "It's nice to see you, Blake, and this must be your sister—"

"Duck," said Blake, introducing her.

She smiled. "How…cute." She chose the word rather like a candy, which she bit.

"I preferred the porter," Duck muttered gloomily under her breath, but Blake hissed at her to be quiet.

"Just be grateful we're in, OK?" he said. "Behave yourself."

Thick walls of stone surrounded them on all sides, shutting out the sounds of the city. It was as quiet as a tomb. To their right rose two tall, silhouetted towers, which speared the clouds with their spires. A small rectangular lawn, brilliant green by day, but black by night, lay in front of them: a pool of darkness moated by a silver path. On the far side of the quadrangle was a chapel with what looked like ghostly saints floating barefoot in the faintly illuminated windows.

Diana clearly knew the way. She led them round the lawn and down a small stairwell into a dusky crypt beneath the chapel. Echoes shuffled around them in the dark and the air smelled dusty and stale. In the twilit shadows Blake could see rows of short pillars bearing the weight of a low vaulted ceiling, under which several sarcophagi had been stashed.

"What are those?" he asked timidly, reaching out to take Duck's hand. Diana, however, laughed softly and glided in between them, steering them towards a hidden courtyard at the back of the college. Stopping outside a heavy wooden door, half-obscured by vines, she swiftly seized a round iron handle and twisted it open.

They entered a long room with a trussed roof made from blackened beams. A tapestry dominated the far wall. In it, a white stag leaped nimbly through a needlepoint forest, filled with pale trees and tiny embroidered flowers, endlessly pursued by baying hounds — their slavering jaws agape for centuries.

Numerous people were seated before a podium at the front of the room and Blake shied away from their glance as they turned around.

Diana, however, pushed him forwards. "We've got some new recruits," she ventured happily. "Dr. Juliet Somers' children, Duck and Blake."

There were murmurs of surprise, more than approval, but only Prosper Marchand, seated lazily in the front row, seemed unfazed by the intrusion. He was disputing the advantages of digital paper and electronic ink with a group of gray-haired scholars beside him.

"All the books in the world available at your fingertips," he was explaining. "No more crumbling paper or fading print. It's a universal library."

Blake caught sight of Sir Giles Bentley standing nearby, listening to the conversation. His hands were clenched round the neck of a wine bottle, as if he wanted to choke it.

"Codswallop!" he roared suddenly. "Nothing can replace the feel of a nicely bound book. The printed word is sacred."

Involuntarily, Blake stiffened, but the leather-jacketed professor merely took the interruption in stride. "Don't be such a Luddite, Giles," he responded calmly, with a smile. "It's an invention worthy of Gutenberg himself."

Sir Giles eyed him coolly as finally the cork squeaked open and he poured the red liquid into a row of glasses.

Diana had gone over to investigate an assortment of old books on a large polished table next to the podium. Blake followed her, grateful for the diversion. She was wearing elbow-length gloves, which made her hands look like long-stemmed lilies. He guessed you had to wear these if you wanted to handle Sir Giles' books. They must be extremely valuable. Just a tinge of dust, like pollen, smirched her fingertips.

He itched to pick up the books — some were bound with clasps, others studded with jewels — but he could feel Sir Giles watching him as he distributed glasses of wine among the assembled members. He decided to wait for permission first.

"Keep your eyes peeled," he whispered to Duck, who had sidled up to him. "We need to figure out who found the blank book originally — and, more importantly, who's after it now."

There were so many faces. Blake recognized some of them from the dining hall, but many more had crept out of the Oxford woodwork just for the occasion. Mostly, they were academics like his mother, speaking a multitude of languages and clutching thick notebooks, ready to take notes. They spoke in low voices, as though in a library — or a church for worshiping books.

The reverential air was soon broken by Sir Giles, who rang a brass bell on the podium and encouraged everyone to take their seats. The room buzzed with expectation.

Diana Bentley summoned Blake and Duck to her side in the front row and they sat down next to her, feeling excited and yet nervous at the same time.

The meeting of the Ex Libris Society was about to begin.

20

Wearing an elaborate black robe with spidery gold embroidery on its sleeves, Sir Giles positioned himself behind the lectern and with fierce blue eyes surveyed the room.

"First, may I extend a warm welcome to you all on this memorable occasion," he addressed the members formally, "the fortieth anniversary of the foundation of the original Libris Society." There was a polite ripple of applause. "Indeed, it was on a night like this, close to the start of Michaelmas, that a few of us gathered in a college library to track down the world's most elusive books…"

Blake shivered with anticipation, feeling as though he had traveled back in time and was embarking on the same treasure hunt. Fortunately, Endymion Spring had settled down in his knapsack and was no longer drawing attention to itself.

"…a quest that continues to this very day. I see we have attracted some new members," he continued, eyeing the children sternly, "but I regret that not all of our founding members are able to attend."

A hint of a smile curled his lips and Blake felt there was a deeper, more malicious meaning to his words.

At this moment, Jolyon burst into the room. "I'm sorry I'm late," he announced, "but I was unexpectedly detained. I bumped into an old member who incidentally, Giles, says hello."

Sir Giles responded with a cold, forbidding look. His eyebrows darkened his face.

The professor, however, took no notice. He caught Blake's eye and nodded. The boy colored automatically and turned away. He pressed his legs against the bag beside his chair, feeling particularly conspicuous and vulnerable among so many authorities on rare books.

Sir Giles waited for Jolyon to take a seat.

"As I was saying," he resumed haughtily, once the lumbering professor had found a chair next to Paula Richards a few rows back, "a warm welcome to everyone. And may I take this opportunity to remind all present to sign the register, which Mr. Foxsmith is now placing by the door. Many of you will know that we have been signing this book since the original meeting forty years ago, and so we would be honored to continue marking the success and expansion of the society, devoted as it is to the preservation of the printed word, by including our names here tonight.

Blake squirmed in his chair, straining to see what he meant. A young man in a pinstripe suit holding aloft a thick book full of ribbon-like signatures. He placed it on a stand near the door.

Blake nudged Duck with his elbow. "We've got to see inside that book," he whispered. "It'll—"

"Ssh!" hissed a woman behind him.

Sir Giles was beginning his lecture. "And so, without further ado," he said, tapping a sheaf of notes on the lectern, "the reason you are here. My lecture, Whose Mortal Taste? First Editions & Forbidden Fruit…"

While Sir Giles droned on at length about the history of collecting books, mentioning people who had lusted after rare volumes or broken into libraries to seek lost or forgotten tomes, Blake shuffled impatiently in his seat. The other members of the society bowed their heads and listened respectfully, coughing discreetly at intervals, but he was desperate to see the ledger by the door. Here, at last, he might learn the identity of the person who had first found Endymion Spring …and the person who had lurked in the shadow, desiring it.

He glanced over his shoulder and caught Jolyon watching him with a knowing expression. He blushed and turned away.

Finally, Sir Giles clapped his hands together and announced, "And now some of my personal treasures."

There was an audible exclamation round the room as books started exchanging hands, the scholars delving into the printed worlds they knew so well. Quiet murmurs of approval became raptures of delight. Blake was surprised to see that Prosper Marchand made the greatest show of all of examining the books: he stroked the covers, caressed the pages and even held the paper up to the light like a connoisseur of fine wine. Only then did he read the words on the page.

Blake was beginning to despair that the book would ever reach him, when Sir Giles slapped a pair of gloves in his lap. "Put these on if you're tempted to touch anything," he growled, his dark eyebrows knitting together. "Children and books don't mix."

Blake was about to complain, but Diana murmured in his ear that gloves were merely to protect the books from the acid on his skin.

"See, I need them myself," she said with a smile. That made him feel better and he pulled them on obligingly, sliding his hands into the long, snakelike gullets. He wasn't sure that he liked the sensation: it seemed like wearing a blindfold at the end of each finger.

Yet when the book finally reached him Blake was pleased to have them on. Despite their treasure-like status, many of the volumes exhaled tiny clouds of dust that made him want to sneeze. Copies of The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus, Paradise Lost and The Rape of the Lock passed before his eyes — a blur of words and menacing black-and-white illustrations. Duck peered over his shoulder, breathing enviously. Sir Giles had refused to let her touch anything.

Diana then handed him a slender green volume decorated what gold swirls. "It's a copy of Goblin Market," she murmured in his ear. "The goblins look sweet and harmless, except they're not. They have real claws and sharp teeth…"

Breathlessly, Blake opened the covers and saw a multitude of cat-faced, bird-beaked, weasel-furred creatures wearing large hats and long coats. They were smiling and snarling and groveling in an attempt to seduce two young girls to sample their bushels of fruit. "Come buy, come buy," they sang in a chorus that repeated throughout the book like a trail of breadcrumbs, leading him further into the story.

"It's quite safe," she purred. "If you feel a little frightened, all you have to do is close the covers and the danger will disappear. That's the wonderful thing about books."

He wasn't sure that he agreed with her — some books stayed with you long after you read them; they lingered in the unswept corners of your mind — but he wanted to impress her. He sensed that she believed in the power of books just as much as he did. She read them with a child's eye. A child's magic.

Sir Giles, however, broke into his reverie. "What's this?" he barked. "Another book? This isn't one of mine." He lifted a red-colored volume with inky blotches on the cover into the air.

A chair scraped back and Paula Richards stood up. Blake looked behind him.

"I'm afraid I've taken the liberty of bringing in one of the more tempting books from the collection at St. Jerome's ," she addressed the room. "It's a coincidence really. It's another copy of Goblin Market."

"Yes, and a fair example of nineteenth-century publishing, too," started Sir Giles, turning over a couple of pages and expertly assessing its value.

"I'd forgotten we owned it actually," continued Paula Richards, raising her voice slightly and interrupting the domineering man in mid-flow, "until a chance remark from you reminded me of it the other day. I'm impressed. You seem to know a lot about our library's collection."

There was nothing malicious in her tone, but it suddenly occurred to Blake that she was privately accusing Sir Giles of something. Was he the person, perhaps, who had broken into the library the other night and disturbed the books on the shelves? Was he the book-breaker?

The man glared at her coldly, but said nothing.

"Our collections must have a special significance for you, Sir Giles, to make you familiarize yourself with them so well."

"Naturally, I take an interest in all the Oxford libraries," the man explained himself.

Paula Richards sharpened her smile somewhat. "Yes, but this is an extremely rare book. Christina Rossetti's own copy of Goblin Market, one she expressly asked her publishers to bind in red leather — puce, as you called it — when all the others were blue. I must congratulate you. This book is one of a kind. Not many people know it exists…but you did."

Blake sat very still. She might be describing Endymion Spring for all he knew, but he was relieved to hear that she was merely referring to a child's book. Nevertheless, he was surprised to see Paula Richards flash a private smile in Jolyon's direction, as if he had prior knowledge of her accusation and supported her. Clearly there was something he didn't understand going on between them. He couldn't help wondering if this was really about Christina Rossetti. Was it possible that Sir Giles, like Jolyon, knew about Endymion Spring ?

"Well, thank you for the compliment," said Sir Giles, graciously inclining his head. His eyes, however, were livid and his brow had turned a brighter shade of scarlet.

He glanced at his watch — a gesture repeated by many people in the room. "I believe I have spoken for long enough, but I am happy to answer any other questions, or assess any other books, in private. I hereby adjourn the meeting."

There was a short applause before people scurried to the back of the room to consume the remaining glasses of wine..

It was already after nine and Duck and Blake had only a few precious minutes to consult the register by the door before meeting their mother by the library. They were off like a shot, battling their way through the crowd of grown-up arms and legs.

They waited impatiently for a few more senior members of the society to sign the book, and then grabbed the ledger. Blake flipped back through the pages, cartwheeling through time, watching row upon row of signatures concertina past his eyes.

Suddenly a hand clasped him on the shoulder. "You're supposed to sign the page with today's date, not go nosing about in the past," said a familiar voice.

Blake turned to find Prosper Marchand smiling at him. The professor calmly took the register from him and turned back to the page that was clearly indicated with a silk ribbon. An expensive fountain pen, as fat as a cigar, lay on the side table beside him and he picked it up to sign his name. After a Zorro-like finish, he handed to pen to Blake and watched as both he and Duck signed their names painstakingly under his.

"There, now your names are recorded for all posterity," he said, bringing his face just close enough for Blake to smell a spicy cravat of aftershave around his throat. "Just like these unfortunate rascals at the dawn of time."

To Blake's astonishment, the professor flicked back to the very first page of the ledger, where a black-and-white photograph had been pasted above a line of faded signatures. He had only a few seconds to gaze at the grainy image, but like a camera he captured the faces and names. Part of the mystery was solved.

"Mum's the word," whispered Prosper Marchand like a naughty schoolboy and then, with a playful smile, headed back towards the other members of the Ex Libris Society.

Blake turned to Duck in surprise. She, too, looked amazed by the discovery. The photograph had shown a group of young students in old-fashioned clothes, standing in front of a bookcase. It could have been any Oxford library. Most of them were staring woodenly at the camera, their faces washed out by time, their hairstyles preposterously dated; but four figures had grabbed his attention immediately.

Jolyon towered above the other students, a giant of a man with a storm of wavy curls and an already threadbare suit. Attached to his arm, caught in a flirtatious laugh, was an attractive girl with sleek, dark hair, while standing stiffly behind them, dressed in an expensive dinner jacket, was a bullish man who resembled Sir Giles, with just the hint of a mustache crowning his upper lip. And in the far right-hand corner of the picture, almost out of the frame, was another figure, whose nest of wild hair and shabby cloak were instantly recognizable.

Psalmanazar. The lost member of the Libris Society.

21

Blake was still shaking his head as they hurried through the dark streets towards the Bodleian Library. "Who would have guessed Psalmanazar was one of the founding members of the society?" he said. "He must have discovered Endymion Spring all those years ago. I wonder what happened."

Duck remained silent and thoughtful for a while. "But we still don't know who the Person in Shadow is," she remarked gloomily, her breath shining like tinsel in the air. "It could be any one of them."

Or someone else entirely, Blake thought to himself. He and Duck were surrounded by adults, all consumed by their own bookish passions.

It had rained heavily and the street lamps smeared patches of electric blood on the pavement. They rounded the corner into Broad Street and rushed to the entrance of the Sheldonian Theatre, a dark domed building next to the library, where they had arranged to meet their mother. Above them a tall curved railing jutted into the darkness, crowned by a series of crudely carved stone heads: large bearded me who guarded the ceremonial hall beyond. Blake wasn't sure whether they were meant to represent emperors of philosophers. They stared blindly into the night, frowning at the noise spilling out from a beer-lit pub on the opposite side of the street.

Duck and Blake sat quietly on the short flight of steps for a while, thinking over the events of the meeting. It was cold and they pressed together, trying to steal each other's warmth. Stars trembled in the now cloudless sky. There was no sign of their mother.

Blake shifted uncomfortably. The book had stirred again, thumping him in the small of the back, grabbing his attention.

He checked behind him. Nothing — apart from the now-darkened buildings.

"That's weird," he said.

"What's weird?" said Duck, glancing up. She pulled back her hood to see him more clearly.

"The book's behaving strangely again. It was acting like this before the meeting, but why now? It ought to feel safe."

Cautiously, Blake took the bag from his shoulder and opened the main compartment — just an inch. He peeked inside.

The book crouched like a trapped animal in the depths of the bag, an agitated shadow that seemed to sink towards the ground, as if drawn by a magnetic force.

"What's wrong with it?" said Duck, peering over his shoulder.

"I'm not sure. It feels like a paperweight or something. A brick. Really heavy." He frowned. "It's almost as if it's pulling me down there."

He indicated the curb.

"Into the sewer?"

Blake paused, trying to figure it out. "No. I mean, into the ground," he said.

Suddenly his heart started to pound and the blood rushed into his head. He felt giddy with excitement. He stood up, unable to sit still. "I mean," he said, growing even more confident, "Endymion Spring wants us to go where all the books are kept — beneath the library, into the stacks Mum told us about. That's where the book is leading us. The Last Book must be hidden somewhere in the depths of the Bodleian Library!"

Just then their mother appeared, looking pleased with herself.

"So, did you learn anything new?" she asked.

Duck and Blake glanced at each other covertly.

"Oh yeah," they said.

Later that night, while they slept, the telephone rang. The sound crept up the stairs and tapped on each of their doors, but they were fast asleep. Duck burrowed her head beneath her pillow, dreaming of Alice; Blake twitched uneasily, tormented by another nightmare that pursued him like a shadow through the stacks of the Bodleian Library; and Juliet Winters rolled over onto the empty side of the bed, holding out a hand to answer a phone that went on ringing, unanswered.

Thousands of miles away, Christopher Winters put down the receiver and then, after a moment's thought, picked it up again and dialed a different number.

"City cabs," responded a voice on the other end.

"Yes, I'd like a ride to the airport."

22

Blake could hardly wait. He'd been awake for several hours, riffling through Endymion Spring, trying to uncover its secrets; but nothing new had appeared. Both he and Duck were up and dressed long before their mother joined them for breakfast, and they nearly ran to the Bodleian Library, pulling her behind them.

"What's got into you?" she asked, struggling to keep up.

Blake and Duck said nothing, but smiled at each other. Despite the fear creeping into his body, Blake tingled with anticipation, egged by the book, which flickered and jumped in his bag. He passed through the gates of the four-hundred-year-old library into a paved courtyard surrounded by ancient iron-studded doors and tall, fortress-like ramparts. Pushing past a swarm of tourists who had already gathered to take photos of the Earl of Pembroke, a statue standing proudly on its marble plinth, he came to the main entrance. He heaved open the heavy glass doors and walked inside.

He stopped in amazement.

Facing him was a magnificent chamber flooded with an ethereal, unearthly light. Slender columns supported an ornate roof covered with finely chiseled leaves, crests and angels, all carved from the same honey-colored stone that filled Oxford with gleams of gold. Delicate stone bosses descended from the ceiling like marvelous stalactites.

In the far corner was a large wooden chest decorated with painted flowers and birds, fortified by an intricate system of locks. Blake guessed that this had once housed the university's treasures, when the library was expanding its collection of books.

He gazed around him in wonder, feeling as though he had been swept back hundreds of years to medieval Oxford. A deep, damp smell of learning seeped into his bones.

To his right, he could see a small gift shop full of bookish knickknacks and cat-themed souvenirs for the present-day tourists, while to his left was a depository for coats and bags, guarded by the first of two porters. Blake had been careful to press his mother for more information about the layout of the library. There were two stairwells, he learned, each leading up to the box-shaped reading rooms where the scholars worked. Both were guarded by porters who checked readers' cards on the way in and ensured that none of the university's precious collections went missing on the way out. It wasn't going to be as easy as he thought to sneak in, undetected.

"I'll meet you here in about two hours," said their mother. "Then we can do something special. It's early closing today."

"Take your time," they replied. "We won't go far."

She eyed them warily, her suspicions aroused. "Well, be careful," she said, moving towards the south stairwell. She showed the porter her reader's card and ascended the stairs.

While she wound her way up to the Upper Reading Room at the top of the library, Duck and Blake wandered over to the gift shop and pretended to interest themselves in the items for sale. There were book-themed tea towels, book-themed scarves, book-themed ties and even more book-themed books.

Another porter sat behind a small desk in an overlooked corner of the room, close to a second stairwell that disappeared into dimness. The children chose this as their best target. Thankfully, there were plenty of tourists to provide them with cover. Like spies, they leafed through the postcards and posters, all the while watching the porter carefully, trying to figure out the best route to the stacks.

Blake's mother had told him that there was a special lift transporting books up and down from the stacks, all day long, located in the north stairwell. Each time you requested a title from the reading rooms, a molelike librarian scuttled underground and scurried through the miles of shelves to find it. Out of the corner of his eye, he now glimpsed a rectangular shaft, encased in wire mesh, in the center of the staircase. This must be the conveyor she had mentioned. His heart galloped with excitement. They were on the right track.

The porter, a surly-looking man with stubby jowls and hair the color of cigarette ash, was frowning at his watch, counting down the minutes until his coffee break. A partially filled-in crossword lay on the desk before him.

Occasionally, students and scholars brushed past, unclipping their trousers from their socks and removing hard, beetle-like bicycle helmets from their heads. They showed the porter their library cards and quickly ascended the stairs. Those leaving had to have their bags inspected, just in case they were smuggling out rare books.

After fifteen minutes of waiting, Duck sidled up to Blake. She looked worried.

"How are we going to get inside?" she said. "He looks ferocious."

Blake was pretending to study a paperweight with dark medieval letters trapped beneath the glass like insects in amber. He glanced at the porter, who had rolled up his newspaper into a baton and was tapping it against the side of the table. A thermos stood on the desk beside him.

"Maybe there'll be a change in shift soon and we can sneak down then," he said.

Duck looked unimpressed. "Is that it?" she sneered. "Is that your plan?"

"Have you got a better one?"

"How about I ask if I can use the bathroom?" she suggested. "There must be one somewhere inside."

She slid her hands between her legs and bobbed up and down.

"Do you need to go?"

"Well, I have to make it look realistic, don’t I?" she growled.

"OK," said Blake, doubtfully. "It's worth a shot."

Together, they walked up to the porter, who frowned at them. "Only readers beyond this point," he said automatically. He unrolled his newspaper and tried to look busy.

"Is it OK if she uses the bathroom?" asked Blake, pointing at Duck. "She really has to go."

The porter pretended not to hear. He read a clue to his crossword, counted the number of squares and then tried to think of a word that would fit.

"Please," said Blake. "She's desperate."

Duck squeezed her legs together and grimaced.

"The nearest public toilets are located in the bookshop on the opposite side of the street just around the corner in the Covered Market," said the porter, without looking up.

A student passed by, flashed him her card and rushed upstairs. Enviously, the children watched her disappear.

"Only readers beyond this point," said the porter again.

"Come on, mister," pleaded Duck this time. "I really need to pee." A pained expression crossed her face. Even Blake was beginning to believe her.

"Across the street or—"

"—right here if you're not careful!" exploded Duck, raising her voice.

The porter dropped his pen and stared at the children, astonished.

"Look," said Blake, trying to defuse the situation. "We're not allowed to leave the library, OK? Our mother's working upstairs and told us to stay put while she consults something. She'll be really annoyed if we're not here when she comes back. Please, it'll only take a minute."

Duck squeezed her eyes shut, ready to burst. The man squirmed uncomfortably.

"Please!" implored Duck. "I'll be quick."

The porter checked his watch and then grumbled, "Oh, go on, then." He glanced at his steel thermos. "Just hurry. My shift ends in a few minutes."

"I can go with her if you like," volunteered Blake.

"Fine. Just be off with you, the pair of you," snapped the porter. He hurried them towards the stairwell and pointed them in the right direction. "The women's facilities are upstairs on the left and the gents', if you need them too, young man, are downstairs. Just don't mention this to anyone. And, whatever you do, don't go anywhere you're not supposed to. This is more than my job is worth."

"Thanks, mister," they chimed together, and branched off in separate directions.

One look inside the damp, clammy toilet was enough to persuade Blake to wait for Duck outside.

He paced up and down the dim corridor, just out of sight of the porter, behind the old wire elevator shaft. Occasionally a dark, boxlike shadow drifted past, trailing a nooselike cord behind it. Spectral shapes moved up the walls.

Midway across the corridor was a heavy wooden door with several iron bands slatted across its front. It looked ancient and forbidding. A discolored plaque, adorned with black letters, suggested that something important was hidden on the other side: no exit this way.

A faint tug in Blake's knapsack, which he had concealed beneath his jacket, just in case the porter decided to search it, convinced him. Like a steady, insistent hand, it pushed him towards the doorway. There was no mistaking it: Endymion Spring was guiding him.

He decided to take a look.

Furtively, he grabbed the large iron handle and twisted it in his hand. He wondered faintly if it would activate an alarm system, but nothing happened. The door swung open quite effortlessly, as though it had been waiting for him all along. A whitewashed passage sloped away from him like an industrial rabbit hole. His heart knocked against his ribs and his legs trembled.

Hearing voices, he hastily shut the door.

Outside, in the gift shop, a young man with auburn hair had replaced the porter on duty and was chatting amiably to a pair of tourists in matching windcheaters, who poked their heads into the stairwell and enquired about the size of the collections.

"Millions upon millions of books," the porter was saying, "all shelved beneath the ground…"

Blake ducked behind the wire shaft and crossed his fingers that the other porter had forgotten to mention the two kids in the toilets.

He glanced at his watch. His sister had been gone a long time. What was keeping her?

Just then, he caught the sound of soft, skipping footsteps descending from above.

"What took you so long?" he hissed when Duck finally appeared. She looked pleased with herself. He pulled her by the elbow, away from the porter.

"You should see upstairs," she said unapologetically. "There's this amazing blue and gold door, and a room behind it full of hundreds of old books. I mean, really, really old books. It's like another world in there. That must be the Duke Humfrey…I love it!" She fingered the wire cage and peered up into the gloom.

"Well, come on," he urged her. "I've found the way."

Checking to make sure the coast was clear, he inched open the door and stepped inside.

"Where are we going?"

"Down there." He pointed down the long white tunnel and felt his nerves tingle again with excitement. Duck followed him into the passageway and he quickly shut the door. It closed with a final, unexpected click.

He gulped. This time they had really done it. They weren't just creeping around the college late at night, but trespassing on private property, breaking who knows how many rules. They would be in serious trouble — if they got caught.

Yet the book was clearly leading them this way. He could feel it flapping and shuffling in his knapsack, wanting to be released.

Endymion Spring was coming home.

23

Duck led the way.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked, her voice booming around the claustrophobic corridor.

Blake looked around him, vaguely disappointed. He had expected a dank dungeon full of moldering books and mummified spiders. This was more like a hospital corridor. Safe and sanitary. Even the floor was coated in a special nonslip substance. Beside them, running along the wall, was an iron cage full of writhing, twisting cables. He wondered what they were for.

At the end of the tunnel was a small steel door and Duck cupped her ear to it like a safecracker, listening for any signs of movement on the other side. Hearing none, she inched the door open and peered inside.

Shelves, shelves and more shelves. Shelves led away from them in all directions — like a maze.

Together, they crept into the adjoining room and crouched by a tall metal cabinet. There was hardly a book to be seen. Instead, hundreds of identical gray cardboard folders, each tied with string, stretched into the distance.

Blake gazed around him.

Below them was a grille, allowing them to see through onto another floor — and another below that. He let his eyes slip through the cracks. Red and gold volumes glinted dimly on the densely packed shelves like coals in an oven. There was no end to the labyrinth. They were suspended on just one catwalk in a great iron spiderweb. He was already lost.

The dim, dusty air thrummed with machinery. All around him he could hear the regulated clicks of temperature controls, fire detectors and security systems monitoring the collections. And beneath it all was an indistinguishable rumble, a mechanical thunder. An image of a Minotaur, half-bull and half-man, dragging piles of books through the heart of the library, flashed through his mind.

Overhead, copper pipes zigzagged across the ceiling like complex plumbing. Occasionally, he thought he heard a papery rustle inside the pipes, as though they were crawling with insects, but he shook off the suspicion. It was probably his imagination. Libraries fought an ongoing war with pests. Surely the Bodleian wouldn't allow any in its stacks.

One doubt, however, remained with him. Was there a CCTV camera somewhere monitoring their actions? He half-expected the porter to clamp hands on his shoulders and pull him out of hiding…but nothing happened. No one came. They'd been down here too long. The stacks, it seemed, were unsupervised.

Even so, he remained quite still for a moment, getting his bearings, trying to devise a plan. Duck was running her fingers along the cardboard folders, tempted to open them to see what treasures they contained.

"What do we do now?" she said finally, sidling up to him.

"I don't know." He watched as a network of tiny red and green lights blinked on a circuitry board above her head. Stop, go, stop, go…"Start looking for the Last Book, I guess."

"Are you crazy?" She motioned towards the surrounding shelves. "We don't even know what it looks like. It's impossible!"

"No, it's not," he raised his voice, unwilling to give up. "The blank has led us this far. Now it's going to take us the rest of the way."

"How?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he shrugged off his jacket and knapsack, took out the blank book and caged it in his hands.

Duck was shaking her head. "What's it going to do? Fly off and show us where to go?"

"Maybe." Nothing would surprise him at this point. "Let's just see what happens."

Gingerly, he lifted one of his hands from the cover. Like a butterfly, the blank book stretched its papery wings and tested the air. Ever so slightly, the pages flickered. A tremulous sound filled the air.

Blake held his breath and listened.

From somewhere on the surrounding shelves came a responding flutter — the scuttling noise he had heard before. This was followed almost immediately by a murmur from high above and then one from the depths below. Pretty soon, the sound was taken up and repeated by hundreds of thousands of books in the library. Blake looked around him, amazed. The air was alive with books! Each volume was passing on its secret: Endymion Spring had returned!

Duck, who had pulled down one of the boxes from a nearby shelf, paused in the process of untying its wrappers to stare at Blake. Then she delved hungrily into the contents of the folder.

A sorry-looking volume with a bruised leather cover was whirring like a frantic insect inside the cardboard container. It made a dry scuttling sound — like a cockroach — feverishly spinning its pages.

Startled by the noise, she slammed the box shut and immediately retied the string, gagging the book, but not before the blank book in Blake's hands responded by fanning its pages even more urgently.

Blake could not believe his eyes. The books were communicating with each other.

Suddenly Duck hissed in his ear, "Shh! Someone's coming!"

He clutched the book against his chest, muffling it.

"Where?" he asked anxiously, straining to catch any sound over the drumlike march of blood in his ears. "I don't hear anything."

Duck held up a finger.

Blake heard it too. A series of short, scuffling footsteps, accompanied by a tuneless whistling.

They crouched even lower and waited.

Eventually a woman with wild, troll-like hair appeared. She was wheeling a trolley loaded with books down an adjacent corridor, stopping occasionally to shelve them. Fortunately for Duck and Blake, she was wearing headphones that buzzed in her ears like angry bluebottles. No wonder she hadn't heard the commotion.

The children eyed each other nervously as she approached and then breathed a sign of relief as she passed. Abandoning her still-loaded trolley, she opened the door to the underground passage and disappeared.

As soon as she had gone, Blake released the blank book and, pinning down its pages with his fingers, whispered, "Please show us where to go, but be quiet, OK? There might be more people in the stacks."

This time, the paper flickered more slowly and an extra large sheet unfolded in front of him. The veinlike lines he had seen before were visible, but illuminated from within, as though the book were lighting up a path for him to follow.

So this was it! The marks on the paper were a sort of map.

He watched as the lines bent and intersected with each other, branching off in unexpected directions, before finally stopping…roughly, he figured, where they were now hiding.

"So?" Duck breathed in his ear, unable to see the route it was revealing.

He said nothing, but waited for the paper to disclose the next part of the path. A glimmer of light grew on the page in front of him and unveiled a new section of the library: a narrow line surrounded by a network of shelves. He began to creep in that direction.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"Just follow me," he murmured without turning round. "I think it's this way."

The book guided them through a series of intersecting shelves and a long, poorly lit corridor and then down an iron staircase, which clanged underfoot. Warning his sister to keep quiet, Blake passed through a scuffed wooden door at the bottom and entered yet another iron-grilled chamber full of books.

This far underground, the air smelled chalky and stale. Some of the books were coated in a fine layer of dust, as though no one had touched or opened them in ages, while others showed evidence of too much activity: bound with string like mummies to prevent their insides from spilling out. The shelves were made from thick black iron and extended into the distance. Scabs of leather littered the floor like the husks of dead insects.

Duck trailed her fingers along the spines of the books, mapping their path through the ever-deepening library. Inchworms of dust scurried away from her fingertips.

Blake was beginning to lose all sense of direction. For some time, he had been perturbed by a rusty, creaking noise pursuing them through the stacks. The noise grew louder the further they progressed — like a mechanical snake slithering along the ground. He could feel the hairs on his arms standing up like antennae, sending ripples of anxiety all over him.

And then he saw it. A huge motorized beast lurked only a few feet away, in an open area in the depths of the library.

Large, bronze wheels whirled round and round like the tireless cogs of a clock, every now and then propelling thick plastic containers, some loaded with books, along a conveyor belt beside it. The apparatus creaked and moaned, an ancient relic, but was still serviceable: books appeared and disappeared, transported from the stacks up to the reading rooms high above and then back down again.

"Quick!" said Blake, grabbing Duck's wrist and rushing towards a dark channel between two walls of shelves. "Someone's been here recently."

A series of footprints, like a dance pattern, lay in the papery dust surrounding the machine.

Heart pounding, Blake ducked between the rows of book-lined shelves. Cords dangled from the strip lights overhead, tapping him on the shoulder, but he opted to proceed in darkness — unobserved. Keeping his head down, he continued along the narrow passage, guided only by the blank book, which emitted a safe, soft glow.

Mid-way through the tunnel, he stopped. Books towered above him like an invincible army; shelves crushed against him. Yet for some reason the line in the map had reached a dead end.

Duck tugged on his sleeve. "What's wrong?"

Blake crouched on his heels, looking in both directions. "I don’t know. Maybe the book has lost the way."

Peering into the gloom, he could see a faint pool of light spilling onto the floor. A bare lightbulb blazed above a small wooden desk a short distance ahead. A battered chair with worn wooden arms had been positioned nearby.

Blake caught his breath. There was a black shape — a shadow — hovering close beside it, pressed against the side of a metal cabinet loaded with books.

Duck had seen it too. "Who's that?" she whispered, her eyes wide open.

Blake shook his head and reached out to hold her hand. Barely able to restrain the impulse to flee, he watched the figure closely.

The shadowy form showed no signs of life. It did not move.

Blake consulted the book. The map very faintly indicated that the path lay beyond this black figure. He could feel the sweat beginning to trickle down his neck. His mouth was dry. He had no choice. He had to edge closer.

Duck clung to the hem of his jacket. "No, don't," she whined.

"We have to," he hissed.

With trembling limbs, he crawled nearer.

The shape materialized into a black coat — a hooded gown dangling from a hook that had been secured to the side of a metal shelving unit.

Blake let out a sigh of relief, but his senses were on heightened alert. Someone had been sitting here recently. The leather seat was dimpled. He ran a finger over it. It was warm!

Wasting no time, he tugged on Duck's sleeve and they raced to the end of the corridor, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and whatever specter had been sitting in that chair.

The book seemed to have regained its focus and pulled them down yet another dark corridor, past a mound of broken furniture and through a series of ever-narrowing shelves, into the heart of the maze. They came face to face with a wall of solid steel. A dead end.

Blake scratched his head, confused.

"I don't get it," he said. "The map's pointing straight ahead, but that's impossible." He reexamined the twists and turns on his map, but they all seemed to be leading to this spot.

"So, what's the problem?" said Duck, moving past him. "Let's just go through it."

He turned to her in disbelief. "How?"

She rolled her eyes. "Haven't you seen one of these before?" She tapped the steel, which let out a hollow din. Small circular handles, like steering wheels, had been set into the metal barrier at intervals, making the wall resemble a series of bank vaults.

"It's a collapsible bookcase," she said. "To save space. How else do you think libraries cope with the increasing number of books?"

She made a great show of rotating the first handle, which released a catch. A sharp metal sound exploded in the air like a gunshot and he jumped back. Automatically, the other wheels started spinning in a clockwise direction, reminding Blake of a race of scurrying spiders.

Like someone letting out a deep breath, the units eased open, rolling apart on metal tracks. Numerous parallel shelves, each line with hidden books, opened in front of them — a hall of mirrors, all identical.

"See?" she said, wiping her hands on her yellow coat. "No problem."

"OK, so which corridor now?" he asked, irritated.

"I don't know. You're the one with the book."

He checked the map. Endymion Spring indicated a passageway next to the wall, in the very corner of the library. It was a tight squeeze, but they could just pass through in single file. They joined hands like paper dolls.

Sure enough, at the end of the corridor, obscured by a curtain of cobwebs, was an old, unmarked door. A very old one — barely visible against the stone foundation of the library.

Blake's heart was beating fast: the whole library seemed to shake around him. The book had become agitated, flapping in his hand, almost catapulting itself toward the opening.

Brushing aside the webs, which clung to his skin like candy floss, Blake cleared the way.

A stone portal with eroded teeth, just like the one guarding the entrance to the Old Library at St. Jerome's, faced him. He stared at it in stunned silence. It was the ghost of a door, half-sunken in the floor.

Duck gripped him by the sleeve.

"I don't like this," she said, her voice a pale whisper. "I don't think we should go any further."

Blake's hand was already on the door, propelled there more by the book than his own courage. "Don't worry. Endymion Spring is with us," he said, trying to sound brave.

With trembling fingers, he turned the skeletal handle. It twisted in his hand with a brittle, bone-dry click. Very slowly the door opened.

A breath of fetid air rushed out to greet him and a million goose bumps erupted over his skin at once. The passage oozed a damp, cold, earthy scent that clogged his nostrils.

Nervously, he peered into the void.

A spiral staircase descended steeply away from him, curling into darkness. A few moss-mottled stone steps, that was all. He could see no further.

He wanted to run away, but the book was drawing him closer, pulling him irresistibly into the shadow, its silver pallor extinguished by the suffocating dark. He needed more light.

Then he remembered.

Patting the front of his jacket, he soon found what he was looking for: a cylindrical object tucked into one of his pockets. His torch. He'd forgotten to remove it after his incident in the college library.

He grinned and pulled it out, struggling to hold both the book and the light at the same time. Duck's face was a moon of fear beside him.

He turned back to the hole and watched as the thin beam of light tumbled down the ancient steps. Even now, he could not see the bottom.

"Great, another spiral staircase," he muttered, feeling Duck clinging to his elbow. Her eyes were wet.

With a shiver, he stepped into the shadow. It was like wading into a moonlit pond; the dark came up to his waist, like very cold water.

"Don't," squeaked Duck, her voice small and fragile. "I don't want to go down there. It's not funny anymore."

She hung on to him tightly, pinching his skin.

"Come on," he grumbled. "We have to!"

The book was dragging him down, pulling at him like a weight. He was sinking into darkness.

"It'll be OK," he tried to reassure her. "I'll protect you."

His voice cracked and he fought hard to keep back the fear scratching at his throat. He reached out to support her, but her sweaty hand eluded his.

"No, I don't want to," she said again, backing away. Tears slid down her cheeks.

"Look," he said. "I don't like this any more than you do, but we have no choice. The Last Book is nearby; I can feel it. It wants us to find it."

"I'm scared."

"I know, I am too," he confessed, "but I swear I won't let anything happen to you." The darkness was seeping up his legs, chilling him. His teeth were rattling. They had to keep moving. "We'll be OK as long as we stick together."

Duck's bottom lip quivered, but eventually she nodded. She edged closer to the stairwell like a little kid dipping her foot in a pool. She clung to the hood of Blake's jacket, nearly choking him.

Together they stepped into darkness.

24

The staircase spiraled steeply down before it gave way to an uneven, earthen floor. A damp mossy smell filled the air. For a moment it seemed to Blake that they had stumbled into a graveyard, a reliquary for dead or forgotten books. Endymion Spring's bones might be hidden nearby, he thought with a shiver.

Apart from a frail shaft of light falling like a veil from the pages of the open book in his hand, the chamber was thick with shadow. He swept the beam of his torch around the room, chasing away layers of darkness. Ancient pillars supported a low, rounded ceiling from which cobwebs dangled like sticky chandeliers. All around him were open chests, like plundered tombs. Rudimentary shelves lined the walls, but these had cracked and splintered centuries ago. Most of their contents had spilled to the ground.

Everywhere Blake looked there were books: ghostly white volumes in plain wrappers that gradually began to emit a faint silver glow — like the pages in Endymion Spring. Quires of paper filled the chests, while heavy reams, too large to pick up, lay on worn plinths, shrouded in dust. It was more likely a crypt than a library.

Black doorways gaped at intervals, ready to receive them. Blake peered into the deeper, darker rooms, his breath coming in ragged gasps. They were surrounded by a honeycomb of cell-like chambers.

Duck had lifted one of the large folios. "It's blank," she muttered as she let it fall. Instantly, a dusty detonation filled the neighboring rooms and a lisp of paper passed through the air. Endymion Spring, the sheets seemed to whisper in an unearthly refrain.

Blake whirled round, startled. His eyes were dark, his pupils dilated.

Shakily, he held out the blank book in front of him and used its lantern-like light to guide him. It was more effective than his torch; it picked up a trail of scintillating paper on the floor.

Duck followed, unconsciously leaving fingerprints like bird tracks on the books and shelves she touched.

The rooms were all alike: lined with blank books that seemed to be waiting for someone to fill them with words. The whole library appeared to be watching, waiting for Blake to find the Last Book. He felt incredibly small and insignificant in comparison. He shrank against the walls.

As if responding to his growing sense of uneasiness, the book jittered in his hand and fell to the ground. Its comforting light went out. The room was plunged into sudden darkness.

Duck's fingers clawed at him. "Blake!" she screamed, her voice reverberating against the shelves in a shrill shriek.

Frantically, Blake swung his torch around the chamber, tyring to locate the blank book.

There it was. A small square of leather lying against the endless reams of fine white paper. He reached down to pick it up.

His heart leaped into his throat. The book opened not to the map he had been following earlier, but to the black partition in the center of the volume.

The ghostly message was still there, but it had changed — ever so slightly. His blood ran cold.

His torchlight trembled over the awful words:

Suddenly, the shadows seemed more menacing, more terrifying, and he began to run.

Blindly, he dashed through the surrounding rooms, no longer following the map in the book, but a path of his own devising. "Come on," he yelled, grabbing Duck's hand.

"What did the book say?" she squealed, struggling to keep up.

He didn't answer, but pulled her after him, rushing headlong into the darkness. He made desperate detours, turning first one way and then another, past rows of silent, watchful, waiting books. His torchlight scrabbled over the walls.

The riddle he had seen a couple of days ago flashed through his mind:

The Sun must look the Shadow in the Eye

Then forfeit the Book lest one Half die…

Its meaning seemed even more sinister down here in the dark depths of the library.

Gradually, there was a change in their surroundings. A luminous chamber shone just ahead of them — a beacon in the distance. Or a trap. Blake didn't have time to think. The blood screeched through his body. He raced towards the light.

A faint tittering noise, like rustling leaves, started up again around him, urging him on, and his pulse quickened. This must be the way. The books were communicating with each other.

He burst into the light-filled room and came to an abrupt halt. There was no other exit. A circle of book-lined walls surrounded him. Only a deep hole in the ground opened at the center of the chamber: the source of all the light.

Shielding his eyes, he tiptoed closer and peered down…

Another library, a whole universe of reading, stretched elastically beneath the floor. Books filled the shimmering space: identical volumes in plain white wrappers fitted onto concentric shelves that spiraled down the edges of the shaft like a helix, connected by long, thin ladders. There appeared to be no end to the number of volumes contained in this bottomless well.

He recoiled from the sight. His head spun. How could he possibly find the Last Book among so many?

Endymion Spring was quiet in his hand, as though it had reached its destination. What was he to do?

The books flickered around him expectantly.

And then he noticed something. A long way down the narrow chute was a slight shadow, a barely visible seed of darkness in the gleaming wall of light.

"There's something down there," he told Duck. "A black space. I think there's a book missing. I'm going to take a look."

Duck panicked. "No! Don't go!" She gripped him tightly by the back of his knapsack. "I can't go without you. I'm scared."

"Come on, I have no choice!"

"Yes, you do! You don't have to do this! We could pretend you never found it. We could turn back."

Blake hesitated, then Endymion Spring moved in his hand and urged him that little bit closer to the lip of the well. It wanted him to go down into the stack of books. It was guiding him.

Blake glanced again at the small, unassuming volume in his hand. Its faithful glimmer of light gave him renewed confidence. Endymion Spring had brought him here for a reason. Jolyon had told him that many people had searched for the Last Book, but failed. This was his chance. He felt sure the Last Book was nearby — almost within reach. He had never been so close to achieving something amazing in his life before.

"I've got to try," he said aloud, his mind made up.

Pushing Duck aside, he quietly took off his knapsack and jacket and placed them on the paper-strewn ground beside the hole. Then he slipped the blank book between his T-shirt and the waistband of his jeans and slid his torch into his pocket. He could feel the restless flutter of Endymion Spring's paper against his skin — an additional heartbeat.

"I'm going to find the Last Book," he said. "You can watch me from up here, OK?"

Duck danced uneasily on the spot.

"Just don't go anywhere. Wait until I get back."

She fixed him with her large, fearful eyes, but said nothing.

"Promise!" he barked.

She nodded obediently and backed away from the hole.

Blake took a deep breath. His mind focused on the sliver of shadow far below — and what it might contain — he stepped towards the threshold of the well and reached with his toe for the first rung of the ladder. His shoe caught a firm foothold and he swung himself over.

Duck started to moan.

"It's all right," he told her one last time. "I'll be back soon."

Gripping the sides of the ladder, he descended slowly, taking tiny steps, refusing to look down. The rungs were placed close together, nearly tripping him. It was as though they had been constructed in a far-off century: the wood was uneven, knotted with whorls of bark — more like branches than proper footholds. He continued carefully, grasping the vine-bound slats in his tight fists. His entire body was shaking.

Every now and then, he paused to make sure that Duck was all right at the top of the well. His fingers ached; his muscles were tense; and his teeth set in a determined grimace. Endymion Spring juddered against his belt, encouraging him downwards. He glanced at the dark space below. It was getting nearer.

All around him the waiting books whispered like leaves in a breeze. Curious, he picked one from the surrounding shelves and, monkeying his arm around the ladder to improve his leverage, flipped through its pages. They were not blank, as he had suspected, but contained a vast number of words, all written in a transparent silver light, as if frozen or suspended in ice. There appeared to be no end to the number of books: made from the same soft, enchanted paper as Endymion Spring, all waiting for some reader's imagination to unleash the writing inside. A trapdoor swung open in his mind. He suddenly comprehended the concept of infinity.

He looked down. A few feet away was the shadowy crevice he had glimpsed from above, the space that divided the limitless wall of books. At first, he thought it might be a black leather-bound notebook, a book different from the others, but now he realized that it was a small opening — a gap in the heart of the library. The blank book seemed to be guiding him towards it.

He slipped down the next few rungs, almost falling, until he was on a level with the black hollow on the shelf. He could feel Endymion Spring urging him closer, its irresistible desire to be reunited with the other books drawing him nearer. He removed the blank book from its position in his belt. Part of him didn't want to let go, but as he inched his hands towards the available space no force on earth could have stopped it. Endymion Spring propelled itself between the other volumes, a perfect fit.

The other books, which had been lisping quietly, suddenly became silent. The air trembled with expectation. The whole library appeared to be waiting for just this moment, as if the stability of the well and its tower of books hung in the balance.

All of a sudden he became aware of a shiver in the air, a slight quiver of paper. Then, suddenly, in a blinding blizzard of books, the volumes on the shelves started to whirl round him, sucked into a maelstrom of paper. They whipped past his head, brushed against his shoulders and nipped his arms and his legs, slashing him with paper cuts, jettisoning themselves towards the small space on the shelf where moments before he had placed Endymion Spring.

He screamed in terror and pressed his head against the rung of the ladder to protect himself, fearing something had gone disastrously wrong, closing his eyes against the snowstorm of spinning, spiraling pages. He thought he heard a high-pitched shriek from above, but the din in his ears was near-deafening and all he could do was hang on as the books flew past his face, flapped round his body and got caught in the whirlwind of paper.

And then, like the aftermath of a violent rain shower, the air was suddenly quiet, refreshed. Only a few loose scraps of paper dripped into the surrounding silence. The ladder wobbled beneath him.

Tentatively, he opened his eyes. The darkness was overpowering. With fumbling fingers, he reached into his pocket, took out his torch, and shone the light around him.

The brown battered book — Endymion Spring — was still on its shelf, as though nothing had happened. Except, Blake noticed, sliding his light up and down the sheer sides of the well, the other books had gone. The shaft was as barren as a mountain after a landslide.

Carefully, he reached out to touch the remaining volume. Was this it? Was this the legendary Last Book? The name "Endymion Spring" was still visible on the scabbed leather cover.

He edged his fingers round the spine and gently pulled it towards him. Recognizing his touch, the book immediately eased into his hands. The broken clasp coiled tightly round his little finger and the same nervous buzz of excitement rushed into his blood. Ignoring the pain in his arm, he opened it.

The pages were no longer blank, but covered in minute panels of words that opened like invisible doors the moment his eyes fell on them, leading him into different stories, different languages…each stairwell of paper taking him on a new adventure. Every now and then they froze, stopping in mid-sentence, on the verge of revealing an amazing truth, and he leaped to a new entry. The amount of information was overwhelming. Each page was divided into an infinite number of thin, indestructible membranes.

And then his heart stopped. Turning over one last luminous page, Blake found what he most dreaded: the black page. It was still there, an ominous bookmark at the heart of the volume. Compared to the wonderful whiteness of the surrounding paper, the purity of its words, this shadow was a chilling, inescapable void — a black hole sucking all the goodness of the book into its absent soul. And at the top of the page was the torn corner.

There was still one piece of the book missing.

All of a sudden, Blake remembered Duck. He looked up. There was no sign of her at the top of the well.

Breaking into a cold sweat, he clutched the volume in his hand and scrambled up the ladder as quickly as he could, climbing past the empty shelves, desperately trying to retain his hold on the uneven wooden struts. He slid, exhausted, over the edge of the pit, panting hard.

"Duck," he whispered. "I've found it! I've found the Last Book! But it's not what we thought…"

He stopped. There was no response.

"Duck," he said again, poking his torchlight into the shadows. "You can come out now."

The room, illuminated only by the faint glow of the Last Book, was empty. He scoured the remaining corners with his torch. Nothing. The books on the shelves and the paper on the floor had vanished. Only a disturbed trail of dust lay on the ground.

He picked up his knapsack and jacket, which had been flung to the far side of the room, and put them on. He started to hunt for his sister.

"Duck! Where are you?" he called, his voice a fragile whisper in the dark immensity of the library. Frantically, he checked the other chambers. He found the trail of fingerprints Duck had left on some of the empty shelves and followed them, but there was no sign of her bright yellow raincoat anywhere.

She was gone.

A few minutes later came a muffled explosion from above: a door slamming far away. The noise echoed through the underground chambers like a popped paper bag.

Duck!

Blake raced through the surrounding rooms until he came to the tight, twisting staircase up to the next level of the library. He forced his legs up the sunken stone steps, scraping at the walls with his fingers. He ended up face-to-face with the collapsible bookcase, which someone had hastily, but ineffectually, closed. A pile of books blocked his way.

"Duck!" he yelled.

No response.

He scrambled over the heap of fallen volumes and battled his way through the narrow partition of shelves, scratching his elbows against the sharp metal edges. Pushing the cabinets aside with all his strength, he emerged on the other side.

The wreckage of furniture was visible nearby and beyond it the battered chair with the lightbulb blazing over the desk. Blake sprinted towards them, then slowed to a crawl as he caught sight of the shadow against the wall.

The black cloak was gone. In its place hung Duck's yellow raincoat, dangling like a lifeless body from the hook.

His heart lurched.

The raincoat looked so small and alien without Duck's cheerful form to fill it and he picked it up uneasily. It felt so light.

Then he looked down. A coiled notebook lay open on the desk in front of him. A scribbled message waited just for him. The words wobbled before his eyes:

There was no mistaking the author of the message. It was the Person in Shadow.

25

There was no time to ask the Last Book for help. A bell shrilled above him, ripping through the stacks, and Blake checked his watch. He had less than fifteen minutes. The library must be closing.

Duke Humfrey…Duke Humfrey…

He was sure he'd heard the name before, but where? Where?

The large machine responsible for sending books up to the reading rooms had grown silent. Unsupervised, its cogs and gears had creaked to a standstill, somehow eerier now they had been suspended than when they were alive. A deathly hush filled the air. Somewhere far above, it suddenly occurred to him, his mother would be packing up her work, completely unaware of the danger her children were in below.

Duke Humfrey…

Blake started to run.

Rows of leather volumes gave way to modern textbooks, which turned into books with bright dust jackets, as he streaked through the stacks. Ahead he could see an endless line of gray cardboard folders. He was on the right track.

Spying a wrought-iron staircase in the corner, he sprinted towards it and clambered up the tight corkscrew of steps, his feet ringing out on the cold metal.

And then he remembered: Duke Humfrey…Duck had mentioned it after visiting the bathroom. It was somewhere up the main stairwell. He knew where to go!

Bursting through the brightly lit tunnel, which connected the entrance of the Bodleian to the stacks, he emerged into the dim corridor just outside the gift shop. The main entrance had been sealed off, closed for another day, and the walls echoed with the lonely sound of his footsteps. No one was around to help him.

He worked his way up the deserted staircase, climbing the wide wooden stairs. Each step filled him with a chilly sense of foreboding. Would Duck be all right?

The sight of two regal blue and gold doors, partially open, brought him to a standstill near the top of the stairwell. The Duke Humfrey Library…A fusty smell of learning seeped from the darkness within.

The chamber was almost exactly as Duck had described it. Thousands of ancient volumes sat on the wooden shelves, set behind thick balustrades. Sturdy ladders climbed to a further tier of books, all crammed beneath a decorated ceiling, covered with scrolls of painted flowers and majestic crests. It looked like a chapel devoted exclusively to reading.

A porter in a navy-blue suit was clearing a desk in the middle of the room, preparing to lock up. Blake paused on the threshold of the library and then, as soon as the man's back was turned, slid into position behind a banister directly opposite. He squeezed himself between the railing and a bench, which he hoped would shield him from view.

On the underside of the shelves above him gleamed a constellation of stars, gilded onto a checkered background of red and green squares. Otherwise, the room was thick with shadow. He checked his watch. Only three minutes left. His pulse throbbed wildly as the seconds ticked away.

Very carefully, he unzipped his bag and put both the Last Book and Duck's jacket, which he had rescued from downstairs, inside. He then sealed the bag and threaded his arms through the straps and gripped them tightly to his back. He would not surrender anything until he knew she was safe.

Whistling to himself, the porter fetched his keys from the desk, locked the far doors and then started towards Blake's hiding place. Blake shrank even lower and held his breath. He was shaking all over.

The porter took a last look around the closed-up library, then pulled the doors shut and locked them behind him with a prison-like finality.

Silence fell.

The room was eclipsed in darkness.

All Blake could do was wait.

Minutes dragged by, agonizing in their slowness.

Then, when Blake could stand the suspense no longer, he heard a metallic quiver thrum the air as an invisible clock chimed the hour. This was followed almost immediately by a tiny, scratching noise at the opposite end of the room.

He raised his head, alert. A key whispered in the lock.

The door opened — just a little — and a shadowy form slid into the room. The hooded figure was dressed entirely in black.

Blake barely breathed.

The person glanced round the murky room and then drifted on soundless feet towards his hiding place.

Blake closed his eyes, not daring to look. He hoped that by remaining perfectly still, by shutting out the outside world, he, too, might disappear.

One thing was clear. Duck was not with the Person in Shadow. They were alone in the ancient library. He had been tricked.

Crouched like a sprinter, he considered making a mad dash for freedom, hoping to summon help from outside; but then he felt the floorboards beside him stiffen slightly and a black shape fell over him.

A gloved hand slid silently over the railing near his shoulder and grabbed him by the wrist.

"Hello, Blake."

The chilly female voice sent shivers up and down his spine. He know instantly who it was. He looked up.

"Isn't this a surprise?"

Diana Bentley greeted him with a cold smile.

Blake couldn't bring himself to respond. The sound of her voice, the touch of her glove, both seemed icy now, despite the special butterfly clasp she always wore as decoration and the dark woolen cloak she had draped over her shoulders.

Blake blinked, confused.

The butterfly had singed wings, like burnt paper.

"You should mind your knees," she said, pulling him to his feet. "They'll get dirty."

He looked down at the hard wooden floor and dumbly rubbed his jeans, which were patched with dust. His clothes were torn and filthy.

"You poor boy," she murmured. "You really are in trouble. Sneaking into the Bodleian like this. What will your mother think?"

"She doesn't know," he said miserably, then bit his tongue.

Diana observed him with mock sympathy. "Ah, I see. You're on your own."

Blake grimaced, realizing his mistake. "Where's Duck?" he barked.

"All in good time," she said. "First, where is the book?"

"I don't know what you mean."

She locked his arm in a tight, vicious grip and wrenched it behind his back. He yelped, surprised by her strength.

"Be careful," she warned. "You don't want to make things worse than they already are."

Her words brought the gravity of his situation home. He stopped struggling.

"The book," she said again. "Where is it?"

She levered his arm slowly upwards and he gasped as hot spears of pain shot across his shoulder.

"My mother," he managed at last, between clenched teeth. "She'll be furious if we don’t turn up soon. She'll go to the police…and…aah!…tell them we're missing."

He risked a look at Diana, but she seemed unfazed by the remark. She eyed him with steely composure. "What's in your bag, Blake?"

He squirmed and she jacked up his arm one notch. He winced.

Blake could feel her fingers spidering along his back and wriggled to prevent her from discovering the book inside his knapsack. Once again, she tightened her grip on his arm and he fought back tears. It was as if her desire to obtain the book had given her superhuman strength — and ruthlessness.

"Of course," she said, breathing softly into his ear, "there would be no reason to go on inconveniencing your mother — or Duck — if we came to a mutual agreement."

The image of Duck's lifeless yellow coat, stuffed hastily into his knapsack, filled Blake with guilt. All of this was his fault. He'd got obsessed with the book — to the point of abandoning her. Still, he couldn't help it: the book was his. Endymion Spring had chosen him. For hundreds of years scholars had searched for what he, Blake Winters, had found. And the Person in Shadow — Diana — wanted it for all the wrong reasons.

Slowly, she tilted his chin towards her, so that he could see into her cold, gray eyes. They were as hard and unflinching as stone. "Where is the Last Book, Blake?"

His heart cowered inside him. He had no choice but to hand over the book to save his sister. The sinister riddle from two nights ago had warned him as much:

The Sun must look the Shadow in the Eye

Then forfeit the Book lest one Half die…

He started to shiver uncontrollably.

"I'll help you on one condition," he said finally, gritting his teeth. The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

"You have a condition?" She almost laughed. "And what might that condition be?" She considered him like a cat toying with a bird."

"Ive hidden the book," he lied. "I'll take you to it, but only once I know my sister is OK. I need to see her first."

Diana sounded bored. "Do you really expect me to believe that?"

Blake was thinking fast. "You need me to read from it," he said quickly.

His response seemed to trigger a reaction, for she regarded him less certainly for a moment.

"I want to see Duck," he said again.

"Enough!" cried Diana, losing her patience. "I'll take you to see your odious little sister, but then you'll hand over the book. No funny games."

Still gripping his arm tightly behind his back, she marched him towards the far door. He fought desperately to come up with a plan, a way of escape, but the pain shooting across his shoulder blocked out any coherent pattern of thought. He was terrified. All he could do for now was obey.

"One careless move and I assure you your sister will suffer the consequences," lisped Diana behind him, almost biting his ear.

Diana ushered Blake through the blue and gold doors and sharply to the right, up a final flight of steps to the Upper Reading Room, nestled beneath the roof of the library. The thin double doors were open a fraction and she guided him into a large room full of study carrels and hard wooden chairs.

The air was stuffy and dim, like a museum. Frescoed faces watched them from a frieze above the book-lined shelves; yet the ancient scholars who had helped to shape the university's illustrious history now turned a blind eye to his predicament. There was no one to help him.

The blinds on the windows had been pulled down, shutting out the outside world, and the cork linoleum deadened their footsteps. There was no sign of Duck anywhere — neither here in the vast reading room, nor around the corner where Blake encountered yet more tables, followed by a series of computer terminals and a central desk, where library staff presumably distributed books.

Hidden in the corner was a cream door that led up to the tall square tower that formed the principal peak on the library's prickly skyline. Diana motioned him towards it.

Another spiral staircase corkscrewed away from him — this time rising to what must be the very top of the library. What was she going to do? Throw him off the roof?

She forced him inside.

"Where are we going?" he asked nervously as she locked the door behind them and followed him up the stairs. The steps were tight and treacherous; his legs trembled. The bottom was a long way down.

Diana responded by prodding him sharply in the back with the tip of her key. He kept going, marching upwards — past two thin lancet windows and a tiny wooden door.

Blake's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Where's Duck?" he asked.

His question was answered by a frantic hammering on the other side of the door.

"Duck!" he cried, leaping towards it. He grasped the handle and pulled. "I'm here! I've come to get you out!"

The door was locked and would not budge. His sister was thrashing even more urgently now she could hear him. He knew she must be terrified. Duck hated confined spaces.

He turned to Diana, enraged. She was dangling a precious silver key from her fingertip. He lunged to grab it, but she deftly closed her hand in a fist.

"What's wrong with her?" he hollered. "Why can't she speak?"

"I took the liberty of gagging your sister's mouth," replied Diana curtly. "She was driving me to distraction."

Blake could not contain his anger. "Let her out!" he screamed. "She can hardly breathe in there! If anything happens to her, I'll—"

"You'll what?" asked Diana savagely, shoving him forwards. His ankle twisted and he fell, his knee catching the edge of a sharp stone step. He cried out in pain. Remorseless, Diana pulled him to his feet and pushed him further up the twisting staircase.

"I'll come back…" he called out to Duck, his voice cracking.

They came to a tall door with university archives engraved above it in the stone. A brass plaque on a central panel read: dr. d. bentley, archivist.

Blake looked behind him, surprised. "You work here?" he asked.

Diana frowned. "Naturally. Do you think Giles is the only person in a position of power?"

She unlocked the door and shoved him inside.

Blake stumbled against a desk in the middle of the spacious room and fell to the floor, winded. Dazed, he took in his surroundings. Four enormous windows, partially obscured by large wooden cupboards, provided spectacular views of the surrounding domes and spires. A choir of angelic figures stood on top of one of the nearby buildings, playing their silent instruments, while a statue of blindfolded Justice turned her back to him on the other side of the glass.

He raced to one of the giant windows and tried to flag down help from the people in the street far below. Tiny figures, no more than matchstick men, marched back and forth. The window had no latch and all he could do was hammer on the glass with his fist. The muffled sound did not travel far.

"Had enough?" asked Diana, behind him. "I have kept my part of the bargain. Now I suggest you keep yours."

He turned to face her. She was calmly inspecting a row of books in one of the cupboards.

"These are my favorites," she said, indicating several volumes, as large as Bibles, fastened with iron clasps. "I keep them up here, so that no one — not even Giles — can touch them." She stroked the dimpled black surfaces with her fingers. "They're books that date back to the foundation of the library."

Blake didn't respond. His eyes dashed to the door, which Diana nudged to with her foot.

"Don't even think about it," she said. "You can't go far. Besides, I have all the keys between you, your sister and freedom. The only way out of here is to give me what I want."

"I told you I don't have the Last Book," he said defiantly. "I couldn't even find it."

"Oh, I doubt that," said Diana with a knowing smile. "You were chosen."

She slowly advanced towards him and he took two steps back.

"Give it to me," she said.

Blake flushed. "No," he defied her again, and involuntarily tightened his grip on the straps of his knapsack. He backed into a glass cabinet full of handwritten documents sealed with flattened dollops of red wax, like squashed bugs. Two more lines from Endymion Spring's riddle floated unbidden into his mind:

The Lesion of Darkness cannot be healed

Until, with Child's Blood, the Whole is sealed…

His eyes landed on a sleek, silver paperknife placed crosswise on a pile of unopened correspondence on the desk.

"If you want the book so badly," he lashed out, "why don't you come over here and take it?" His heart felt like a bomb ticking down inside him. At any moment, it might explode.

"Yes, I suppose I could," said Diana without enthusiasm. He noticed her long white gloves and panicked, realizing that she had been careful not to leave any fingerprints behind. He could imagine her sliding her hands around his neck and throttling him.

Sensing the direction of his gaze, she slowly removed one of the gloves. She peeled back the smooth white material and pulled it from her fingers. Blake gasped. All of the fingernails on her left hand were black.

"It's like Professor Jolyon," he blurted out.

"Oh, this?" she said calmly, assessing her bruised nails. "Yes, I was snubbed by the book too. Just like Jolyon."

"Do you mean you're in on this together?" he asked, his mind working furiously. A recollection of a dark-haired Diana flirting with the youthful Jolyon in the Libris Society photograph flashed in his memory.

Diana was appalled by his insinuation. "Heavens, no. Jolyon and I haven't agreed on anything since the foundation of the Libris Society. However, we are both interested in the Last Book and would love to get our hands on it…for different reasons.

She watched his face register surprise. "Jolyon isn't such an angel either," she said coldly. "Disappointing, isn't it?"

"I don't understand."

She reached for a piece of powdered confectionery in a crystal bowl on her desk. Turkish delight. She bit into it with relish.

"I'm disappointed in you, Blake. Are you really so dim?"

He nodded; it was safer to keep her talking.

"Oh, very well," she muttered, brushing a smattering of icing sugar from her lips. "Jolyon broke the clasp on the blank book a long time ago, soon after the Libris Society was formed. He was convinced he could find the Last Book without any help from the rest of us. Of course, he was mistaken. He tried to steal the book from George Psalmanazar, who had found the book originally, but the clasp broke off and stabbed him in the thumb, branding him a traitor."

Blake inhaled deeply. His mind was spinning. No wonder the professor had seemed so agitated when he'd first mentioned Endymion Spring at the college dinner. No wonder he'd been unwilling to confess his involvement in the past…

Diana glanced at her blackened fingernails. "Of course, I rather fancied him more after that," she said dryly, clearly enjoying pulling off the scabs of Blake's delusion, "but he became so incredibly penitent afterwards. It was tiresome. He vowed never to go near the book again."

Her voice was filled with scorn. "He became boring."

"And what did you do?" asked Blake, eyeing her fearfully. "What turned your fingernails black?"

The smile died instantly on her face. "After the book rejected Jolyon, I had to connive my way closer to that ugly wretch, George." She spat out the name with distaste. "I could tell he was going to hide the blank book and I needed to lay my hands on it before the key to the Last Book eluded my grasp forever. It was my only chance — or so I thought."

Her eyes gleamed and her fingers clawed the air. "It was almost in my hands," she said, reliving the experience, "but then that wretch saw what I was doing and slammed the book shut on my fingers. The clasp stung me! It was sheer agony! Yet I managed to hold on to one section of the book and ripped that from the volume."

"The section Psalmanazar gave me," Blake whispered to himself.

Diana was rubbing the tips of her charred fingers. "I didn't know his strength," she remarked. "He wrestled even that away from me, unwilling to let a single part of the book escape, saying that even the tiniest scrap of paper held the strongest magical power, that the Last Book would never work without all the pieces."

"But why go to so much trouble?" asked Blake. "It's only a book. Surely, it can't be that powerful."

All the while she talked, he was inching closer to the desk and the temptingly sharp paperknife.

Diana snarled at him. "Foolish boy! You have no idea what the book contains! It is the key to everything you've ever desired. All the power and riches in the world!" Her face contorted, as if possessed by greed. "The book demands an innocent to unleash its words, but only a person with true ambition can fully know their worth. Johann Fust knew as much…as did Horatio Middleton, Jeremiah Wood, Lucius St. Boniface de la Croix and all the others who have searched for the book for years."

As she said this, a ray of sunlight broke through the clouds and transformed the surrounding spires and domes to a shimmer of burnished gold, but its warmth stopped short at the window. Blake had turned ice-cold. He recognized those names. They had been staring at him from the walls of St. Jerome's College ever since he arrived in Oxford. They were the ancient scholars in the portraits, all clutching their sacred, unidentified leather books, feeding on him with their eyes.

As if in answer, Diana withdrew a think black book from her pocket and waved it in the air. He saw a shadowy F stamped into its unsightly cover and realized with a start that it was the Faustbuch he had found in the secondhand bookshop.

"That book…" he said, confused.

"Yes, you really were most considerate, finding this for me," she said with a devious smile. "The Faustbuch holds the key to the entire history of Endymion Spring. Not only how the Last Book came to Oxford, but also how to see inside it, to decipher its riddles and make use of its power. Of course, it's rather ruined now — it's been handed down for centuries, ever since the anonymous author first penned it — but it really has come in useful…"

Blake shivered. His eyes returned to the desk and the paperknife, which disappeared into Diana's fingers. She was regarding him steadily.

"Did you really think you could outsmart me?" she said. "You're just a boy. Now hand over the book."

Knees quivering, Blake crabbed sideways to the window.

Diana followed him, balancing the tip of the paperknife against her fingers. His skin pricked with fright, but she merely placed the knife and the Faustbuch on top of one of the cabinets, out of reach.

"Tell me," she said. "Have the pages come alive? Have the words emerged from hiding?"

He stiffened as she drew up beside him and prized his chin in her hands. Her fingers were long and cold, like icicles, except they didn't melt.

Snakelike, she peered into his eyes. Blake glanced away.

From far below came the sound of crowds milling in the street. A dog barked somewhere. The noise caught his ear and he checked the window. The glint of an iron fire escape leading up the side of the tower flashed in the corner of his eye. Perhaps, after all, there was a way out…He wanted to run, but felt trapped by the cold hands on his face, the fierce glare of her eyes.

"Show me the book!" roared Diana, and flung him ferociously towards the center of the room. He collided heavily with the desk and slid to the floor. A throbbing pain cleaved his chest and a strange iron tang filled his mouth. Blood.

Defenseless, he watched as she stooped over him and casually plucked the bag from his shoulders, throwing it on the table.

Like a beast ripping into prey, she tore open the main compartment and cast Duck's coat aside. Then she found what she was looking for: the unspectacular brown leather book at the bottom of the bag. Endymion Spring. She dipped in her hands to retrieve it and whisked them away, as though stung.

"It bit me!" she howled with rage.

Blake gazed at her, his vision blurry, barely comprehending what was going on.

She drew on her long white glove and tried again to withdraw the book. Succeeding this time, she laid it carefully on the table.

She stared at the cover closely — Endymion Spring 's name was still inscribed on the leather in rounded letters — and the began to turn the pages with the tips of her gloves, impatient to garner their knowledge.

"But that's not right!" she hollered, lifting her face from the book. "Why you deceptive little beast, what have you done?"

She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him sharply to his feet. Dazzling lights popped and fizzed before his eyes. She slammed her fist on the table.

Speechless with surprise, Blake forced himself to focus on the page in front of him. Apart from the black section in the middle of the book, the remaining pages had reverted to their natural, unsullied white. There were no words to be seen.

"I don't understand," he began. "They were—"

"Well, they're gone now!" screamed Diana.

He blinked again. As his eyes adjusted to the glowing whiteness of the paper, he realized that the words had not disappeared, but were recoiling into the book like snails into their shells. They were still there, but only for those with eyes to see them.

The deception, he feared, would not last long. Already he could see a faint shadow of ink leaching through the paper, as though all of the books and the marvelous secrets they contained would soon reappear.

Thinking quickly, he said, "It's not yet complete. I tried to tell you. Something's wrong." He hoped that the statement would deter her.

"Yes, but what?"

Presuming he had outwitted her, he added more confidently, "There's still a section of the book missing. It won't work without that."

He turned to the black page and showed her the torn corner. "See?"

Diana hissed with fury, but then a smile slowly returned to her lips. "Ah yes, how very foolish of me," she said. Her mouth curled into a sneer. "I can fix that."

Unclasping the butterfly pin from her cloak, she carefully plucked the paper wings from its body and lined them up with the book. They were a perfect fit. The delicate black paper fluttered with life.

"But…" Blake stammered.

She smiled at him victoriously. "I didn't say George was successful, did I? I managed to steal just one corner of one page, which I kept as a little reminder of what I most desired: the Last Book! "

Blake stared at her, appalled. Paying no attention, she pressed the blackened wing of paper onto the page in front of her and he watched helplessly as it began to reattach itself to the book with an invisible seam. Like a dark snowflake, the ashlike paper melted into the volume and the pages inside started to spin. The book shone with a fierce white light.

"Yes, imagine my surprise when this little slip of paper alerted me the other day to the fact that someone had rediscovered Endymion Spring," she said. "It seemed too good to be true. All I had to do was look for someone sufficiently…idealistic…to draw Endymion Spring out of hiding. I was quite pleased to make your acquaintance and then to see you slipping out, oh, so surreptitiously, you thought, from the college dinner."

"So you were the person behind me?" gasped Blake as the book continued to stir with jubilant, ecstatic, powerful life. He could see the ink beginning to grow darker, taking on a more permanent form, as the words were released from their hibernation. "You followed me to the library that night?"

"Oh, I've had my eye on you — and the library — for a long time," said Diana boastfully. "I always suspected that Psalmanazar returned Endymion Spring to St. Jerome's for safekeeping, but I was never entirely certain where. You, however, led me right to it. Except, of course, the book had already disappeared by then."

"And is Sir Giles after the Last Book too?" asked Blake stupidly, trying to catch up.

"Of course he is," snapped Diana. "Giles collects books on forbidden knowledge. What could be more spectacular than the most tempting book of all?"

Her expression hardened. "Mind you, he almost ruined everything by mentioning that elusive copy of Goblin Market — a book he couldn't have known about without a prior knowledge of the library's collections. But I don't think your brave little librarian had any idea what we'd really been looking for all this time."

"And you?" asked Blake. "What do you want the Last Book for?"

She smiled at him icily and then whispered in his ear, "I'm after the power it possesses: the ability to foresee the future, to know the past. The opportunity to make children's nightmares real. What is the power of withchcraft or wizardry compared to that?"

Blake shivered.

"And now," she said triumphantly, holding the book aloft, "to read the Last Book."

Just at that moment, there was a loud, ferocious baying from the street outside, as if a pack of hounds had descended on the library all at once. Blake ran to the window to see what was happening.

There was just one dog: a scruffy mongrel leaping against the gates in an attempt to get in. Alice! Psalmanazar was barely able to restrain her. He tugged on her bright red bandanna, but Alice pulled free and charged against the library. The noise of her barking reverberated against the sides of the building with a harsh, percussive echo that caused a crowd of spectators to stop and stare.

"Get away from there!" screamed Diana, dropping the book and racing towards him. She slashed a long, black fingernail across his neck and he winced as the sharp edge seared his skin. In an instant, he doubled back to the desk and seized the book and the butterfly clasp — anything to defend himself — from the tabletop.

The dog's howl grew more insistent. New voices joined the din. Duck pounded on the door below.

"Give that back!" said Diana fiercely.

Blake was surprised to feel the clip in his fingers curling towards the palm of his hand like a claw, as if to prick him. It was just like the clasp on Endymion Spring 's notebook — the one that had scratched his knuckle once before.

And then, with sudden clarity, he knew what he had to do.

In one quick motion, he stabbed the point of the clasp deep into his finger and extended the injured digit over the edge of the Last Book. It was what the volume had first tried to accomplish in the college library; it was what the riddle had been telling him all along. Until, with Child's blood, the Whole is sealed…

He watched as blood welled in the wound and spilled on to the exposed pages.

"You beast!" screamed Diana. "What are you doing? Get away from that book!"

She rushed headlong towards the table; then froze, horrified. The blood from Blake's finger had formed an immediate seal, a rusty red clot, on the side of the Last Book. The pages were sealed. Blake's heart burst with relief and he sank to the floor.

Diana grabbed the book from his weak fingers and clawed at the covers like a wild animal, yet the Last Book — no more than a battered brown volume — remained closed. She could not dislodge the crusty seal of blood. The bond held fast.

"What have you done?" she roared. "Why won't it open?"

She glared at him furiously, but there was no answer.

Blake had already scooped up Duck's yellow raincoat from the floor and bolted towards the door. He opened it and scrambled up the uneven spiral staircase before she could react.

There was no time to rescue Duck. His best chance was to summon help from the roof. He sprinted up the remaining stairs, stumbling on the old stone steps, scraping at the walls with his sore fingers, and continued all the way up to the top of the tower.

Diana was close behind.

"Come back, you monster! Open the book!" her voice boomed in the narrow passageway.

Blake spotted an emergency exit just beneath the enormous turret and propelled himself towards it. Without thinking, he rammed his body against the door, grunting as the stiff metal bar punched into his stomach. Pain pummeled through his body. He tried again.

An alarm system trilled deafeningly in his ears.

For a moment, he rolled along the top of the square rooftop. Spires and gargoyles wheeled past his eyes. He landed on his back, groaning with pain, and stared up into blue space. Then, rising to his feet, he looked frantically for the fire escape.

A stone trellis surmounted by tall, knobbly turrets ran along the edges of the tower — far too high to clamber over. Through one of the carved quatrefoils, he could make out crowds of people in the street below.

"Hey! Up here!" he yelled out, waving his arms up and down to grab their attention; but his voice was smothered by the alarm bells and nobody noticed the terrified boy on the roof of the tower.

Sirens roared into life in the distance, responding to the emergency call, but they were still far away.

Hobbling, Blake tried to make his way down to the iron ladder on the opposite side of the rooftop, but Diana suddenly blocked his way. Her face was ruthless and cold. Losing all hope, he waved Duck's coat in the air and cried again for help.

Below him, people were struggling to restrain Alice, who was leaping crazily at the gates. Others were pointing at the library's many windows, trying to locate the source of the disruption. Finally, someone spotted a yellow shape flapping in the wind and caught sight of Blake. A number of startled faces peered up.

There was an astonished silence — then shrieks filled the air. People yelled and jumped, pointing behind him.

Blake turned round…but he was too slow. A blinding blow — the Last Book — thwacked against the side of his face and he reeled backwards against the guard rail, hitting his head hard against the stone. He let go of Duck's jacket, which fluttered uselessly to the pavement far below.

He rubbed the side of his face and was sickened as his fingers came away wet with blood. Suddenly the world swam before his eyes. Everything slowed down. Helplessly, he appealed to Diana, who was clutching the Last Book to her chest — a look of murderous rage in her eyes.

"You will do as I say and open the book," she said. "Or I will kill you."

He shook his head, barely able to from the words to defy her.

"No," he muttered weakly.

She studied him with silent hatred and then said: "So be it."

With sudden vehemence, she locked one of her elbows round his neck and pulled him off his feet. His face felt as tight as a red balloon. "If I don't get the book," she snarled into his ear, "then neither do you."

Blake was powerless to resist. His arms fell to his sides, too heavy and too tired to fight back. He was exhausted. The shadow had won.

Diana's glove chafed against his skin, tightening its grip on his neck. He could barely breathe. He raked in dry, desperate gulps and his knees went weak.

Faintly, he could hear people yelling in the street. Hundreds of faces were looking up in horror, some taking pictures, but the sights and sounds reached him only dimly, drifting in on waves. He was drowning in mid-air. There was nothing anyone could do to help.

"I will not lose the book," spat Diana, and pinned him against the stone railing. He could feel the sharp edge of a quatrefoil biting into his side. "What a pity it has to end this way."

"No!" he roared one last time, twisting and turning and biting and fighting with all his might.

Taken by surprise, Diana opened her hand and accidentally dropped the book. They both watched, horrified, as it fell through the open quatrefoil and into empty space.

Diana immediately released him from her grasp and groped at the air with her gloved fingertips, desperate to recapture the book as it tumbled over the side of the tower and plummeted down…down…down…into the waiting arms of Duck's yellow raincoat, which lay like a dead body a hundred feet below.

And then Blake slunk, senseless, to the ground.