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scratching behind his ear as he straightened up. He knew Brother Cormac’s character flaws, better perhaps than his own. Cormac was a teacher rather than a thinker; a gatherer and distributor rather than one in which new ideas germinated and prospered. His bent of genius, so unlike Brother Paulus’s, was in the preservation of knowledge inherited from the past, not the methodical investigation of facts for the sake of new discoveries. Volmar used this insight to his advantage and went on, deciding to come directly to his point. “I understand a book went missing ten years ago.”
    â€œHmm? Oh yes, the
Codex Benedictus
. I haven’t had it replaced, still hoping it might show up one day.” The skin exposed on the top of Cormac’s skull reddened. “It was stolen by a Frenchmen disguised as a visiting brother.” Cormac’s comments sounded more like a lament. “Do you know,” he went on remorsefully, creeping slowly towards the intruder and acknowledging to himself that he missed the thrill of imparting his thoughts, “that over 180 animal skins were sacrificed to produce the parchment for that single book? What a deplorable waste.”
    â€œSurely,” Volmar continued with fresh determination, hearing the soft approach of the Librarian’s leather sandals, “a monk must have spent six hours a day and several years meticulously copying page after page of that book.”
    Brother Cormac stood behind the young intruder, uncharacteristically engaged. “I cannot help you, sir, if you are after the
Codex Benedictus
.”
    â€œAh, but I think you can. What if I told you that Brother Arnoul was killed in the clearing outside of our walls?” Volmar turned around to watch Cormac’s reaction directly.
    The Librarian frowned. “You are mistaken, son. His kind never receive their just rewards until they face the Almighty. His name wasstricken from all of the monastery’s records, I saw to that myself. Here, now, how do you know of this wretched thief?” he asked, holding the lit candle up to the boy’s face.
    Volmar pulled back the hood of his cowl and smiled warmly. “It’s good to see you again, Brother Cormac.”
    Volmar had never seen Cormac smile. So unaccustomed was Cormac’s face to such a distortion, he was sure if Cormac could manage a smile, it would seem more devious than divine. “Nonsense,” he said dismissively. “Go on, Volmar, with your ridiculous tale.”
    Volmar knew better than to take the older monk’s rudeness to heart. Brother Cormac had a powerful intellect but an equally scornful manner. Volmar took the calculated risk by appealing to Cormac’s mind. “I have proof of Brother Arnoul’s death. His desiccated body sits in an ossarium, buried not far from here.” He could tell that this mention of an ossarium was a piece of new information to Cormac.
    Cormac hesitated. A response was obviously called for, but he was not quite sure what he should say. “An ossarium, you say . . . There are legends of one nearby holding the bones of our beloved Saint Disibod and his earlier followers.”
    Cormac studied Volmar, staring at him with wide eyes, and asked with a little more warmth, “Have you come to return the book the Frenchman stole?”
    â€œNo, I’m afraid all I found was this.” Volmar reached into his leather pouch and produced the hand-written dummy copy of the valuable lost codex. “I came for your advice, in fact, on what I should do about all of it.”
    The Librarian took from his leather pouch a small magnifying glass he had obtained during the summer months, when he journeyed throughout the region and abroad for the purpose of copying and collecting books. Volmar watched in amazement as he held this round glass piece over the calligraphy title on the cover of the dummy copy, intrigued at how the glass enlarged the lettering below.
    A long