The Woman Who Died a Lot

The Brotherhood of Perpetual Defenestration was a small order of pious monks who threw themselves out of the abbey window twice a day, following prayers. The reason for this curious custom is not recorded, but the order supplied stuntmen to the theater and film industries for over seven decades. A popular tourist attraction for over three centuries, the brotherhood might be with us still but for a poorly conceived move to the eighth story of a town building, and the order was extinguished in under an hour.

Fairfax Rearwind,

Vanished Religious Orders of the British Archipelago

We took the elevator to the subbasement and stepped out into the same small security cubicle I had visited two days ago with Finisterre. A different guard was staring at us from behind the glass, and he smiled when he saw me.

“Good morning, Chief Librarian.”

“Shiny, shiny,” I muttered, “bad times behind me.”

“I’m sorry?”

Jack tightened his grip on my arm, which, while not actually painful, made me at least realize he was serious, and it sobered me up. The patch was gone, but its effects would be with me for a while.

“Nothing.”

I licked my finger and placed it in the DNA tester. The green light flashed, and the door swung open.

“So easy, isn’t it?” said Jack as we walked down the corridor. “I always say it’s not what you know but whom you know . . . you can bully.”

We continued along the corridor, past the glazed display cases I had seen earlier and into the main conservation room. Finisterre was there, but no one else. I could sense Jack’s suspicions.

“Where is everyone?”

“It’s lunch,” I said, then giggled out loud.

“Are you okay?” asked James.

“Yes,” I replied as soberly as I could. “I’ve got something odd in my bloodstream that generates inappropriate responses. This is Jack Schitt, the Goliath rep. He wants to vandalize our St. Zvlkx codices.”

James looked at Jack, who stared back impassively. Finisterre wouldn’t be armed, but Day Player Jack would know that already from the way James’s clothes hung on his body.

“He was the guy at the Lobsterhood on Tuesday?” asked Finisterre, still staring at Jack but addressing me.

“In a manner of speaking. He’s ruthless,” I added, “and has no fear of death or pain. I recommend you do as he asks.”

“These are my children,” replied Finisterre, indicating the shelves of old books, “and I would die to protect them.”

“Noble,” replied Jack, “but, in war as in literature, we have to sacrifice our babies.”

There was a pause, and I noticed Finisterre’s eyes flick to something behind us. Jack saw it, too, and drew and fired in one smooth movement without looking or turning around. The guard didn’t even make a sound as he fell, and I looked at Finisterre, who swallowed nervously. He did love his books, but after due consideration was decidedly not willing to die for them.

“Which book are you after?” he asked.

“It was a thirteenth-century bestseller,” replied Jack. “Zvlkx’s Brothels of Dorset on Sixpence a Day.”

Finisterre looked momentarily confused. “You’d kill someone for that?”

“I’d kill someone for fun, Mr. Finisterre.”

“Well, you’re going to have to be disappointed. We haven’t got a copy of the Brothels of Dorset.”

“It’s awaiting cataloging,” replied Jack confidently, “from the library of the now-extinct Brotherhood of Perpetual Defenestration. I have good intelligence.”

Neither Finisterre nor I moved. I could feel my head clearing, and my hands were a little less numb. In five minutes I’d be merely useless, not utterly useless as I was at present.

“Listen,” said Jack, taking a pair of cutters from his pocket, “it’s very, very, simple. I’ll remove your fingers one joint at a time until I get what I want. How many fingers and how much pain do you think a Zvlkx codex is worth?”

He was right, in an odd sort of way. Brothels of Dorset on Sixpence a Day was not rare; it could be bought in any antiquarian bookstore for about five hundred pounds, more if it had salacious margin notes and “interesting” staining.

“Take it,” I said, “and leave.”

“I’m so glad you’re seeing it my way at last,” he said. “Mr. Finisterre, lead us to it.”