CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Spectral Library

Here turned out to be a quaint New England port town with little square white houses and redbrick sidewalks.

“Are we still in the Poe Annex?” I asked.

“Yes, the annex comprises this whole landmass, down to the water. Once you get out on the ocean, though, you’re in neutral territory. This is the town of Library Point, from ‘The Spectral Librarian,’ a short story by Flint. And there’s the Spectral Library itself,” said Elizabeth, pointing. “The Library of Fictional Volumes.”

Ahead of us, silhouetted against a brilliant orange sunset, was a tall, rectangular stone building with banks and banks of windows.

“Fictional volumes?” echoed Cole. “You mean novels and short stories? But why would they keep the ship’s logbooks there? Aren’t logbooks nonfiction?”

Andre said, “It’s not a fiction library. It’s a fictional library of fictional books. Some are fictional fiction and some are fictional nonfiction.”

“Isn’t all fiction fictional? Isn’t that what the word means?” Cole objected. “And what’s fictional nonfiction? That doesn’t mean anything.”

Dr. Rust explained, “The Spectral Library is where we keep books that only exist in books. Like . . . What’s a good example, someone?”

“The Mad Trist of Sir Launcelot Canning,” suggested Andre.

“Exactly! The Mad Trist of Sir Launcelot Canning is a work of fiction—it’s a medieval romance. But it only exists in the Poe story ‘The Fall of the House of Usher.’ The narrator reads The Mad Trist to his crazy friend. You can’t find it in any ordinary library, but we have a copy here in our library of fictional books. It’s fictional fiction.”

“Okay, what’s fictional nonfiction, then?” I asked.

“Same idea. Not all the fictional books are fiction,” explained Dr. Rust. “Some are nonfiction.”

“Huh?” Now I was thoroughly confused.

“Oh, for example . . .” Dr. Rust hesitated.

Elizabeth suggested, “The Key to All Mythologies?”

“Yes! Good one. That’s in Middlemarch, a novel by George Eliot. A fussy scholar spends his life writing it—The Key to All Mythologies, I mean. It’s nonfiction, but it exists in the novel, which is fiction. So it’s fictional nonfiction. See?”

“Okay,” said Cole, “then why did Andre just call the library a fictional library of fictional volumes?”

“For the same reason the rest of our collection in the Poe Annex is fictional,” said Dr. Rust. “The library comes from a work of fiction. In this case, ‘The Spectral Librarian’—another Laetitia Flint story . . .”

“Actually,” Elizabeth interrupted, “if you want to get really technical, you could call it a fictional fictional library of fictional fiction and fictional nonfiction. Because in the Flint story, the narrator finds a manuscript in an old library. The manuscript is called The Spectral Librarian, and it’s a novel about a ghost librarian who tends the Spectral Library of Fictional Volumes. It’s a story within a story. So in the Flint fiction, the library is fictional, which makes it doubly fictional here.”

Before my brain could explode, we arrived at the building, which seemed solid enough. Dr. Rust pulled open the doors.

I often dream of libraries, but this was better than all my dreams. It had galleries of books with dimly gleaming bindings. Wheeled ladders leaned against tiers of shelves and filigreed staircases twirled up to balconies, with catwalks spiderwebbing from section to section. Oak tables stretched out under skylights and cozy chairs were nestled beside crackling fires. I wanted to pluck a book from a shelf, curl up in a chair, and stay there forever.

Cousin Hepzibah evidently had the same thought. “Oh, poetry! Here’s Christabel LaMotte’s A Selection of Narrative and Lyric Poems! And Herbert Keanes’s Flowers and Fruit! And I’ve always wondered what John Shade’s other poems were like.” She gathered an armful of books from the shelves and sank into one of the sofas with a sigh of pleasure. Griffin sank down at her feet and put his nose in her lap.

Cole got down to business. “Where are the logbooks?”

“I’m not perfectly sure,” said Dr. Rust. “The cataloguing system here is idiosyncratic. We’ll need to consult the Spectral Librarian.”

“Where do we find him? Or her,” I asked.

“There’s a bell he answers. This way.”

“I think I’ll wait for you here,” Cousin Hepzibah said. “Enjoy yourselves!”

• • •

It was hard to keep following Dr. Rust—I kept wanting to stop and read—and apparently Andre did too.

“Ravisius Textor’s Absurdities,” he said. “That’s from ‘The Assignation,’ by Poe.” He flipped pages. “There’s supposed to be a list in here of people who died laughing.”

“Come on, Andre,” said Cole. “We’ll never find the treasure if you keep stopping to read.”

Andre put the book back reluctantly.

I trailed my finger along the spines of some mysteries. “Which are better,” I asked, “real books or fictional books?”

“What an interesting question!” said Dr. Rust. “What do you think, Elizabeth? You’ve read way more of these than I have.”

“It depends. There are lots of terrible imaginary books.” Elizabeth waved her hand at the ones we were passing, which had lurid spines. “Bad writers will always produce bad books, even fictional ones. But fictional books can be screamingly funny, especially when a comic genius made them up as satire. Like the Millie books, from Diana Wynne Jones’s Chrestomanci series. They’re so exquisitely terrible, they make me laugh till the tears run down my face. And fictional books have the advantage of staying closer to the writer’s conception. You know how sometimes, when you’re trying to write something, you start out with a huge, magical, unformed vision, but no matter how well you write the book, it never comes out how you imagined?”

Cole shook his head. “I don’t write much,” he said.

“Okay, it doesn’t have to be writing,” said Elizabeth. “Anything that takes imagination—a picture, a song, whatever. Swinging a baseball bat.”

I thought about carving pumpkins with Kitty when I was little. My pumpkin never came out anything like the scary ones I saw in my head before I started. Kitty’s were always a lot better than mine; the year I was five, I had to use the back door the whole week of Halloween because I was too scared to walk past Kitty’s pumpkin on the front porch. It was that good.

Of course, maybe the one in her head was even scarier.

“Fictional books perfectly embody the original conception, so the magic doesn’t leak out in the writing process. Here we are, the Reference Room,” said Elizabeth.

There was a round brass bell on the corner of a long wooden counter. Dr. Rust walked over and struck it.

• • •

The sound of the bell went on and on. It was sweet but dark, like the smell of graveyard roses. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw what I thought must have been the Spectral Librarian standing at the opposite end of the room. He was tall, gaunt, and dressed in something black and flowing—a long coat, maybe, or a scholar’s robe.

I turned my head for a better look, but that end of the room was empty.

Confused, I glanced away, and the Spectral Librarian was back.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said Elizabeth. (I wasn’t sure why she’d decided it was afternoon just now—the sun had been setting last time we saw it.) “Can we trouble you to help us find the logbooks from the ship Pretty Polly, out of Tom Tempest’s Treasure?”

With a sidelong glance, I saw the Spectral Librarian bow and glide toward the center of the wall. A shadow opened in the wall and he wafted through it.

“Come on, Spooky,” said Cole, grabbing my arm. We all followed the ghost into the shadow.

It was a confusing trip. Books and shelves and stairs and walls spun past the corners of my eyes, but whenever I tried to look at them directly, they glimmered away like those dim stars you can only see with the edges of your vision. Underfoot I heard my shoes click on stone, creak on wood, or crunch on gravel, but when I concentrated on the sound, it spun into silence, like the silence in a strange house deep in the country at night. So I fixed my eyes on the back of Elizabeth’s head in front of me.

Elizabeth had a plastic tortoiseshell clip in her hair. It looked very ordinary. I found that comforting.

“Why the cloak-and-dagger stuff?” asked Cole behind me. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just use the Dewey decimal system like everybody else?”

“Cole!” I hissed, worried he was going to offend the Spectral Librarian. But the vague figure kept gliding through the nebulous passage as if it hadn’t heard.

“All the best libraries of fictional books have spectral caretakers,” said Dr. Rust. “It’s a sensible tradition. Safer this way.”

“But why?” Cole asked again.

“Well, it obviously doesn’t much matter who reads Millie of Lowood House. But some of the books here are dangerous.”

“Like what?” asked Cole.

Elizabeth said, “Tons. The Spectral Librarian itself—you don’t want someone messing with the source book while you’re inside a fictional structure. The King in Yellow. The Necronomicon. Most manuals of magic. The Garden of Forking Paths. The Magician’s Book.”

“I remember that one!” I said. “It’s in the Narnia series. One of the characters reads a dangerous spell and gets into trouble.”

The hair clip bobbed as Elizabeth nodded. “Books like that need a guardian.”

The Spectral Librarian stopped gliding, and I found myself in a compact room with tables bolted to the floor, cabinets running neatly up to the ceiling, and sun streaming through a row of portholes. Outside, light danced on waves out to the horizon. In the corner of my vision, the Spectral Librarian bowed and vanished. I felt a little unsteady, as if the room were gently rocking.

I turned around. On the round table in the center of the room lay a neat stack of leather-bound books that smelled of the sea.

• • •

We each took a volume of the ship’s log to hunt for clues to the treasure. They were enormous, sharp-cornered volumes that poked you in the lap and kept flipping themselves shut. Only Andre had long enough arms to hold them comfortably.

I wrestled mine to the window seat and laid it open on the hard leather cushion. Phineas Toogood had written with a quill pen dipped in liquid ink by the light of a whale-oil lamp in a cabin that probably rocked like an amusement-park ride. And back then, even tough-guy pirates wrote with loops and flourishes. It took me a while to get the hang of telling the T’s from the C’s and the f’s from the s’s.

It was wild to think that Phineas had actually touched these books! Handsome Phineas, with the yearning eyes and the cold, ghostly hands, back when his hands were warm because he was still alive. I turned the pages carefully, imagining him turning them himself. They were stiff and crinkly, like the pages of a book you leave out in the rain and then dry in the sun.

Most of the entries were just brief notes: weather, distance, location, amount of remaining rum. But now and then Phinny would take a quarter of a page to tell a story, like when the ship stopped on a deserted island to take on water, and they discovered three families living in a vast, ruined temple.

“Listen to this, Libbet!” said Andre. “‘The day began with pleasant Weather and a moderate Breeze. Wind freshened at 3 p.m. and sails adjusted. Raised a ship to the Eastern Board, which prov’d to be the Dolphin out of Lynhaven. Dined aboard with Cap’t Heidegger, the notorious Red Rover. Plum duff excellent.’ Is that the same Dolphin here in our collection?”

“Must be,” said Elizabeth. “Ours is out of The Red Rover, by James Fenimore Cooper. The details match.”

“The Dolphin’s from a novel? What’s Laetitia Flint doing with a ship from some other book in her book?” I asked.

“She read a lot of Cooper novels, and this one’s a rip-roaring pirate story—it must have influenced her,” said Elizabeth.

“That sounds like more than just influence.” Our English teacher had given us a strict lecture about plagiarism. Using someone else’s ship in your own book might qualify.

“The Dolphin’s not in her novel, just in her fictional logbooks,” Dr. Rust pointed out. “I don’t think that really counts, since fictional logbooks aren’t exactly published. But objects often cross from writer to writer, through influence. That’s probably why you have that Hawthorne broom in your family, for example.”

We went back to our books, and the room fell silent except for the swish of turning pages. Then Cole shouted, “Got it! This is it! It has to be!”

“What?” asked Elizabeth.

“‘Sighted Land just after the first dogwatch, which proved indeed to be Broken Isle. Dropped anchor in Northern Cove’—then a bunch of numbers—that must be the depth or something. Blah, blah, blah, more numbers . . . okay, here. ‘We followed the Compass north to a ridge beneath the high hill, where we determined to secrete our Treasure beside that of Red Tom Tempest.’”

“Let me see that,” said Andre. “You’re right! Looks like you found it!”

“How do we get there, though? The coordinates are all messed up,” said Cole.

We all peered at the book. That volume was even harder to read than mine—apparently it had gotten soaked in a storm or something and the ink had run. The columns for longitude and latitude were completely illegible. “Oh, no!” I moaned.

“Don’t worry,” said Andre. “We don’t need coordinates. Sukie’s got something better.”

Everybody turned and looked at me expectantly.

“I do?”

“Of course you do! Phinny’s compass!”

• • •

When I told it to find Broken Isle, the compass went hot, the needle spinning madly. At last it bobbed to a stop, pointing at the door we’d come in by. “I think it wants us to go out.”

We all piled our logbooks back on the table, and Dr. Rust thanked the Spectral Librarian. He didn’t seem to be around, but maybe he could hear us anyway. My sister often could, even when she wasn’t exactly there.

Where was Kitty? I wondered. I’d barely seen her since we’d had that fight, the biggest one of our lives. Not just our lives, in fact—our whole time together, living and dead. Still, it wasn’t like Kitty to leave me all alone, especially on such a potentially dangerous adventure. Maybe there was something about this place keeping her out? I remembered how Dr. Rust had ushered us into the Poe Annex by name. Maybe she couldn’t pass through the portal uninvited?

As uneasy as I’d been feeling around Kitty these days, I felt uneasy without her, too. This was the first time in as long as I could remember that I couldn’t feel her looking out for me. What if I got into trouble—what if I needed her? Would she be able to come if I blew the whistle?

I hoped I wouldn’t have to find out.

The four others trooped after me as I followed the compass needle down unfamiliar corridors hung with portraits and plaques and through rooms full of books and maps. Unlike an ordinary compass, which always points north even if there’s a wall in the way, this one seemed to know not just the right general direction, but the best route to the exit.

“Where is this Broken Isle, actually?” asked Andre.

“What do you mean? You saw the logbook—we don’t know. The writing was all messed up,” said Cole.

“Big-picture where, I mean. What part of the world?”

“Oh. The West Indies. That’s where they were sailing in that part of the logbook,” said Cole.

“The Caribbean. Too bad. That means I can’t use the seven-league boots—you have to touch the ground every seven leagues, so they’re no good over open sea,” said Andre.

“Broomsticks?” Cole suggested.

“It’s kind of far for that, but maybe,” Andre said.

“I left mine upstairs in Elizabeth’s office,” I said. “But if we’re going to go flying off over the sea, maybe we’d better take Cousin Hepzibah home first.”

“I don’t think the compass wants to go back to the upstairs world,” Dr. Rust said. “It’s taking us out the back way, toward the sea, not to the train.”

“The sea is neutral territory,” said Elizabeth, “and we don’t have any fictional islands. So this Broken Isle isn’t in the Poe Annex.”

“But, Libbet, then why’s the compass pointing— Oh.” Andre stopped suddenly.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Elizabeth.

“Jonathan Rigby,” said Andre. “I bet it’s one of his islands.”

Elizabeth nodded slowly.

“Who’s Jonathan Rigby?” I asked.

“You remember that guy we keep running up against, the one who smokes a pipe?” said Elizabeth.

“Of course. Is that Jonathan Rigby? I thought he was called something else.”

“He is—that’s Feathertop. Jonathan Rigby’s his boss. Jonathan’s a private collector, and his collections adjoin ours in this collection space.”

“You met him at the flea market that time,” said Andre.

“Oh, yeah, that guy. He really wanted to buy the Hawthorne broom,” I said.

“Yeah, he’s not a bad guy, but he can get aggressive about his collection. That must be where the compass wants us to go—his collection. Jonathan’s not going to be pleased if we start digging on his island, though,” said Elizabeth.

“Does he have to know?” asked Cole.

“Well, he’s likely to find out. And then there’s the issue of who has title to the treasure.”

“The treasure belongs to Spooky and Cousin Hepzibah,” said Cole. “Obviously! Windy’s their ancestor.”

“Or to your family,” I said. “Phinny’s yours.”

“We can split it,” said Cole, proving once again that Kitty was wrong about him being a jerk. Jerks don’t offer to split pirate treasure.

“Rigby’s definitely going to claim it if we find it on his island,” said Elizabeth.

“Cross that bridge later. Let’s find it first,” said Andre. He pushed open the library doors.

“I’m going to leave you guys here, okay? I tend to get seasick,” said Dr. Rust. “Good luck! I hope you find it.”