Ptolemy's Gate by Jonathan Stroud Read Free Book Online Page B

dilapidated hall, made narrow by stacks of books against the walls. She coughed uncertainly. “Hello?”
    â€œYes, yes, come in!” A muffled voice echoed faintly. “At speed, if you will. I am a little inconvenienced.”
    Kitty hastened forward, and in a neighboring room, rendered indistinct by dust-caked curtains drawn across the windows, discovered a twitching boot protruding from beneath a colossal pile of fallen books. Exploring further, she came upon the head and neck of an elderly gentleman, vainly struggling to wriggle free. Without preamble, Kitty made a rapid excavation; in a few minutes Mr. Button was settled in a nearby chair, a little crumpled and very out of breath.
    â€œThank you, my dear. Would you mind passing me my stick? I was using it to extract a book, which I fear caused all the trouble.”
    Kitty rescued a long ash stick from among the debris and handed it to the magician. He was a small and fragile man, bright-eyed, thin-faced, with a disordered mop of straight gray hair hanging low over his forehead. He wore a checked shirt without a tie, a patched green cardigan, and gray trousers, scuffed and stained. One trouser leg was missing; it had been folded over and sewn shut just below the torso.
    Something about his appearance disconcerted her … It took her a moment to realize she had never seen a magician so informally dressed.
    â€œI was simply trying to get hold of a volume of Gibbon,” Mr. Button was saying, “which I spied at the bottom of a pile. I was careless and lost my balance. There was such a landslide! You cannot imagine how taxing it is to find anything in this place.”
    Kitty looked around. Across the room innumerable stacks of books rose like stalagmites from the ancient carpet. Many of these columns were as tall as her; others had half capsized against each other, forming precarious arches swathed in dust. Books rested high upon a table and filled the cupboards of a dresser; they receded in unguessed-at numbers through an open door and deep into a side room. A few narrow walkways remained clear, connecting the windows with two sofas squeezed before a fireplace and the exit to the hall.
    â€œI think I’ve got some idea,” she said. “Anyway, here’s something to add to your problem.” She picked up her package. “From Hyrnek’s.”
    The old man’s eyes sparkled. “Good! Good! That would be my edition of Ptolemy’s Apocrypha , newly bound in calf hide. Karel Hyrnek is a marvel. My dear, you have improved my day twice over! I insist you stay for tea.”
    Within half an hour Kitty had learned three things: that the old gentleman was garrulous and affable, that he possessed a fine supply of tea and spice cake, and that his need for an assistant was greatly pressing.
    â€œMy last helper left me a fortnight ago,” he said, sighing heavily. “Joined up to fight for Britain. I tried to talk him out of it, of course, but his heart was set on going. He believed what he was told—glory, good prospects, promotion, all that. He’ll be dead soon, I expect. Yes, do have that last piece of cake, dear. You need feeding up. It’s all very well for him , going off to die, but I fear my studies have been severely restricted.”
    â€œWhat studies are those, sir?” Kitty asked.
    â€œResearches, dear. History of magic and other things. A fascinating area, sadly neglected. It’s a crying shame that so many libraries are being closed—once again the government is acting out of fear. Well, I’ve saved a good many important books on the subject, and I wish to catalog and index them. It is my ambition to prepare a definitive list of all surviving djinn—existing records are so haphazard and contradictory … but as you have seen, I am not even dextrous enough to research my own collection, thanks to this impediment….” He shook a fist at his nonexistent leg.
    â€œErm,