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"What is the meaning of this?" Astinus barked.
Caught, the monks cast swift, apologetic glances at the
master and hastened back to their seats. Pens scratched
diligently. Work resumed.
Astinus walked among them, eyes darting this way and
that. Pausing beside one pale-faced older man, the master of
the library stared down at the manuscript, pointed.
"That is a blot, Johann."
"Yes, Master. I'm sorry, Master."
"What is the meaning of that blot, Johann?"
"I - I'm afraid, Master. Afraid we're all going to die!"
"If we do, I trust it will be neatly. Start the page over."
"Yes, Master."
The Aesthetic removed the offending sheet, slid a clean
one in its place. He bent to his task, but, Michael noticed,
the monk's fear had eased. He was actually smiling. If
Astinus could be concerned over blots at a time like this,
surely there was no danger - that's what he was telling
himself.
Michael would have liked to believe that as well, but
more and more he was becoming convinced that the master
of the library was either drunk or insane or perhaps both.
They left the main library, entered what Astinus termed
the living area. He guided them through long hallways, past
the small, comfortless cells where the monks resided.
"My study," said Astinus, ushering them into a small,
book-lined room that contained a desk, a chair, a rug, a
lamp, and nothing else. "I rarely permit visitors, but today I
will make an exception, since you seem unduly disturbed by
the noise in the streets
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