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Hethor read the cover, Religious Images of the Latest English Century , before Librarian Childress slammed it open.

    â€œLook through here,” she said sharply, then reached for the next book. Pausing, “You can read, yes? Those aren’t someone else’s schoolbooks you’re carrying for a disguise?”
    â€œYes, ma’am. English, Latin, and some little French. I can recognize certain Chinese marks as well”
    â€œAll the great languages of Northern Earth. A studious apprentice indeed.” The librarian sounded to Hethor as if she approved. The next book slammed down on the table with another resounding thud. “And here are the Italians.”
    Hethor began to flip through the first book, the Englishmen. It was filled with pictures of men, animals, and angels, reproduced in engravings, some of which had been tinted various colors in imitation of the original oils or watercolors.
    â€œThis one!” he shouted. It was a picture of an angel leaning over some roses to speak to the Virgin Mary. The Earth’s brass tracks soared into the sky behind it.
    â€œShh,” said Librarian Childress. “This is a library. At what are you looking?”
    â€œDante Gabriel Rossetti.” Even the name seemed significant, albeit out of place in a book of Englishmen. “This angel”
    â€œArchangel. What about it?” Her voice was kind.
    He had already spilled his secret to Pryce. There seemed little point in hiding from this woman, who might know enough to help him. “It came to me,” said Hethor, miserable. “Last night.”
    She reached up to stroke his cheek. “You poor, poor boy. What on Northern Earth did it want?”
    Something in the way she asked the question tore away the last vestiges of his sense of secrecy. “The Key Perilous. I’m to find the Key Perilous. The world’s gone wrong, and I’ve been chosen to fix it.” His breath caught in his throat.
    Librarian Childress’ hand covered her mouth, her eyes wide. “Goodness. Such a burden. How did you know it was the Archangel Gabriel?”

    That she did not laugh, or call him mad, was an immense relief. “It told me.” Hethor nodded at the engraving. “This is the angel I saw.”
    Childress began flipping through the Italian book. “There are other pictures of Gabriel. Many others. Let us look some more.” She turned a few pages, then glanced up at him again. “I believe that you mean what you say, but what you remember may not be the truth. The Key Perilous is legendary, in several senses of the word.”
    â€œIt’s real,” said Hethor. “What happened, I mean. Gabriel gave me a silver feather.”
    â€œWhere is that feather now?”
    â€œPryce Bodean took it from me. Said I didn’t deserve to have it, all but accused me of stealing it.”
    She looked at Hethor’s boots, a slow, pointed stare that was hard to miss. “One might be excused for wondering why an apprentice would be carrying silver, especially if one were a Rational Humanist such as Mister Bodean. He does not miss much in his search for a hard-edged kind of truth.”
    â€œSo what do I do? I need to understand my mission.”
    â€œIf this is true, you will need help.” She stopped, one hand resting on the Italian book, and gave him a long, careful look, like a greengrocer with a questionable load of lettuce. “But if this is not true, if you are just a foolish boy, taken with fever or a bout of imagination, I would be more the fool to help you.”
    Somehow Hethor was sure that she knew something. She knew what he needed to do. How could he convince her of the truth of what had happened?
    The scar. Of course. He opened the palm of his right hand and held it out to her. “Here is the scar from the feather. Its edges were sharp as a sword, ma’am.”
    Librarian Childress took his fingers in her own and studied the