S. Grove - The Glass Sentence

Dr. Hopish has seemingly lost critical brain function. Doctors at Boston City Hospital say that it is too early to determine whether Dr. Hopish will be able to speak, let alone return to his duties as minister, any time soon.

Considering Dr. Hopish’s crucial role in implementing the newly passed Patriot Plan, the connection with parliament’s decision at the State House cannot be overlooked. Indeed, certain of Dr. Hopish’s colleagues in the ministry, as well as several respected members of parliament, readily assume that the injury was no accident. “I have no doubt,” said Mr. Gordon Broadgirdle, MP, “that Hopish has fallen victim to the unrestrained violence of foreigners bent on the vengeful extinction of our nation’s leaders.”

“How terrible!” she exclaimed.

“It is,” Shadrack replied, running a hand through his hair. “As if Carlton’s tragedy were not bad enough, all of this will only lead to greater support for the Patriot Plan. They are of course blaming foreigners for all three incidents.” He shook his head. “What a disastrous twenty hours.”

They were both silent for a moment. “We will be all right, won’t we?” Sophia asked quietly.

Shadrack sighed and held out his hand. Sophia took it. Despite her uncle’s look of exhaustion, his expression was reassuring. “We will be all right,” he said. “But there will be changes.”

“What kind of changes?”

“I won’t lie to you, Soph. This is a difficult time, and it will remain that way even after the immediate furor subsides. I am most worried about the end of August. As I said yesterday, I would not be surprised if the borders were closed entirely by the ridiculous Protection Amendment—even to us.”

“If”—she swallowed hard—“if they did that, then we couldn’t leave.”

“No,” Shadrack agreed.

“And . . . the people from New Occident who are in another age now?”

“I see your point,” he said after a moment.

“Their papers are here. If they want to come home now, they won’t be able to get in. And, after August, we wouldn’t even be able to go out to—to meet them?” She looked down, avoiding Shadrack’s gaze.

He stood and put his arm around her shoulders. “You’ve always held out hope, Soph.”

“It is foolish, I know,” she muttered.

Shadrack tightened his grasp. “It is not in the least foolish,” he said forcefully. “To hold out hope, to be willing to expect the impossible—these are courageous things. You have wonderful resilience.”

“I guess.”

“All you need, Sophia,” he went on, “is something to do. You lack the way to apply your exceptional patience, your persistence.”

“I don’t know what I can possibly do about it.”

“Yes, Soph, but I know,” he said, stepping back and releasing her. “I meant to wait a few more years, but we can’t. The time has arrived.” He looked her in the eye. “Sophia, you have to make me a promise.”

“Okay,” she said, surprised.

“Only a handful of people in this Age know what I am about to tell you.” Sophia looked at him expectantly. “I won’t ask you never to speak of it, because I know you will use your judgment and speak of it only when you must. But,” he said, looking down at the floor, “you must promise me something else. You must promise me that you won’t . . . You won’t decide—you won’t even consider,” he corrected himself, “going in search of them without me.” He met her eyes, his expression earnest. “Can you promise me that?”

Sophia pondered in silence for several seconds, feeling confused, alarmed, and hopeful all at once. “I promise,” she whispered.

“Good.” He smiled a little sadly. “I hope the long wait will have served its purpose in teaching you caution.” He walked to one of the bookshelves and removed a thick leather-bound volume. Reaching behind it, he seemed to turn something. Then the entire bookshelf, which reached from floor to ceiling, swung slowly outward. A wide doorway with a set of steps leading downward stood revealed.

Sophia gaped for a moment, too astonished to speak. Shadrack reached into the open passageway and turned on a series of flame-lamps. He smiled at her expression. “Well? Don’t you want to see the map room?”

“This has been here all the time?”

“It has. It’s where I do my most important work.”

“I thought when you closed the door you were working in your study.”

“Sometimes. I am usually downstairs. Follow me.” He led her down the steps, which turned twice before opening onto a basement Sophia had never known existed.

The room was fully as large as the entire first floor of the house. Electric flame-lamps dotted the walls and tables. In many ways, it seemed a grander, more orderly version of the library upstairs. Here, too, bookshelves covered the walls and a pair of sturdy wooden tables showed signs of frequent use. The room smelled of old paper, flame-lamp, and polished wood. A thick carpet that muffled Sophia’s footsteps covered the floor, and on one side of the room a sofa and two armchairs formed a small sitting area. But in other respects there was a sharp contrast. A long glass display case such as one would see in a museum glinted under the lights by the rear wall, filled with all kinds of strange objects. Nearby was a set of four enormous oak bureaus, each with dozens of shallow drawers. And then there was the most striking difference of all: the room was tidy and well kept. Nothing was out of place.

Sophia stood rooted to the spot, staring around her. She was still having trouble believing that such a room existed. “How long has this been here?” she finally asked, in an awed voice. “And why is it so clean? ”

Shadrack laughed. “Let me tell you a little family history—some history that you don’t know. My father—your grandfather—was, as you know, the curator of the museum at the university. And as a curator, he was also an explorer.”

Sophia nodded; this much she knew.

“So Father spent a great deal of time not only curating the museum but also exploring the different Ages and purchasing pieces for it.” Again, this was not news. “Well, during his explorations, it was only natural that Father should also acquire things for himself. He was an avid collector, after all. And on his travels to the various Ages, he met people who gave him gifts. The pieces he had purchased for the museum went to the museum, and the pieces that were given to him or purchased for himself were kept here. Father made this space into his own private museum.”

“But why was it secret?” she asked.

“It wasn’t—not always. At first, he simply wanted a place that was cool and out of the light in order to keep his treasures safe. But then, as word of his private collection got around, Father began getting visitors from all over New Occident—people who wanted to buy his pieces. Needless to say, he wasn’t interested. As the attention of other collectors and dealers grew more and more insistent, Father decided he would just cause all of it to disappear. He made it known that he had donated his entire private collection to the museum, and then he built the bookcases to conceal the entrance. It took some time, but after a while the collectors stopped pestering him.”

“And everyone forgot the collection existed?”

“Almost everyone. When I started studying cartology,” Shadrack went on, “Father suggested I keep my more valuable maps and cartologic instruments here. He had a list of rules that I agreed to observe”—he grimaced—“such as keeping everything tidy. I agreed, and over time I had more maps and tools that needed to be kept hidden. Eventually, after Father passed away, I remade it into a map room, and I’ve kept it that way ever since. And of course it’s still secret, because of the work I do here. Most of it is so sensitive that it must be completely concealed—even from those who live under my own roof,” he added apologetically.