A Fugitive Truth Read Online Free PDF Page B

possible.” He paused and looked around. “What am I forgetting?” He ran down the regulations about photocopying, the hours the library was open, and the rest of the infrastructural details. “Let’s go up to the manuscript section and I’ll show you where you’ll be working.”
    I followed him upstairs, thinking about how most people view librarians; they are usually caricatured as stern old creatures out of touch with the rest of the world and with a need for control so great that it drives them to suck the life out of the fun of using a library. The worst librarians act like dragons sitting on a golden hoard, resenting you for threatening to disturb their carefully ordered world. With the best librarians, the sort I so often had a chance to encounter professionally—well, the concern with control was still there, but it was mitigated by their understanding that the care of the books was important but, that theoretically speaking, the books were worthless unless they were used. The good ones try to find out how to facilitate your work while still caring for their charges.
    Upstairs was a room of the same size as those below, but differently partitioned. The reading area was similar, but in addition to the small office in the back, I could see a small laboratory to one side. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a fume hood and a sink and a couple of work surfaces. A collection of brown chemical bottles sat on a shelf, along with cases of distilled water. I knew that distilled water was often used to clean paper during its conservation. Harry noticed my interest.
    “We are lucky enough to have what we need to do some conservation and repairs to the books right here. We are equipped to do most anything short of rebinding, but at the moment, there’s no one who is skilled enough to do more than the basics.”
    “Is that you, Harry?” said a muffled woman’s voice. “I’m still worried about the Whitehead—”
    “Ah, here’s Sasha Russo, our manuscript librarian.” Harry was looking over my shoulder and smiling broadly. “Sash, come say hello to Emma Fielding.”
    Sasha was stooping by a trolley full of books and had been sorting them when she called him. At the mention of her name, she stood up to introduce herself. And stood up, and up, and up. No wonder Harry was smiling; Sasha’s legs ended on her about where my ears start on me.
    It just wasn’t fair. Oh, sure, she was wearing a pair of glasses with thick black frames, a lavender twin set and tweedy brown skirt, and had her hair up in a tight bun. But the sweater looked like it was covering a partial relief map of the Rockies, the hem of the skirt struggled to stay demurely at the tops of her knees, and the glasses looked like a fashion photographer had just decided that smart was chic and stuck them on the pouting face of his latest supermodel creation. And that hair; gold with coppery glints that reminded men why Jason sought the golden fleece, and that was the sole object of every woman who ever tangled with a home bleach kit. Sasha Russo was a manuscript librarian trapped in the body of a Viking goddess.
    I’d taken particular care with my appearance that morning and had flattered myself that I looked not only professional and presentable but a little sexy, in a kinky, Edwardian sort of way. Suddenly I felt short, squat, brown, and dull, a toad standing next to a tulip. I consoled myself with the thought that she was probably a bubble-headed miracle of plastic surgery and Aqua Net, with minor talents for alphabetizing and walking away.
    “Hi, I’m Sasha Russo,” she said, offering me a hand that was strong and delicate at the same time. “I’m so pleased to meet you, I’ve been telling Harry that it’s long past time that someone with real credentials came to work with the Chandler diary. Margaret Chandler’s historically been given such short shrift, and so when I read your proposal, I was convinced that you’d be the one to finally do her