Matthew Skelton - Endymion Spring

A porter in a navy-blue suit was clearing a desk in the middle of the room, preparing to lock up. Blake paused on the threshold of the library and then, as soon as the man's back was turned, slid into position behind a banister directly opposite. He squeezed himself between the railing and a bench, which he hoped would shield him from view.

On the underside of the shelves above him gleamed a constellation of stars, gilded onto a checkered background of red and green squares. Otherwise, the room was thick with shadow. He checked his watch. Only three minutes left. His pulse throbbed wildly as the seconds ticked away.

Very carefully, he unzipped his bag and put both the Last Book and Duck's jacket, which he had rescued from downstairs, inside. He then sealed the bag and threaded his arms through the straps and gripped them tightly to his back. He would not surrender anything until he knew she was safe.

Whistling to himself, the porter fetched his keys from the desk, locked the far doors and then started towards Blake's hiding place. Blake shrank even lower and held his breath. He was shaking all over.

The porter took a last look around the closed-up library, then pulled the doors shut and locked them behind him with a prison-like finality.

Silence fell.

The room was eclipsed in darkness.

All Blake could do was wait.

Minutes dragged by, agonizing in their slowness.

Then, when Blake could stand the suspense no longer, he heard a metallic quiver thrum the air as an invisible clock chimed the hour. This was followed almost immediately by a tiny, scratching noise at the opposite end of the room.

He raised his head, alert. A key whispered in the lock.

The door opened — just a little — and a shadowy form slid into the room. The hooded figure was dressed entirely in black.

Blake barely breathed.

The person glanced round the murky room and then drifted on soundless feet towards his hiding place.

Blake closed his eyes, not daring to look. He hoped that by remaining perfectly still, by shutting out the outside world, he, too, might disappear.

One thing was clear. Duck was not with the Person in Shadow. They were alone in the ancient library. He had been tricked.

Crouched like a sprinter, he considered making a mad dash for freedom, hoping to summon help from outside; but then he felt the floorboards beside him stiffen slightly and a black shape fell over him.

A gloved hand slid silently over the railing near his shoulder and grabbed him by the wrist.

"Hello, Blake."

The chilly female voice sent shivers up and down his spine. He know instantly who it was. He looked up.

"Isn't this a surprise?"

Diana Bentley greeted him with a cold smile.

Blake couldn't bring himself to respond. The sound of her voice, the touch of her glove, both seemed icy now, despite the special butterfly clasp she always wore as decoration and the dark woolen cloak she had draped over her shoulders.

Blake blinked, confused.

The butterfly had singed wings, like burnt paper.

"You should mind your knees," she said, pulling him to his feet. "They'll get dirty."

He looked down at the hard wooden floor and dumbly rubbed his jeans, which were patched with dust. His clothes were torn and filthy.

"You poor boy," she murmured. "You really are in trouble. Sneaking into the Bodleian like this. What will your mother think?"

"She doesn't know," he said miserably, then bit his tongue.

Diana observed him with mock sympathy. "Ah, I see. You're on your own."

Blake grimaced, realizing his mistake. "Where's Duck?" he barked.

"All in good time," she said. "First, where is the book?"

"I don't know what you mean."

She locked his arm in a tight, vicious grip and wrenched it behind his back. He yelped, surprised by her strength.

"Be careful," she warned. "You don't want to make things worse than they already are."

Her words brought the gravity of his situation home. He stopped struggling.

"The book," she said again. "Where is it?"

She levered his arm slowly upwards and he gasped as hot spears of pain shot across his shoulder.

"My mother," he managed at last, between clenched teeth. "She'll be furious if we don’t turn up soon. She'll go to the police…and…aah!…tell them we're missing."

He risked a look at Diana, but she seemed unfazed by the remark. She eyed him with steely composure. "What's in your bag, Blake?"

He squirmed and she jacked up his arm one notch. He winced.

Blake could feel her fingers spidering along his back and wriggled to prevent her from discovering the book inside his knapsack. Once again, she tightened her grip on his arm and he fought back tears. It was as if her desire to obtain the book had given her superhuman strength — and ruthlessness.

"Of course," she said, breathing softly into his ear, "there would be no reason to go on inconveniencing your mother — or Duck — if we came to a mutual agreement."

The image of Duck's lifeless yellow coat, stuffed hastily into his knapsack, filled Blake with guilt. All of this was his fault. He'd got obsessed with the book — to the point of abandoning her. Still, he couldn't help it: the book was his. Endymion Spring had chosen him. For hundreds of years scholars had searched for what he, Blake Winters, had found. And the Person in Shadow — Diana — wanted it for all the wrong reasons.

Slowly, she tilted his chin towards her, so that he could see into her cold, gray eyes. They were as hard and unflinching as stone. "Where is the Last Book , Blake?"

His heart cowered inside him. He had no choice but to hand over the book to save his sister. The sinister riddle from two nights ago had warned him as much:

The Sun must look the Shadow in the Eye

Then forfeit the Book lest one Half die…

He started to shiver uncontrollably.

"I'll help you on one condition," he said finally, gritting his teeth. The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

"You have a condition?" She almost laughed. "And what might that condition be?" She considered him like a cat toying with a bird."

"Ive hidden the book," he lied. "I'll take you to it, but only once I know my sister is OK. I need to see her first."

Diana sounded bored. "Do you really expect me to believe that?"

Blake was thinking fast. "You need me to read from it," he said quickly.

His response seemed to trigger a reaction, for she regarded him less certainly for a moment.

"I want to see Duck," he said again.

"Enough!" cried Diana, losing her patience. "I'll take you to see your odious little sister, but then you'll hand over the book. No funny games."

Still gripping his arm tightly behind his back, she marched him towards the far door. He fought desperately to come up with a plan, a way of escape, but the pain shooting across his shoulder blocked out any coherent pattern of thought. He was terrified. All he could do for now was obey.

"One careless move and I assure you your sister will suffer the consequences," lisped Diana behind him, almost biting his ear.

Diana ushered Blake through the blue and gold doors and sharply to the right, up a final flight of steps to the Upper Reading Room, nestled beneath the roof of the library. The thin double doors were open a fraction and she guided him into a large room full of study carrels and hard wooden chairs.

The air was stuffy and dim, like a museum. Frescoed faces watched them from a frieze above the book-lined shelves; yet the ancient scholars who had helped to shape the university's illustrious history now turned a blind eye to his predicament. There was no one to help him.

The blinds on the windows had been pulled down, shutting out the outside world, and the cork linoleum deadened their footsteps. There was no sign of Duck anywhere — neither here in the vast reading room, nor around the corner where Blake encountered yet more tables, followed by a series of computer terminals and a central desk, where library staff presumably distributed books.