Iwoke early, my father said, the morning after I’d finished reading through Rossi’s papers. I’ve never been so glad to see sunshine as I was that morning. My first and very sad business was to bury Rembrandt. After that, I had no trouble arriving at the library just when the doors were opening. I wanted this whole day to ready myself for the next night, the next onslaught of darkness. For many years, night had been friendly to me, the cocoon of quiet in which I read and wrote. Now it was a threat, an inevitable danger just hours away. I might also be setting out on a journey soon, with all the preparations that would entail. It would be a little easier, I thought ruefully, if I just knew where I’d be going.

The main hall of the library was very still except for the echoing steps of librarians going about their business; few students got here this early, and I would have peace and quiet for at least half an hour. I went into the maze of the card catalog, opened my notebook, and began pulling out the drawers I needed. There were several listings for the Carpathians, one on Transylvanian folklore. One book on vampires-legends from the Egyptian tradition. I wondered how much vampires had in common around the world. Were Egyptian vampires anything like East European vampires? It was a study for an archaeologist, not for me, but I copied down the call number of the book on Egyptian tradition anyway.

Then I looked up Dracula. Subjects and titles were mixed together in the catalog; between “Drab-Ali the Great” and “Dragons, Asia,” there would be at least one entry: the title card for Bram Stoker’sDracula, which I had seen the dark-haired young woman reading here the day before. Perhaps the library even had two copies of such a classic. I needed it right away; Rossi had said it was the distillation of Stoker’s research on vampire lore, and it might contain suggestions for protection I could use myself. I hunted backward and forward. There was not a single entry under “Dracula”-nothing, nothing whatsoever. I hadn’t expected the legend to be a major topic of scholarship, but surely that one book would be listed somewhere.

Then I caught sight of what actually lay between “Drab-Ali” and “Dragons.” A little shard of twisted paper at the bottom of the drawer showed clearly that at least one card had been wrenched out. I hurried to the “St” drawer. No entries for “Stoker” appeared there-only further signs of a hasty theft. I sat down hard on the nearest wooden stool. This was too strange. Why would anyone have ripped out these particular cards?

The dark-haired girl had checked out the book last, I knew that. Had she wanted to remove the evidence of what she had checked out? But if she’d wanted to steal or hide the copy, why had she been reading it publicly, in the middle of the library? Someone else must have pulled the cards out, perhaps somebody-but why?-who didn’t want anyone looking up the book here. Whoever it was had done it hurriedly, neglecting to remove traces of the job. I thought it through again. The card catalog was sacrosanct here; any student who even left a drawer out on the tables and was caught in this error got a sharp lecture from the clerks or librarians. Any violation of the catalog would have to be accomplished quickly, that was certain, at some odd moment when no one was around or looking in that direction. If the young woman hadn’t committed this crime herself, then maybe she didn’t know that someone else didn’t want that book checked out. And she probably still had it in her possession. I almost ran to the main desk.

This library, built in the highest of high Gothic-revival styles about the time Rossi was finishing his studies at Oxford (where he was surrounded by the real thing, of course), had always appealed to me as both beautiful and comical. To reach the main desk, I had to hurry up a long cathedral nave. The circulation desk stood where the altar would have in a real cathedral, under a mural of Our Lady-of Knowledge, presumably-in sky blue robes, her arms full of heavenly tomes. Checking out a book there had all the sanctity of taking communion. Today this seemed to me the most cynical of jokes, and I ignored Our Lady’s bland, unhelpful face as I addressed the librarian, trying not to seem ruffled myself.

“I’m looking for a book that’s not on the shelves at the moment,” I began, “and I wonder if it’s actually checked out right now, or on its way back.”

The librarian, a short, unsmiling woman of sixty, glanced up from her work. “The title, please,” she said.

“Dracula,by Bram Stoker.”

“Just a minute, please; I’ll see if it’s in.” She thumbed through a little box, her face expressionless. “I’m sorry. It’s currently checked out.”

“Oh, what a shame,” I said heartily. “When will it be coming back?”

“In three weeks. It was checked out yesterday.”

“I’m afraid I simply can’t wait that long. You see I’mteaching a course…” These were usually the magic words.

“You are welcome to put it on reserve, if you like,” the librarian said coldly. She turned her coiffed gray head away from me, as if she wanted to get back to her work.

“Maybe one of my students has checked it out, to read ahead for the course. If you’d just let me have his name, I’ll get in touch with him myself.”

She looked narrowly at me. “We don’t usually do that,” she said.

“This is an unusual situation,” I confided. “I’ll be frank with you. I really must use one section of that book to prepare my exam for them, and-well, I loaned my own copy to a student and he’s unable to find it now. It was my mistake, but you know how these things go, with students. I should have known better.”

Her face softened and she looked almost sympathetic. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?” she said, nodding. “We lose a stack of books every term, I’m sure. Well, let me see if I can get the name for you, but don’t spread around that I did this, all right?”

She turned away to root in a cabinet behind her, and I stood reflecting on the duplicity I had suddenly discovered in my own nature. When had I learned to lie so fluently? It gave me a feeling of uneasy pleasure. While I was standing there, I realized that another librarian behind the big altar had moved closer and was watching me. He was a thin middle-aged man I’d often seen there, only slightly taller than his colleague and shabbily dressed in a tweed jacket and stained tie. Perhaps because I’d noticed him before, I was unexpectedly struck by a change in his appearance. His face looked sallow and wasted, perhaps even seriously ill. “Can I help you?” he said suddenly, as if he suspected I might steal something from the desk if I weren’t attended to at once.

“Oh, no, thank you.” I waved at the lady librarian’s back. “I’m being helped already.”

“I see.” He stepped aside as she returned with a slip of paper and put it in front of me. At that moment I didn’t know where to look-the paper swam under my eyes. For as the second librarian turned aside, he leaned over to examine some books that had obviously been returned to the desk and were waiting to be dealt with. And as he bent myopically toward them, his neck was exposed for a moment above the threadbare shirt collar, and I saw on it two scabbed, grimy-looking wounds, with a little dried blood making an ugly lacework on the skin just below them. Then he straightened and turned away again, holding his books.

“Is this what you wanted?” the lady librarian was asking me. I looked down at the paper she pushed toward me. “You see, it’s the slip for Bram Stoker,Dracula. We have just one copy.”

The grubby male librarian suddenly dropped a book on the floor, and the sound of it reverberated with a bang through the high nave. He straightened and looked directly at me, and I have never seen-or until that moment had never seen-a human gaze so full of hatred and wariness. “That’s what you wanted, right?” the lady was insisting.