Page 100 of The Librarians
Astrid immediately texts back.You see anything promising?
I’m pretty much searching for a needle in a haystack. So, not yet.
This time, Astrid and Sophie do not find it so easy to lose themselves in the finer points of finials and ball terminals. Their exchange peters out gradually, until Astrid closes the last of her stack of lettering-filled notebooks.
“I still feel iffy about Hazel being alone in the library,” she says.
Sophie looks at her watch. “Let’s call her. Put it on speakerphone.”
Sophie comes to sit next to Astrid. Astrid makes sure that the phone is right in front of Sophie.
She glances at Sophie. Sophie has her hands under the dining table. She nods at Astrid. Astrid taps at her phone.
A ring tone reverberates.
“Hey, Astrid.” Hazel sounds puzzled. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Sophie and I are worried about you, that’s all.”
“Yes, why don’t we keep this line open?” says Sophie. “That way we’ll all feel a little less jumpy.”
“Sure, thanks for thinking about me,” answers Hazel. “I definitely feel safer with you guys on the line.”
“Are you still in the storage room?” Astrid asks.
“Yep.”
The answer is accompanied by crisp sounds of pages being flipped and then small thuds of stacks of books being moved about.
Sophie rotates her neck. “Any luck?”
“Not yet.”
Astrid’s heart rate, which has yet to return to normal, spikes again. “Let us know if you see anything interesting.”
It becomes mostly quiet on Hazel’s end, with the occasional minor interruptions of filliped paper and gently colliding volumes. Astrid startles once at a crash, but Hazel assures her that it’s only that she inadvertently knocked some books onto the floor.
Time passes as slowly as if Astrid were staring at a pot of water on the stove, waiting for it to boil. She and Sophie split the remaining grapes. Her head feels heavy, despite her agitation. Drowsily she wonders whether she ought to get up and make some coffee when Hazel says, “Hmm, there’s a box that says ‘For Central.’ The central library?”
“Should be,” Sophie answers, her voice sounding preternaturally calm. “From time to time we get interesting items donated, things that could constitute primary material for local history. We send those downtown and see if central might want them for their collection, or even forward them to the history center.”
From the other end, the shrill slide of a box cutter slicing through packing tape, followed by the pulling and snapping of incompletely cut tape. “I see why these were potentially of historical interest. There’s a stack of Austin and Texas maps from the forties and fifties.”
“Practically antiques,” concurs Astrid.
“Look at that, a couple of first edition historical romances from the 1970s. I think my grandmother had these books at one point—maybe she still has them in the attic. Oh, what’s this?”
There’s now wonder in Hazel’s voice.
“What’s what?” demands Sophie.
“A yearbook from my old elementary school. I have this one—it’s from my fourth-grade year.”
Astrid moves closer to the phone. To Sophie. “It’s not yours, is it?”
“No, mine is back home in Singapore.” The sound of pages flipping again. “But it’s definitely from the time I was in the States. There I am, Mrs. Rodriguez’s fourth-grade—”
Hazel’s silence is abrupt and complete, like those moments when a movie’s soundtrack suddenly stops when characters plunge into water. Or deep space.
