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or locked away.”
    Dorrie stared at Phillip in disbelief, trying to imagine Mr. Scuggans putting down his fine announcement bullhorn long enough to even help someone eat a pie.
    â€œWhere?” said Marcus. “I mean, where are people still getting their tongues cut out for saying stuff, and who’s still scribbling anything on parchment?”
    â€œOh, you’d be surprised,” said Phillip, handing Marcus and Dorrie each a plate.
    Dorrie took hers slowly and glanced out the window, the hairs on her neck rising. “Why can’t we see Passaic from that window?
    â€œAh, now we’ve come to it,” said Mistress Wu, a new torrent of sweat breaking out on her forehead.
    Ursula bustled to the window and pushed the curtains back fully. The blue of the sky had deepened into dusk since Dorrie had last looked through it.
    Ursula took a deep breath. “Do you know what a hub is? The center of a wheel, say?”
    Dorrie and Marcus nodded.
    â€œPetrarch’s Library is a sort of hub,” said Ursula. “Its spokes, however, aren’t the wooden rods of a wagon wheel. No. Its spokes are the four hundred or so smaller libraries that connect to it.”
    Phillip buttered a piece of bread for himself. “One Spoke Library sits in Passaic, and another sits in Peking, and another in Paris. You see?”
    A wild beating had started up in Dorrie’s chest. “But Paris and Passaic are miles and miles apart.”
    â€œAnd yet, through Petrarch’s Library you can get from Paris to Passaic in a matter of minutes.” Phillip sniffed. “Assuming you can find a bicycle when you want one, or a pair of roller-skates in a pinch.”
    â€œMajestic,” said Marcus with deep fervor.
    â€œMajestic?” repeated Dorrie.
    â€œOh, I meant to tell you,” said Marcus. “I’ve left ‘awesome’ behind.”
    â€œAlways a sad thing to be left behind,” sighed Mistress Wu. “People even leave libraries behind, you know. Just abandon them to the cruelties of mice and wind and rain and torch-bearing philistines.” Her eyes began to well fabulously. “Petrarch’s Library is more full of Ghost Libraries than Spoke Libraries. Oh, yes,” she added vehemently, as though Dorrie and Marcus had expressed some doubt upon the matter. “Ghost Libraries are constantly crashing into us here. Squeezing in. Making places for themselves where it suits.” She suddenly sounded querulous. “Always changes the layout of Petrarch’s Library. Very confusing for us.” She sighed again. “But you can’t blame them, poor things.” Now tears collected again in the corners of her eyes. “Fallen to wrack and ruin in their own times and places.” She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.
    â€œIt’s true,” said Phillip cheerfully. “One day, it’s two lefts and a right to get to the loo, and the next day, you’re lucky if you can find the thing at all.” He began to fidget in his seat as if in discomfort. “Excuse me.” He dug two oranges out of a loose pants pocket. Dorrie started, forcibly reminded of the frightening figure who’d surprised them in the room with the History of Histories books.
    Phillip held them up to Ursula. “Found these on my way over.”
    Ursula raised her eyebrows. “The Archivist, no doubt.”
    â€œWho’s the Archivist?” said Dorrie, avoiding Marcus’s eyes and trying not to sound too interested.
    â€œOne of our resident lybrarians,” said Phillip. “In charge of the History of —”
    â€œA very old man who once a year drinks far too much Madeira wine and gets maudlin,” Ursula cut in crisply.
    Phillip pulled a third piece of fruit out of his vest pocket. “When the Archivist gets maudlin, the corridors tend to fill with bad singing and oranges. Lots of oranges. He reads them out by the