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So Sir Ambrose himself was the architect, the one obsessed with mazes and symmetries. Yes, a true Daedalus-as Alethea had called him-for was not Daedalus the architect of, among other things, the Labyrinth in Crete? But I was at a loss to explain the fixation with these peculiar repetitions and echoes. Mere vagary, or was there an ulterior consideration? I felt that, despite Alethea's anecdotes and the 'remains' I had seen in the underground vault, I knew almost nothing about Sir Ambrose. The seared leaves and cockled animal skins stacked in the disinterred coffin told some strange and possibly tragic tale, as did his collection of books. But at that point I could not even begin to guess what obscure thread might hold them all together. He seemed to show one face, then another, so that it was impossible to form a picture of this strange chimera. Was he a collector? An inventor? An architect? A sea captain? An alchemist? I resolved that when I returned to London I would make a few enquiries.

I realised too that I hardly knew more about Alethea. Her every account-of the library, of the house, of her father-seemed to withhold as much as it gave out. I wondered how far I should trust her. As we approached the house I deliberated whether or not I might safely confide in her, if it would be wise to tell her about my experience in the maze of corridors above the stairs, or even to ask about the copy of Ortelius. Or was silence still the most prudent course?

Before I had made up my mind, she steered me towards the door as one does a blind man.

'The library awaits us, Mr. Inchbold. The time arrives for you to learn your task.'

Chapter Seven

My task, it transpired, was to be, at least on first impression, relatively straightforward, if not exactly easy.

It had to do with Sir Ambrose's books. What else? After leading me back inside the library-which was even more spectacularly voluminous lit by the band of light streaming through its casement window-Alethea produced a list of books, a dozen in all. It had been discovered on her return, she said, that these particular volumes were missing from the library. And since she wished to complete the collection and restore the library to the condition in which Sir Ambrose had left it at his death, it was imperative that all of them be found.

'So you wish me to find replacement copies…' I was trying to read the upside-down names inscribed on the page. I felt relief-mingled, perhaps, with disappointment-that at last everything was becoming clear. Such an enormous fuss for twelve books. Craning my neck slightly I was able to make out one of the titles: Girolamo Benzoli's Historia del Mondo Nuovo. 'I see. Very well. I should be able to find copies-'

I was interrupted by Alethea, who seemed strangely nettled at my assumption.

'No, Mr. Inchbold. You do not understand. I said it was imperative that these books were returned to the library.' She rapped her finger smartly against the page, which rattled like stage thunder. 'These copies exactly, the originals. Each is identified by its ex-libris, which shows my father's arms. Here…'

Pulling a book at random from the shelf, she opened it to the inside cover, on which a black-and-white shield had been embossed. She then handed me the volume, an edition of Leonzio Pilato's Latin translation of the Iliad, whose insignia I studied more closely for fear of disturbing her temper further. The shield, I saw, was divided by a chevron and adorned at its base by a single charge, an open book with two seals and two clasps. Very appropriate, I thought. I noticed further that the device also betrayed Sir Ambrose's peculiar fondness for symmetries, because the left side of the shield-the sinister half-perfectly matched the dexter. Rather, they matched perfectly except for their colours, since the shield had been counterchanged: the sinister half was white wherever the dexter was black, and vice versa, so that the left half of the chevron was black and the right half white, while the left half of the charge was white and the right black, and so forth. The effect was a peculiar one of both reflection and contrast, of symmetry together with variation or difference. The only exception to the regime was the scroll unfurling beneath, on which was inscribed Sir Ambrose's now-familiar motto: Littera Scripta Manet. 'The written word abides.' It was a motto that seemed at once a promise and a threat.

I closed the book and looked up to find Alethea studying me with a strangely nervous empressement. Gone were the melancholy reveries of a few moments earlier; she was now alert and anxious. I handed back the book, which she carefully replaced on the shelf, before returning her attention to me.

'You wish me to find twelve books owned by your father,' I ventured. 'Twelve books with his ex-libris.' I was giving the upside-down list a dubious frown. By now I could make out several more of the titles. One appeared to be the Elegías de varones ilustres de las Indias of Juan de Castellanos, and another was Pedro de Léon's Primera parte de la crónica del Peru-both of them, like the edition of Benzoli, chronicles of the Spanish explorations of the New World. 'But that may be difficult,' I added, adopting my most professional tone, 'even impossible. A thousand things might have become of them. They could be anywhere. Or nowhere. What if they were burned by the troops in the garrison?'

A vertical line appeared between the two dark arches of her eyebrows. She shook her head and gave me the hopeless, wearied look of one forced to explain recondite matters to a difficult child. I felt myself flush-from anger, but also from something more subtle, for I noticed how the change in her appearance went beyond her obvious frustration with me. This morning her face had been powdered, her lips lightly painted, and the great crop of hair subdued, partially at least, by a coif of black lace. She was still Junoesque in both stature and demeanour-I might even say Amazonian-but none the less she looked… well… rather beguiling. I even thought I smelled some kind of sweet oil that reminded me, with dreadful incongruity, of Arabella's orange-flower perfume. Still, Alethea's charms were so contrary to those of Arabella-my quiet, modest Arabella-that I found them difficult to recognise and appreciate, face powder and crimson paint or not. I swiftly averted my gaze, catching a glimpse as I did so of a fourth title inscribed on the page: Edward Wright's Certaine Errors in Navigation.

'Please, Mr. Inchbold. You must listen very closely.' Her voice was more earnest and insistent than the case seemed to demand, with none of the patience and propriety I had so far associated with women. 'I wish to engage you to find one book. One book only. The eleven other volumes, I am happy to say, have been located. But this last, the twelfth book, has not-though not for want of trying.'

So much fuss, then, for a single book. I sighed inwardly. 'And so it is on account of this one, the twelfth, that you wish to engage me.' I was attempting to keep an edge of resignation from my voice. I had no wish to see her temper ruffle again.

'Precisely. For, you see, much depends on your finding it.'

'It seems like a great deal of trouble to bring someone all the way from London for a single book.'

'A very valuable book.'

'Even for a valuable one.'

The vertical line on her dark brow deepened. 'Mr. Inchbold, I wish to emphasise the importance of your task.'

'And so you have.'

But there was more, much more, that she had not 'emphasised'; I was certain of that. Everything she told me seemed meticulously selected from a larger, unexposed story, some intrigue at which she only hinted. Her father's enemies, for example, these 'other interests'. Did they, too, wish to claim this mysterious twelfth book? But I wondered also how much of what she said-about her father, about her husband-I should let myself believe.