“In that case, I’ll take the window half,” she said.
“You know, I think you’re my type.”
“What type is that?”
“Smart, sexy, sassy, pretty much all the s’s.”
She crawled beside him and cuddled up, and he wrapped his arms around her. He’d told her about the Library. It was something he had to share with one person in his life, and the secret glued them together.
“In L.A., I looked up something else on Shackleton’s computer,” he said softly.
“Do I want to know?”
“On May 12, 2010, a child is born named Phillip Weston Piper. That’s nine months from now. That’s our son.”
She blinked a few times then kissed his face.
He returned the kiss and said, “I’ve got a pretty good feeling about the future.”
9 JANUARY 1297
T he hem of the abbot’s white robe was soaked with blood. Each time he stooped to touch a cold forehead or make the sign of the cross over a supine body, his garment got bloodier.
Prior Felix was at Baldwin’s side, supporting him by the arm so the abbot wouldn’t tumble on the blood-slicked stones. They made their rounds through the carnage, pausing over each ginger-haired writer to check for signs of life, but there were none. The only other beating heart in the Hall of the Writers belonged to old Bartholomew, who was making his own grim inspection at the opposite end of the chamber. Baldwin had sent Sister Sabeline away because her hysterical crying was unnerving and preventing him from collecting his thoughts.
“They are dead,” Baldwin said. “All dead. Why in God’s name has this happened?”
Bartholomew was systematically going from row to row, stepping carefully over and around bodies, trying to keep his footing. For a very old man, he was moving briskly from one station to another, plucking manuscript pages off the table and making a stack of them in his hand.
He made his way to Baldwin clutching a ream of parchments.
“Look,” the old man said. “Look!”
He laid the pages down.
Baldwin picked up one and read it.
Then the next, and the next. He fanned the pages out on the table to see more of them quickly.
Each page carried the date 9 February 2027, with the identical inscription.
“ Finis Dierum,” Baldwin said. “End of Days.”
Felix trembled. “So this is when the end will come.”
Bartholomew half smiled at the revelation. “Their work was done.”
Baldwin gathered up the pages and held them to his breast. “Our work is not yet done, brothers. They must be laid to rest in the crypt. Then I will say a mass in their honor. The Library must be sealed and the chapel must be burned. The world is not ready.”
Felix and Bartholomew quickly nodded in agreement as the abbot turned to leave.
“The year 2027 is far in the future,” Baldwin said wearily. “At least, mankind has a very long time to prepare for the End of Days.”