The Poisons of Caux: The Hollow Bettle (Book I) by Susannah Appelbaum Page B

foreboding fortress it is today. At one time, the Good King Verdigris even held it up as his most treasured accomplishment—and that’s saying quite a lot, as the man lived the length of many lifetimes, and from his hands came a great many things.”
    Rowan thought about Rocamadour, its dark clusters of stone buildings, its perpetual gray weather. The streets were thin and paved in cobblestones covered in a dark, creeping moss that grew up and over most everything—even the massive black spire atop the cathedral. This was where most of the Guild’s learning took place.
    It was hard to think of the place as anything other than severe, and Rowan told the trestleman so.
    “It’s true. Although I haven’t been there in a while, I can’t imagine it’s changed too much. But Verdigris meant it as a school of learning, where all distractions might disappear. Perhaps that is why it was built so. It was meant in its day as an academy for apotheopaths, a place to study the art of healing.It was said to have the largest library in all the land.” Axle glanced toward his study, sadly. He knew what little was left of that famous library could be found in it.
    “I mentioned the fortress was said to be the king’s greatest accomplishment, but I have my own favorites.”
    “Oh, Axle, do tell us about your favorites!” Ivy pleaded.
    “Perhaps another time. Right now, we should help this young Guild graduate unlearn his years of schooling, and teach him the proper way to eat!”
    And with that, the trestleman reached in and served himself an enormous plateful of cream puffs.

Chapter Twelve
The Doorway
    he place where the world-famous Axlerod D. Roux did all of his important writing was a place to which even Ivy was not privy. His study was off the main room, with a pleasant view of the water—the river being one of his most favorite inspirations. The room was a largish one, with ample space for any trestleman, were it not for the incredible amount of literature Axle had amassed over his long years. Enormous hulking leather-bound books threatened to collapse their feeble shelves, and stacks of parchment and leaflets created odd pathways around the floor.
    But there was a sort of order to things the longer you stayed in the room, or so Axle maintained.
    The trestleman was helped immensely by an old invention of his, a crisscrossing system of pulleys and levers so confusing to the outsider—although there never
were
any outsiders—that one might conjure up any excuse at all to remain safely bythe exit. These levers and pulleys advanced several sets of pincers attached to various lengths of accordion-like limbs, grabbing a book or magnifying lens at whim. The result was that Axle was never very far at all from a reference book or anything he might need in his research while he was seated at his handsome, sturdy desk.
    Opening the heavy wooden door to Axle’s study, Ivy Manx could not believe her luck. She had always wanted to see this room, and Axle, until today, had never invited her. Rowan, too, was in silent awe and held his breath in expectation. This was where it all happened—where his favorite author wrote! After breakfast they didn’t think things could get any more exciting, but Axle had pushed his chair back from the table and stood—albeit not very high—and announced that he had something to show the children in his study.
    “Come, come, come!” he called, making his way with great speed through tall barricades of reading material. He began flicking switches and levers, and the crisscrossing cables on the ceiling hummed to life.
    He soon was lost to the towering literature.
    “Axle?” Ivy called out, but the ceiling’s drone was all that answered.
    Picking her way slowly, she almost collapsed a tall stack of dusty books, which teetered distressingly high above her head and surely would have crushed her had Rowan not caught them in time. The ensuing cloud of dust caused the taster tosneeze loudly, sending a