on it. I took it back to the window and gnawed on it as I kept watch.
It was a long time before I saw Gaspard emerge from the mist and pick his way back towards the turret. I ducked in case he glanced up, but the old crow hobbled along, leaning on his stick, his head bent down against the chill air. I folded away his blankets and pulled the straw pallet to one side. I was just dragging my own on top of it when the door opened.
‘Only just risen, you lazy squab?’ Gaspard said.
But for once he didn’t accompany these words with a thwack from his stick, or even a sharp prod. He looked remarkably cheerful. I was so unaccustomed to seeing a smile on his face that for a moment I thought he was having some sort of fit. ‘You’re out early, Master.’
‘There’s much to be done,’ he said. He rapped a pile of document cases, which promptly tumbled to the floor with a clatter. ‘There’s all these to be put away, and tidily, too. You can start by taking the old books up to the roof space. But I want them stored neatly, mind, and in order. Don’t just fling them up there.’
I’d been so startled by his buoyant humour that it wasn’t until he mentioned books that I registered his hands were empty, save his staff. He had not brought the church records back with him.
‘Did you find what Monsieur le Comte wanted, then?’
He smiled again, showing a row of crooked brown teeth. ‘Indeed I did, and the master was most gratified. That is the art of being a good librarian. You must always be able to lay hands on anything your master requires. Keep everything,
chiot
, throw away nothing, however insignificant or old. You never know when it might be needed. “The cornerstone which the builders rejected”, that is what an ancient book is, Vincent, a cornerstone. Many might consider it worthless, but one day it may prove to be the very stone upon which the whole house stands. Words, Vincent, always hoard the written words as if they were royal jewels.’
Gaspard so seldom called me by my name that I often thought he’d forgotten I’d ever had one, but to hear it uttered twice made me think it was I whose wits were wandering. But the old man’s fit of affability could not last long, and with his very next breath he was back to his usual curmudgeonly self.
‘Up that ladder with you,
petit bâtard
,’ he said, banging his staff on the wooden boards. ‘Do you expect me to go climbing through trapdoors at my age?’
I pushed the rickety ladder into position and, seizing as many books as I could carry in one arm without turning the ladder over, pushed my way up into the dusty space beneath the eaves. It was only when I got in there that I realised I had forgotten to bring a candle – the feeble grey light wandering up through the trapdoor was not enough to distinguish a bat from a rat, never mind to try to set the books in any kind of order.
I knelt and poked my head down through the trapdoor. Given the ancient one’s unaccustomed good humour, I hoped for once he would pass me a candle instead of making me climb down to fetch it. But as I peered down, I saw Gaspard pulling a money bag from under his robe. He lifted the lid on the small chest where he kept his few possessions and slid the purse right to the very bottom beneath his summer robe, locking it with a key he took from around his neck. I hadn’t even known he had a key for that chest, for there had certainly been nothing worth locking into it before and, believe me, I’d checked. The one thing I did know was that the money bag looked extremely heavy. Philippe must have been more than gratified by whatever the old crow had discovered for him.
For once, I was not bored witless by carrying the endless stacks of books and documents up that ladder and setting them in some kind of order. Not that I bothered much with the latter: I knew the old man could never climb into the loft to inspect my work. But pretending to sort the books gave me ample time to
It was a long time before I saw Gaspard emerge from the mist and pick his way back towards the turret. I ducked in case he glanced up, but the old crow hobbled along, leaning on his stick, his head bent down against the chill air. I folded away his blankets and pulled the straw pallet to one side. I was just dragging my own on top of it when the door opened.
‘Only just risen, you lazy squab?’ Gaspard said.
But for once he didn’t accompany these words with a thwack from his stick, or even a sharp prod. He looked remarkably cheerful. I was so unaccustomed to seeing a smile on his face that for a moment I thought he was having some sort of fit. ‘You’re out early, Master.’
‘There’s much to be done,’ he said. He rapped a pile of document cases, which promptly tumbled to the floor with a clatter. ‘There’s all these to be put away, and tidily, too. You can start by taking the old books up to the roof space. But I want them stored neatly, mind, and in order. Don’t just fling them up there.’
I’d been so startled by his buoyant humour that it wasn’t until he mentioned books that I registered his hands were empty, save his staff. He had not brought the church records back with him.
‘Did you find what Monsieur le Comte wanted, then?’
He smiled again, showing a row of crooked brown teeth. ‘Indeed I did, and the master was most gratified. That is the art of being a good librarian. You must always be able to lay hands on anything your master requires. Keep everything,
chiot
, throw away nothing, however insignificant or old. You never know when it might be needed. “The cornerstone which the builders rejected”, that is what an ancient book is, Vincent, a cornerstone. Many might consider it worthless, but one day it may prove to be the very stone upon which the whole house stands. Words, Vincent, always hoard the written words as if they were royal jewels.’
Gaspard so seldom called me by my name that I often thought he’d forgotten I’d ever had one, but to hear it uttered twice made me think it was I whose wits were wandering. But the old man’s fit of affability could not last long, and with his very next breath he was back to his usual curmudgeonly self.
‘Up that ladder with you,
petit bâtard
,’ he said, banging his staff on the wooden boards. ‘Do you expect me to go climbing through trapdoors at my age?’
I pushed the rickety ladder into position and, seizing as many books as I could carry in one arm without turning the ladder over, pushed my way up into the dusty space beneath the eaves. It was only when I got in there that I realised I had forgotten to bring a candle – the feeble grey light wandering up through the trapdoor was not enough to distinguish a bat from a rat, never mind to try to set the books in any kind of order.
I knelt and poked my head down through the trapdoor. Given the ancient one’s unaccustomed good humour, I hoped for once he would pass me a candle instead of making me climb down to fetch it. But as I peered down, I saw Gaspard pulling a money bag from under his robe. He lifted the lid on the small chest where he kept his few possessions and slid the purse right to the very bottom beneath his summer robe, locking it with a key he took from around his neck. I hadn’t even known he had a key for that chest, for there had certainly been nothing worth locking into it before and, believe me, I’d checked. The one thing I did know was that the money bag looked extremely heavy. Philippe must have been more than gratified by whatever the old crow had discovered for him.
For once, I was not bored witless by carrying the endless stacks of books and documents up that ladder and setting them in some kind of order. Not that I bothered much with the latter: I knew the old man could never climb into the loft to inspect my work. But pretending to sort the books gave me ample time to
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