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were acting on behalf of Dean Holliday?”
    â€œYes. He has been investigating a rumored series of, well, apparitions here in New Haven. I have been charged
with certain aspects of that work, in order to insulate the office of the dean from small-minded accusations.”
    â€œSuch as we Rational Humanists might levy?” Pryce’s voice reeked with false good humor.
    â€œPrecisely.” She paused, diplomatically perhaps. “I have heard that something of potential importance was delivered to you today by a tradesman. A sort of minor … token.”
    Hethor was struck by how Librarian Childress’ speech was slipping from her usual tart precision to the sort of self-important puffery that characterized the diction of the students. Hethor wondered if Pryce knew he was being mocked.
    â€œI’m sure I don’t know wh—”
    Childress’ words cut across Pryce’s like a lash, in her sharp librarian voice this time. “What you don’t know would overfill this room, Mister Bodean, but please do not pretend ignorance. My sources are good, much better than yours. I need to examine this token. If it is your property, I will be pleased to return it to you.”
    â€œI am in possession of such, ah, a trifle,” said Pryce. He sounded angry. “It b-belongs to my father, Master Bodean the Clockmaker. I am in the process of returning it to him.”
    Hethor’s ears burned; his face felt hot. Pryce had just told Librarian Childress that Hethor was a thief, the sort of apprentice who would steal from his master. He wanted to shout his innocence, leap from the alcove and defend his honor. But being seen to lurk in shadows in order to overhear conversations would only confirm whatever miserable opinion Pryce Bodean already had of him.
    â€œIn that case,” said Librarian Childress, “I shall be certain to return it to him, with a full explanation.”
    â€œThat won’t ble …” Pryce stopped. Hethor heard him take a deep breath. “Very well, madam. Since this is of service to Dean Holliday, I will raise no more objections.” There was a clink as something small and metallic hit the glass tabletop; then a chair slid back. “I trust it will
come back to me—rather, my father—soon enough. If that is all, I will bid you good day.”
    â€œGood day, Mister Bodean. Your services will not go unremarked.”
    â€œI should hope not.”
    A door clicked. Hethor held himself still in the alcove, listening to Librarian Childress hum quietly. A minute or so later, there was a discreet double rap on the door of the reading room, though no one entered.
    â€œYou may come down now,” said the librarian. “He has departed.”
    Hethor stepped out onto the ladder, stopping to brush off his clothes before climbing down. Once on the floor, he went straight to the table.
    The silver feather sat on the glass. It was still edged with his blood.
    â€œLibra Malachi,” said Childress. “And do sit, please.”
    â€œThe Book of Malachi?” Hethor translated as he pulled his chair in with a scrape.
    â€œPerhaps more accurately, the Book of Messengers. In the sense of angels. From the Hebrew malakh, the messenger angels.”
    â€œGabriel,” said Hethor.
    â€œCorrect” Librarian Childress looked grim, though a smile quirked at the corners of her mouth. Her fingers traced the pattern of the horofix across her chest. “The messenger angel who brought news of our Brass Christ to Mary.”
    â€œAnd what about this book?”
    â€œI would have to research the exact dates, but Libra Malachi tells us that the silver feather is a token that has been seen before. Presented to various generals, saints, and kings at critical junctures throughout history. Most recently, long after the writing of the book, to Lord Raglan in the Crimea just before he ordered the Light Brigade to charge the Chinese guns. By an