Mrs Banber was out from behind her desk in a flash.
“This is a school library,” she said frostily. “Visitors must report to the front office first.”
“My name is Noon,” said the man. His voice was deep and musical, and he sounded like a famous British actor. Any famous British actor. “I am Private Secretary and Cupbearer to Mister Monday. I am looking for a boy. Ar-tor.”
He had a silver tongue, Arthur saw. Literally silver, shining in his mouth. His words were smooth and shining too. Arthur felt like coming out and saying, “Here I am.”
Mrs Banber obviously felt the same way. Arthur could see her trembling and her hand rose, almost as if it was going to point to where he was hiding. But somehow she forced it back down.
“I… I don’t care,” said Mrs Banber. She seemed smaller and her voice was suddenly weak. “You have… you have to report…”
“Really?” asked Noon. “You can’t allow a few words…”
“No, no,” whispered Mrs Banber.
“A pity,” said Noon. His voice grew colder, authoritarian and threatening. He smiled, but the smile was cruel and did not extend beyond his thin lips. He ran one gloved finger along the top of a display stand and held it up in front of Mrs Banber’s face. The tip of the glove was stained with grey dust.
The librarian stared at the finger as if it were her eye doctor’s flashlight.
“Spring cleaning must be done,” said Noon. He blew on the dust and a little cloud of it fell on Mrs Banber’s face. She blinked once, sneezed twice and fell to the ground.
Arthur stared, horrified, as Noon carefully stepped over the librarian’s body and stalked past the front desk. For a second he thought Mrs Banber was dead, till he saw her trying to get up again.
“Ar-tor,” called Noon softly, his silver tongue flickering. He had stopped just past the desk and was eyeing the shelves with obvious suspicion. “Come out, Ar-tor. I merely want to talk to you.”
“Ar-tor!”
The voice was commanding, and once again Arthur felt the urge to reveal himself, to run out. But he felt a countervailing force from the Key and the Atlas in his backpack. A soothing vibration, like a kitten purring, that reduced the force of Noon’s words. Arthur undid the bag, took the Key in his hand, and slipped the Atlas into his shirt pocket. Both were immensely comforting and Arthur found that he could even breathe more easily.
Noon frowned, a momentary ugliness on that handsome face. Then he reached out with his white-gloved hand and opened a small cupboard that materialised in midair the instant he reached for it. There was a telephone inside. A very old telephone, with a separate earpiece on a cord and a bell-mouth to speak into.
“Mister Monday,” said Noon into the mouthpiece.
Arthur could hear someone muttering on the other end.
“This is official business, you fool,” snapped Noon. “What is your name and number?”
There was more muttering at the other end. Noon frowned again, then slowly and deliberately hung up the earpiece, let it sit for a moment, then took it up again.
“Operator? Mister Monday. Yes, at once. Yes, I know where I’m calling from! This is Monday’s Noon. Thank you.” There was a pause as Mister Monday was connected. “Sir? I have the boy trapped.”
Arthur clearly heard Mister Monday yawn before he replied. His voice not only came out of the earpiece, it echoed around the whole library.
“Have you the Minute Key? It must be brought back to me at once!”
“Not yet, sir,” replied Noon. “The boy is hiding in a… library.”
“I don’t care where he’s hiding!” screamed Monday. “Get the Key!”
“A library, sir,” said Noon patiently. “There is a lot of type. The Will could be here too—”
“The Will! The Will! I am so bored with this talk! Do whatever you have to! You have plenipotentiary powers! Use them!”
“I need that in writing, sir,” said Noon calmly. “The Morrow Days—”
There was a sound that was a cross between a yawn and a snarl, and a tightly bound scroll flew out of the earpiece. Moving so fast that Arthur didn’t see it happen, Noon ducked aside, and as the scroll shot past, he snatched it from the air with his free hand.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, and paused. There was no answer from the other end. Just a long snore.
Noon hung up the phone and carefully closed the cupboard. As the door shut, the phone cupboard dissolved into thin air.
Noon unrolled the scroll and read it. This time, a real smile fleetingly moved across his face and a red light flashed briefly in his eyes.
“This is your last chance to come out,” Noon said conversationally. “I can bring the Fetchers in now. They’ll soon root you out, Ar-tor.”
Arthur didn’t respond. Noon stood there, tapping the scroll against his thigh. Behind him, Mrs Banber pulled herself up on to the desk and picked up the phone handset. Arthur watched them both, panicked, not knowing what he should do. Should he help Mrs Banber? Should he give himself up? Maybe if he gave Noon the Key then they would leave him alone?
Mrs Banber, her hand shaking so much she could hardly hold the phone, started to punch in a number. The keypad beeped and Noon whirled. His wings exploded out behind and above him. Huge, feathery wings that had once been white and lustrous but now were stained with patches of something dark and horrid, something that might even be dried blood.
Noon’s wings cast a dreadful shadow over the librarian as he thrust out his hand and flexed his fingers. A fiery sword appeared in his fist and he struck down at the phone, the flaming blade melting it in an instant, the papers on the desk exploding into flame. Mrs Banber staggered away and collapsed near the front door as smoke billowed to the ceiling.
“Enough!” said Noon. He stalked to the front door, his wings still arched up behind him, and opened it.
“Come in, my Fetchers! Come and find the boy! Come and find Ar-tor!”
Black smoke rolled across the ceiling. A fire alarm began to clang and clatter outside, followed a second later by the whoop-whoop of the evacuation siren. The Fetchers came into the library with the sound, all in a rush, barking with excitement at being invited past the door.
Noon pointed at the shelves and the Fetchers bounded forward, many of them bent over so they could sniff at the floor, their tongues lolling and flat noses twitching. Sniffing for their prey. Arthur.
But Arthur hadn’t waited. He was already at the back door. It was locked, but there was a release button inside a glass box, plastered with warning signs about alarms and only being used in the event of fire.
There was a fire. Arthur swung his backpack at the box and smashed the glass. It broke into tiny clumps rather than shattering. He reached in with his left hand and punched the button, because he didn’t want to let go of the Key he held tightly in his right hand. Somehow it helped him breathe, and he really needed to breathe properly right now. He could hear the Fetchers behind him, growling and grunting as they raced along the corridors made by the shelves, pausing at each intersection of the Dewey Decimal system to sniff out his path.
Nothing happened after he pressed the button. Arthur’s hand trembled as he punched it again. The button pressed in easily enough, but the door didn’t open. Arthur kicked the door, but it wouldn’t budge. As he kicked it again, a red flame ran around the door frame. The same rich, deep red of Noon’s fiery sword.
“The