A Hideous Beauty by Jack Cavanaugh Page B

not going to hang this one on me! You have to believe me, Mr. Austin, there is no way on God’s green earth that I would miss a memo announcing a signing if your name was on it!”
    â€œI’m not here for a signing,” I assured her.
    The woman’s shoulders slumped in exaggerated relief. “Thank goodness! I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear you say that!”
    â€œActually, I’m here to do a little research. Is there someone available who could assist me?”
    Pressing one hand against her bosom as though she was taking a solemn vow, she touched my arm with the other hand. “Oh, Mr. Austin . . . it would be an honor . . . an honor, sir . . . to assist you,” she gushed.
    â€œThank you, Ms. . . .”
    â€œCorbett,” she said. “Please call me Kathy.”
    With a snappy about-face, Kathy returned to her post behind the reference desk, folded her hands on top, smiled, and said, “Name your poison!”
    Behind her, a girl with straight, shoulder-length hair and large round glasses sat at a computer terminal entering data from a stack of cards. She glanced up at me and did a classic double take. Her eyes then darted to the end of the counter and I understood how I’d been so readily recognized.
    Propped up in a wire book holder was a copy of my book with the back-cover publicity photo prominently displayed to anyone working behind the counter.
    â€œWould you mind?” the reference librarian said, reaching for the book.
    She opened it to the title page. Dutifully, I smiled and autographed it. As I did, I noticed no one had checked it out.
    â€œI suppose this is the noncirculating reference copy,” I said. “If you’d like, I’d be willing to sign any circulating copies you have in the stacks as well.”
    Kathy corrected me with a smile. “Oh no,” she said, “this is our circulation copy.”
    Circulation copy. Singular. Never checked out. Being an author can be a humbling experience.
    She closed the book, patted it, and set it aside. “Now . . . how may I help you, Mr. Austin?”
    â€œYes, well . . . I’m researching a name,” I said.
    â€œSurname?”
    â€œUm . . . no, I don’t think so.”
    â€œGiven name, then.”
    â€œPossibly . . . but I’m not . . .”
    â€œHistorical or contemporary?”
    â€œUm . . .”
    â€œForeign or domestic?”
    â€œProbably foreign, but not in the sense that . . . that makes sense . . .”
    She pursed her lips and cocked her head and looked at me as only research librarians can do. She was good at it. It was probably an expression she used at least a dozen times a day on freshmen.
    Loud and clear was the unspoken question behind her expression: How do you expect me to help you if you don’t know what you’re talking about?
    â€œLook, Kathy . . . I’m not certain, but the name may be rooted in mythology. It may be New Age. It may be the name of a fictional character. Or it may not be a name at all, it may be a title. I just don’t know.”
    She nodded, encouraged to hear lucid sentences coming from my mouth. “All right,” she said. “Let’s approach this from another direction. Why don’t you tell me the name and we’ll go from there.”
    â€œSemyaza.”
    â€œSemyaza,” she repeated. Reaching for a slip of paper, she wrote the name down. “Semyaza. S-E-M-Y-A-Z-A?”
    â€œThat would be my guess.”
    Her eyebrows arched.
    â€œI’ve only heard it spoken once,” I explained. “I’ve never seen it written.”
    Putting on her researcher’s face, Kathy turned to a computer monitor. She tapped in a few commands and waited. When the desired screen appeared, she typed in the name. Her eyes remained fixed on the monitor while the