Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore

There’s a heavy desk here—perfect twin to the one in Penumbra’s store—and behind it sits the very first man I spotted on the sidewalk this morning: Round Nose. Here, he’s wearing a black robe over his street clothes. It gathers loosely in the front, where it’s clasped with a silver pin—two hands, open like a book.

Now we’re on to something.

Here, the air smells different. It smells like books. Behind the desk, behind Round Nose, they’re packed into shelves set up against the wall, reaching up to the ceiling. But this office isn’t that big. The secret library of the Unbroken Spine appears to have approximately the capacity of a regional airport bookstore.

Round Nose is smiling.

“Sir! Welcome back,” he says, standing. Penumbra raises his hands, motioning him to sit. Round Nose turns his attention to me and Kat and Neel: “Who are your friends?”

“They are unbound, Edgar,” Penumbra says quickly. He turns to us: “My students, this is Edgar Deckle. He has guarded the door to the Reading Room for—what, Edgar? Eleven years now?”

“Eleven exactly,” Deckle says, smiling. We’re all smiling, too, I realize. He and his chamber are a warm tonic after the cold sidewalk and the colder cubicles.

Penumbra looks at me, his eyes crinkling: “Edgar was a clerk in San Francisco just like you, my boy.”

I feel a little whirl of dislocation—the trademark sensation of the world being more closely knit together than you expected. Have I read Deckle’s slanty handwriting in the logbook? Did he work the late shift?

Deckle brightens, too, then goes mock-serious: “Piece of advice. One night, you’re going to get curious and wonder if maybe you should check out the club next door.” He pauses. “Don’t do it.”

Yes, he definitely worked the late shift.

There’s a chair set up opposite the desk—high-backed, made of polished wood—and Deckle motions for Penumbra to sit.

Neel leans in conspiratorially and jerks a thumb over his shoulder, back toward the office: “So is that all just a front?”

“Oh, no, no,” Deckle says. “The Festina Lente Company is a real business. Very real. They license the typeface Gerritszoon”—Kat, Neel, and I all nod sagely, like novices in the know—“and many more. They do other things, too. Like the new e-book project.”

“What’s that?” I ask. This operation seems a lot more savvy than Penumbra made it out to be.

“I don’t understand it completely,” Deckle says, “but somehow we identify e-book piracy for publishers.” My nostrils flare at that; I’ve heard the stories of college students sued for millions of dollars. Deckle explains: “It’s a new business. Corvina’s baby. Apparently it’s very lucrative.”

Penumbra nods. “It is thanks to the labors of those people out there that our store exists.”

Well, that’s just great. My salary is paid by font licensing fees and copyright infringement cases.

“Edgar, these three have solved the Founder’s Puzzle,” Penumbra says—Kat and Neel both raise their eyebrows at that—“and the time has come for them to see the Reading Room.” The way he says it, I can hear the capital letters.

Deckle grins. “That’s terrific. Congratulations and welcome.” He nods to a line of hooks on the wall, half of them holding regular jackets and sweaters, the other half hung with dark robes just like his. “So, change into those, for starters.”

We shrug out of our wet jackets. As we’re pulling on the robes, Deckle explains: “We need to keep things clean down below. I know they look goofy, but they’re actually very well designed. They’re cut at the sides here so you can move freely”—Deckle swings his arms back and forth—“and they have pockets inside for paper, pencil, ruler, and compass.” He pulls his robe wide to show us. “We have writing supplies down below, but you’ll have to bring your own tools.”

That’s almost cute: Don’t forget your ruler on your first day of cult! But where is “down below”?

“One last thing,” Deckle says. “Your phones.”

Penumbra holds up empty palms and wiggles his fingers, but the rest of us all surrender our dark trembling companions. Deckle drops them into a shallow wooden bin on the desk. There are three iPhones in there already, along with a black Neo and a battered beige Nokia.

Deckle stands, straightens his robe, braces himself, and gives the shelves behind the desk a sharp shove. They swivel smoothly and silently—it’s as if they’re weightless, drifting in space—and as they draw apart, they reveal a shadowed space beyond, where wide steps curl down into darkness. Deckle stretches an arm to invite us forward. “Festina lente,” he says matter-of-factly.

Neel takes a sharp breath and I know exactly what it means. It means: I have waited my whole life to walk through a secret passage built into a bookshelf. Penumbra hoists himself up and we follow him forward.