A Fugitive Truth Read Online Free PDF Page A

ignoring my raised eyebrow, led me down the hall, where I had my photo taken for my badge. Then he lectured me about security for fully ten minutes by the clock. It was then I brought up my complaint about Gary Conner, which was received with boredom and the assurance that I was mistaking harassment for efficiency. Knowing I wouldn’t win that argument, I saved my breath—for the moment. Every moment messing around with Constantino was another moment’s delay in meeting Madam Chandler.
    After I finally extricated myself from Constantino’s sterile office, I fled to the library, where I immediately felt more at home. I was greeted by the warm, brown smell of old leather and paper, well-worn carpeting, and wood polish. There were a number of carrelled desks about, and a couple of flat tables on which to spread work. Reference works lined two walls, and a small office was on the third. The last wall had windows that looked out into the dense stand of trees that sprawled out in front of the annex, and I paused there to admire yet another splendid prospect.
    “Nice, isn’t it?” I was startled by a man’s voice behind me. “I’m Henry Saunders, the head librarian. You must be Emma.”
    The man I faced was a few inches taller than I, and a few pounds lighter, but not weedy, with thinning blond hair and glasses. He was dressed, as are most of the men of my academic tribe, in chinos, a blue oxford shirt, and a tweed jacket. Unlike most of my colleagues, however, the jacket was nicely made out of good wool, and his tie was subtle, interesting, and not spotted with grease stains. Henry Saunders’s glasses weren’t the usual default gold wire rims, either, but a carefully chosen pair of French frames in a brown tortoiseshell that showed off some pretty compelling cheekbones. This was the sort of guy my Maternal Parent would have picked for me: WASPy, refined, and respectful. But unlike most of the boys my mother liked, Henry had a nicely formed chin with the merest hint of a dimple and gray eyes that were anything but vacant.
    “Yes, I am, how do you do?” I said, taken unawares. We shook hands. “The, ah, views…around here are very nice.”
    He had tremendously sexy hands, broad and dry, strong and careful, and he colored ever so slightly at my last thoughtless remark. Okay, not stupid, a little shy—I stopped myself abruptly. What’s with cataloguing the men lately, Em?
    I tried to remember what else I knew about Henry; virtually nothing. When I was working on my Shrewsbury application, I checked out a few books that I knew had been written as a result of other fellowships. Each of the acknowledgments contained profuse thanks to Henry Saunders for all of his help, but I didn’t know anything about his professional background. So far, I knew only that he was good at his job.
    Pleasantly businesslike, he began to walk backward, to show me around the facilities. “Let me show you around my kingdom—”
    Always alert to Shakespearean possibilities, I seized on this one. “Aha, then that must make you Prince Hal!”
    “Actually, my proper title is His Serene Majesty, the Emperor of Bibliopolis,” he answered with a grin, “but you can call me Harry. All personal belongings—books, coats, bags—go into the lockers over there—”
    Just then, Michael Glasscock swanned past us, dressed now, but still wearing his overcoat. “Morning, Harry. I got the Armstrong catalogue from Faith and Jack’s seen it. I’m done with it. You guys bid on anything at the sale?”
    “There was an auction of important Americana,” Harry informed me. “Well, we tried for a couple of leaflets but the competition was way too tough.”
    “Pretty pricey stuff, and me without a spare half a mil,” Michael agreed. “What should I do with it?”
    “Just put it on Sasha’s desk, thanks. Oh, and Michael? You really shouldn’t take any of the periodicals back to the residence with you without signing them out. I really have to