A matter of the utmost secrecy,the letter said. So much for that.
Chapter Two
I show Ava the letter and assuring her that I have no idea what’s going on, she demands to know why I left the party early. My sudden disappearance had her worried, and she left shortly after I did. She calls me a scaredy cat and waves off my concern about the guard.
After feeding Tinkerbell, we go to bed. But it takes me ages to fall asleep, and when I wake up the next morning, I feel as if I’ve been trampled by a horde of elephants.
My boss Mrs.Byron has little sympathy for me when I show up to the library, yawning and bleary-eyed. She looks at me over the tops of her horn-rimmed glasses. As always, she wears her black hair in a tight bun that makes her look like a professor.
“I hope this will not affect your work, Kaya,” she says with a stern look. “You know your diligence evaluation is due at the end of this week.”
Maybe this isn’t the best time to ask her if I can leave work early, even if it’s for a meeting with the princess.
I decide to put this conversation off until later and head down to the archives in the basement of the library. Normally, I like to be down here. It’s quiet and no one bothers me. The air has that dusty, slightly musty smell that I like so much. And I’m surrounded by books, of course.
But today everything feels different. I’m all too aware of the content of the books around me. They tell of a world that once existed and will probably never exist again.
Shakespeare, Mary Shelley, Oscar Wilde, Ian Fleming. I’ve read and censored all their works, removed pages and blackedout passages, even burned entire books when necessary. That’s my job as a librarian. I make the sin disappear from the pages. Sometimes there’s not much left in the end.
I once saved a book from complete destruction. It was months ago, and it’s now sitting in a shoebox at the very back of my closet. Its title isLady Chatterley’s Lover. I was supposed to throw it in the incinerator, but I didn’t. Instead, I smuggled it home under my coat and read the pages over and over again, cheeks blazing from fascination and fear of getting caught. Not even Ava knows about it.
I reach for a children’s book calledThe Secret Garden. Such books usually don’t need much correction. Sometimes the protagonists fight or gorge themselves on sweets, sometimes they’re jealous of each other or just plain lazy. But you can always tell the author’s desire to raise virtuous children. Sin is something authors save for the adults.
Around noon, I leave my hiding place in the basement. I like to spend my break in the bay window room—a small space readers can retreat to. A student is sitting in front of a stack of books, busily writing in her notebook. An older gentleman is engrossed in a Charles Dickens novel.
I sit down in a corner near the window where the sunshine warms my shoulders and unpack my lunch. Cold potatoes and beans, leftovers from the day before. Suddenly the idea of drizzling a bit of lemon over them doesn’t seem so unreasonable. And maybe downing a shot of tequila afterward. No, that stuff was disgusting. I shudder at the memory of it and have to laugh quietly at myself.
“Kaya!” My boss appears in front of me before I’ve even finished my lunch. “There’s a customer who claims there’s an offensive scene in the book he checked out.”
By all the seven virtues, not again!
There are always customers who believe themselves to be pinnacles of morality and act as guardians of moral standards. They declare a harmless squabble in a children’s book to be the origin of all sin, or get upset over a harmless kiss between a husband and wife. I admit Mrs.Byron and I don’t always see eye to eye on censoring scenes. She tends to rigorously delete everything, while I at least try to preserve the spirit of the novel.
“I’ll be right there,” I say, turning back to my lunch.
“You’ll come at once!” Mrs. Byron replies sternly.
She stomps away without waiting for my reply. And why would she? If I want a good diligence rating, I won’t hesitate a second longer before complying with her command.
The man with the Charles Dickens novel gives me a disapproving look over the edge of his book as I pack away my food and hurry after Mrs.Byron.
Oh, how I hate it here sometimes.
Mrs. Byron is standing with her arms folded in front of her while a short, heavyset man paces in front of the dark wooden shelves. He wears black leather gloves, as only distinguished people do. After all, with every touch there’s a risk of awakening passionate thoughts. He eyes my bare hands with undisguised disgust, as if they were enough to condemn me a sinner.
“Is that her?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mrs. Byron lowers her head submissively, as if ashamed of me. I suppress a snort when I see the novel he’s holding isEmma. Like someone could really find anything offensive in the works of Jane Austen.
The man plants himself in front of me and waves the book around in front of my face.
“My daughter read this novel. It’s a love story!”
Looks like somebody’s a big literature buff.
“No, really?” I say with mock indignation, which earns me anangry look from Mrs.Byron.